Bryant

The most peculiar thing about being fired is that everybody stops talking to you.

“It's time for a change,” they told me, and with that, my decade of service as a section head was over.

My telephone stopped ringing. My e-mail slowed to a trickle. No one knocked at my door. When I walked down the hallway, those who had lobbied for my downfall slipped guiltily by, the politically prudent—lest the gossip be true—avoided me, and the rest mumbled embarrassed condolences and rushed on to attend to their own problems. So alone in my office, I stewed in a toxic brew of betrayal, anger, and hurt.

“Hey! Would you like to try some fantastic barbecue?”

I looked up to see Bryant Kendrick, DMin, filling my office doorway. With his bushy white beard and his customary suspenders and lumberjack shirt, he looked more like Santa Claus on an academic sabbatical than a Baptist minister. As always, he radiated an infectious enthusiasm.

“I've just spent the last few weekends in Lexington learning how to make barbecue from an old pit-master. I know how much you love cooking and good food, so I brought you a sample.” He placed a neat foil package and a small jar on my desk, and eased his burly frame into a nearby chair.

Bryant directed the ethics and professionalism curricula in the medical school and residency programs. When he was not teaching, he was bass fishing, or playing …