Walter Cronkite died yesterday. That’s the way it was, July 17, 2009.

A piece of my heart was torn out yesterday. A piece of my life is gone. The piece was labeled “Walter Cronkite.”

I wish I could put myself into the minds of our young people, who never knew this iconic newsman. They will scratch their heads, I’m sure, and wonder at those who quote his notable closing line to the “CBS Evening News” as though it were really true. For those familiar with Walter Cronkite, when he closed the broadcast each evening saying, “and that’s the way it was….” we knew that that’s the way it was. His name was synonymous with integrity.

My first memories of Walter (it seems disrespectful to just call him “Cronkite”) were his early television shows, not the CBS Evening News. He was an energetic and brave reporter during World War II, famously flying with American bombers on their missions….but even I am not old enough to remember that! What I remember of those programs in the 1950s and 60s was that he apparently wanted to make what was happening in the world come alive and be pictureable. The two shows were, “You Are There” and “The 20th Century.” In “You Are There,” Walter Cronkite was an on-the-scene reporter presenting breaking news, interviewing people as they were just about to participate in great events of history: the Lincoln assassination, the death of Socrates, and…whatever. Walter had a memorable lead-in line on that program as well. Just before going to the action, he would say, “All things are as they were except…” and then you’d hear a ghostly, deep, echo-y voice chime in dramatically, “…you are there…..”

“The 20th Century” was a more conventional documentary program about important events of the time. He had Americans glued to their TV sets to watch these programs, many of which Cronkite himself had reported on as they unfolded before us, such as the space program, the Kennedy assassinations, the Apollo missions, Watergate, etc.).

I don’t know how long he was the anchor for the “CBS Evening News.” He just seems to have been there forever, because many of us grew up with him there. Americans who were watching TV when President Kennedy died won’t forget the event nor Walter Cronkite’s manner in announcing the fact—you knew it had shaken him to the core, and you watched as he looked up at a clock to tell us just how many minutes had passed since he died...meanwhile fighting back a tear.

He was a great promoter of the space program, and he could not hide his excitement in reporting what was going on there. His curiosity about all things and his exuberance communicated the pride we all felt at what was happening before our eyes, and we relied on Walter to report what was happening and what those brave young astronauts were doing.

This “star” may have been, to more than one generation, simply “Uncle Walter.” His appearance was always reassuring, no matter how bad the news he reported on. In this jaded, spin-promoting age when it’s hard to tell whether “Fox News” refers to the network name or the people reporting—it’s not easy to fathom that a reporter, Walter Cronkite, became “the most trusted man in America.” He sought, by his own and his colleagues’ testimony, to report the facts, to tell what was really happening as far as he could determine, and to do so in a simple way understandable to all. Except for the moon landings, he pretty much left himself out of the picture.

Walter Cronkite’s integrity as a reporter was regarded as so high, that when he finally had something he really wanted to comment on, all America listened. He visited Vietnam after the Tet offensive in January 1968, when American forces were caught off guard. He came back to the states, and gave a commentary after the regular news report. He told us—clearly labeled as his own opinion—that America did not seem to be winning the war. It had a marked impact on President Johnson, and helped to shift mainstream opinion away from supporting the war and our post-WW II certainty about what America was doing in Southeast Asia and elsewhere. I did not hear his commentary directly, but remember thinking about what he said when I went to Vietnam right before the next Tet. His integrity gave him influence.

Walter Cronkite was not perfect. Many might laugh to hear the tag “most trusted man in America” attached to a reporter—but it was true. I think he took pride in that—not just for himself, but on behalf of his profession.

His face and voice will always be associated with certain events that happened here. But what stands out the most—in sterling letters—is the word “integrity.” His closing line to the evening news was taken, then, at face value and accepted. Now, it is sorely missed: “That’s the way it was….”

Goodbye, Walter.

A Real-Life Mr. Chips: Choosing to say goodbye to comfort

The novel, Good-Bye, Mr. Chips, was published in the 1930s. It is set in pre-World War II England, a place and a time that seems far remote and foreign to young people today. But at its core is a romantic theme, a story as old as time itself, and a recurring, real-life drama for anyone who has experienced both deep love and loss.

I was reminded recently of a striking parallel between Chips and what happened in the life of a world-renowned author, C.S. Lewis, famous today as the author of the "Chronicles of Narnia" series, many books defending the Christian faith, and one of the clearest creative thinkers and scholars of the mid-20th Century. Lewis was nearly 60 when he married a young woman, Joy Gresham. They lived and loved a brief four years of marriage when she died of bone cancer.

Gresham, like the young Kathie in Chips, was a fearless woman of great intellect, strong conviction, and deep emotion. Gresham grew up in America, an atheist and a communist in an era when communism seemed to hold the promise of helping all the down-trodden of the world. She was also a writer and a poet who once shared an award with the great poet, Robert Frost. She converted to Christianity in the 1940s, and started reading Lewis' books. He had traveled the same road from atheism to faith. At that time, Gresham was married to an abusive drunk. They divorced, and she took her two small boys to England, where she met Lewis.

Lewis was captivated by this young woman who, while sharing similar intellect, rocked his world by her radical thinking. As with Mr. Chips, Lewis was comfortable in the safe circles of the academic, debating great ideas, writing and teaching in the secure setting of the Oxford classroom. But her very being challenged Lewis to the core. Their friendship grew deep.

His sense of Christian charity led him to marry her in a civil ceremony so she could remain in England, but they did not live together as husband and wife. Then Joy was diagnosed with bone cancer. Lewis faced the reality, both of his deep love for her and the nearly paralyzing fear of losing the one person in the world that mattered most. He still suffered the pain of losing his mother when he was ten, and never wanted such anguish again. Love conquered, and they were married while she was in hospital. Her cancer briefly went into remission, and they enjoyed four years together of the deepest devotion and happiness before she died.

Chips' marriage with Kathie lasted two short years, but the mark of her life continued to work a wondrful change, a change that she seemed to foresee when she said, on the eve of their wedding, "Goodbye, Mr. Chips." In contrast, Lewis knew that he would lose Joy when they married. For him, the change came when he faced the certainty of unbearable pain and married her anyway, knowing that he was saying "goodbye" to comfort and "hello" to real life.