Nyer W. Urness, passed away with his family by his side on Friday, April 7, 2006 at his home on Bainbridge Island, Washington. He was 81 years of age. Nyer was born on February 7, 1925 at his family home in Melvin, Minnesota. Memorial Services will be held on Saturday, April 22, 2006 at 2:00 PM at Emmanuel Lutheran Church, 1215 Thomas Street, (Close to REI), in Seattle, Washington and Sunday, April 23rd at 3:00 PM at Bethany Lutheran Church, 7968 Finch Road on Bainbridge Island. Memorial contributions can be made to The Compass Center Congregation, 77 South Washington, Seattle, WA 98104. Arrangements by Kass & Cook Family Funeral Home.
The early life of my father, Nyer Urness, is for me a patchwork of his stories.
In February of 1925, he was born at home because there was too much snow for the horses to get to town. His mother asked for too many hugs, but let him name a younger brother after the radio show pilot, Jimmy Allen. Childhood consisted of playing with dynamite and eating penny candy and nickel hamburgers. Childhood ended with an empty chair at his high school graduation – he was already in training as a submariner in the U.S. Navy.
The service treated him well. The men were honorable, not touching $637 left on top of his locker once when he sailed on short notice. He learned the stars on both sides of the equator. Submariners ate the best food the military had to offer, he would reminisce, except for all the pimentos.
Leaves from the ship treated him even better. In Argentina, the coffee was strong and omelets made with twelve eggs. A now legendary oxtail soup was served on the train in England. Ireland held bicycle rides in the rain and a special sort of camaraderie among the sailors. Texas offered southern hospitality never forgotten, and chicken and dumplings never equaled.
The high point seems to have been bringing home a German sub that Hitler could have escaped on. The low point was very low – a hatch left open, the sub sinking fast, sailors silently calculating minutes until the pressure would be stronger than steel.
But Nyer had much, much left to do.
The G.I. Bill sent him to school in 1948; by 1955 he was a pastor in Pequot Lakes, Minnesota. He spent a little more than the sixties in Spokane, Washington, where he helped raise five daughters while serving a congregation (Our Savior's Lutheran Church) and even preaching on the air (Radio Station KCFA).
The seeds of street ministry were sprouting, concern for justice and equity moving to the fore. An older daughter remembers, “They were always boycotting something.” In Spokane, in that era, he stood out; appointed to the board of just about everything, he finally found himself before a panel of bishops charged with deciding what to do with him. “So what did they do with you, Dad?” a younger daughter finally asks, impatient with Nyer’s usual cliffhanger ending to this story. “Well, they talked for three days…and they sent me to Seattle.”
Nyer featured in fewer and fewer of his own stories from this point, so this story becomes mostly a daughter’s memories.
They sent him to Immanuel Lutheran, a tall old church in the shadow of the freeway, made taller by the squat old houses and brambled lots that then surrounded it. He claims to have signed a contract that was for two years or “until the money ran out.” It must not have quite run out. Sunday morning’s dry-edged pastries and urns of mild coffee made way for steam table suppers for ever more of those who were in many ways hungry. The floor of the gymnasium in the church basement became a maze of mattresses in the winter. Ten intern pastors each spent a year with Nyer and with his congregations in the sanctuary and on the street.
During these years our family life was measured in Sunday mornings. They came early, with animals to care for first, then a ferry boat ride of which we were sometimes wary. When Nyer’s questions on the boat seemed to come out of the blue, they were usually coming from his sermon notes. Louise featured in his anecdotes most often. He teased her this way, almost as often as he would by suggesting, “Why don’t you sing for us, Louie?” at moments when she was least inclined. He’d say it right now, I’m sure, if he could.
The next part of Sunday morning was my favorite. My brother and I took turns making thee long walk with him from the ferry terminal to our old Datsun parked for free past the Kingdome. We always found someone to stop and talk with, reclining on the old public dock at the foot of Washington Street. Clarence and his dog Lady were special friends.
