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2008-04-01 issue:

She sang alto

A tribute to Anne Stuckey

by Dorothy Nickel Frisen

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A beautiful alto voice was stilled on a rainy night in Illinois. My friend Anne, enjoying her pastoral sabbatical from Zion Mennonite Church in Archbold, Ohio, was on her way back from visiting friends in one of her “adopted” homes, Iowa.



There’s a chance she had rock ‘n roll on her radio, an “oldies but goodies” station, but it’s just as likely she was singing along with an aria or harmonizing with a gospel tune.

Somehow—we’ll never know how—the car swerved terribly and she crossed the median, was hit by an oncoming semi and died. The music stopped so quickly, like a broken connection. Her singing days were over.

I met Anne nearly 30 years ago, when we were at seminary in Elkhart, Ind. I remember her voice and the remarkable new thing that was happening under director Orlando Schmidt’s leadership—a choir of men’s and women’s voices. While male voices had long dominated the musical sounds in the Chapel of the Sermon on the Mount, the advent of women students brought change to every part of seminary life. A four-part choir now learned classics from the past, chanted in Latin, but also sang heartily new songs of faith with a guitar, often played by a young tenor named Terry from Ohio. This Anne, from Ontario, was the gifted alto who sang solos, accompanied by the sweet sounds of organ, piano, guitar. Remarkably, I remembered this alto—possibly because I, too, sing alto, and it seems alto parts are rarely interesting and rarely memorable (except from Messiah by Handel).

Years passed, and I drifted to a city of the Midwest; Anne was off to Africa and to Iowa, following the love of her life, birthing two children and discovering her own voice in ministry. I dabbled in “women’s issues and the church” from time to time and rubbed shoulders with others who were advocating for the full use of women’s gifts in the Mennonite church. I saw Anne’s name in publications, now a preacher of some regard. Ah, I thought, I know her and I like her. Later, we met at women-in-ministry events at various campuses, and I paid attention to her words.

We met from time to time, mostly by happenstance, and shared stories of mothering, preaching and church structures, of all things. We seemed to relish the challenge of needling the systems that seemed so arcane at times and absolutely damaging at other times. We laughed about our need to talk with each other because our dear spouses, Terry and Richard, had run out of patience with our repeated harangues about church politics and certain church leaders that seemed so incredibly inept.

In 1990, our friendship turned profound. I joined the administrative faculty at our beloved Associated Mennonite Biblical Seminary in Elkhart, and Anne moved to southern Michigan. Neither of us was particularly happy with the climate or the stifling nature of the church regarding change. Our voices, one time, were on the loud side in a Perkins restaurant as we passionately discussed theology while waiting for our lunch. A woman in the next booth, finally turned around and said, “You two ought to talk about something more important than what God is like.” We looked at our menus, then giggled. Two grown women being scolded for talking theology was just too much fun.

Anne and I met four times a year for the next 13 years. We drove to a midpoint Pizza Hut or a truck stop or met in the back corner booth of a restaurant where we were sure no one knew us or cared about us. We were so glad to see each other, then one said, “You go first,” and the next two hours flew by. As we dove into our salads before the mandatory personal pan pizza, our conversation dove just as deeply into our spiritual faith, our vocation, our growing children and their joys and sorrows, our love for life. Our spiritual friendship sustained us when we faced critique and praise, strains in relationships and joy with new friendships, academic rigors and sermons we wished we had never preached. We offered stiff words if we felt the other was drifting into self-pity or becoming sloppy in their thinking.

She was a good writer, one of the best practical theologians I knew. She wrote the book on deacon/elder ministry. She set up (with others) the ministerial database with accompanying protocols. She wrote pithy, moving articles and preached biblically sound and practical sermons.

Anne laughed at me occasionally, but mostly we laughed together. Her sense of humor was enormously healing and often supplied in just the right dosage. Cancer attacked her body, and we shared the agony of invasive procedures and medicines that made her sick while making her well. The ironies of life did not escape her, and she, in turn, conquered that disease and went right on living. I knew she was a great pastor.

Then, five years later and many hundreds of miles apart, we spoke by telephone in October 2006, when a pastor in my area conference was ill. Her congregation was standing by to assist, to pray and offer support. She called me, the conference minister, her friend. Always compassionate, always practical, always following through.

I never heard Anne sing in the last years. Our lives were filled with talk more than song. But I am forever grateful for Anne, the alto who supported many melodies with her voice. The church has lost a wonderful pastor; the Mennonite church has lost an extraordinary leader, and I have lost a friend.

Somewhere, probably, she’s singing, and that song will turn my mourning into joy.

Dorothy Nickel Friesen is conference minister for Western District Conference and lives in Newton, Kan.

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Additional Notes

Dorothy Nickel Friesen is conference minister for Western District Conference and lives in Newton, Kan.

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