Sunday morning at church usually extended well into the afternoon. There was always one more person he needed to talk to…no, to listen to. Nyer didn’t so much answer questions as satisfy them. It takes a lot longer that way.
When Nyer left Immanuel in 1987, it was less a retirement than a change of pace. He took time, after leaving full-time work, to embrace other aspects of life. Nyer and Louise spent time together with abandon, once even taking a day and a half to make a trip that could be done in four hours. He learned to make lattes, and to use a digital camera, both of which became daily pleasures. He took great pride in developing an irrigation system for their gardens and lawns, fed from a creek.
But his passion for ministering on the streets still grew.
Nyer spoke of people for whom the street is home – some call them the “chronically homeless,” but he gently explained that after years on the streets sometimes a shelter bed or apartment could be too confining - it “just isn’t where they’re at.” Turns out, getting off the streets – into retirement – just wasn’t where he was at either. He found his way back among these friends by way of the Compass Center, in Pioneer Square.
By then, I was away, and was more likely to meet his friends through his pictures. He developed the portraits in a darkroom off his garage, and later, printed them just as artfully from the computer. He’d linger over a picture, lovingly explaining that one’d “had a rough life…but look at that smile,” that another was “a neat, neat guy, who’s really hurting right now.”
This work fed him. Louise recounts that though he was often exhausted by a day’s work at Compass Center, especially these last years, he usually came home exhilarated, brimming with stories. I saw this too, especially when he spoke of the groups of young people who would come to walk the streets with him. They came from the suburbs and small towns as far as Montana to pass an evening on the streets, meeting people and listening to their stories. Another cherished part of this work was his Wednesday visits to Compass Cascade Women’s Center. He spoke of these women’s struggles to regain strength and spirit with what I can only described as reverence. It was clear that their trust was among the greatest honors he’s received.
Nyer never retired again. He just kept on making lattes, telling jokes, and cleaning out his study. He kept walking the streets, and listening as if he had all the time in the world. Just days before the end, he was still working to reschedule a meeting he’d missed concerning a project close to his heart – a new congregation forming at the Compass Center chapel. He performed the marriage of his youngest child, his son, four days before he died.
A pastor friend, recalling how he’d heard through the grapevine of Nyer’s work at Immanuel phrased it this way: “…And he loved them, and so they found their life.” Nyer would have quickly diffused such a grand compliment, finding a way to share, if not outright refuse, the credit. But I think he would accept this turn of the phrase: he loved us, all of us – family, friends, parishioners, clients, colleagues – and so he found his life.
Nyer is survived by his wife Louise Urness, his children; Kari, Paula, Julie, Sonja, Heidi, Alouise and Joshua. He also leaves behind his brothers John and Jim. There are nine grandchildren and nine great-grandchildren.
Alouise Urness
Seattle, Washington
April, 2006
The early life of my father, Nyer Urness, is for me a patchwork of his stories.
In February of 1925, he was born at home because there was too much snow for the horses to get to town. His mother asked for too many hugs, but let him name a younger brother after the radio show pilot, Jimmy Allen. Childhood consisted of playing with dynamite and eating penny candy and nickel hamburgers. Childhood ended with an empty chair at his high school graduation – he was already in training as a submariner in the U.S. Navy.
The service treated him well. The men were honorable, not touching $637 left on top of his locker once when he sailed on short notice. He learned the stars on both sides of the equator. Submariners ate the best food the military had to offer, he would reminisce, except for all the pimentos.
Leaves from the ship treated him even better. In Argentina, the coffee was strong and omelets made with twelve eggs. A now legendary oxtail soup was served on the train in England. Ireland held bicycle rides in the rain and a special sort of camaraderie among the sailors. Texas offered southern hospitality never forgotten, and chicken and dumplings never equaled.
The high point seems to have been bringing home a German sub that Hitler could have escaped on. The low point was very low – a hatch left open, the sub sinking fast, sailors silently calculating minutes until the pressure would be stronger than steel.
But Nyer had much, much left to do.
The G.I. Bill sent him to school in 1948; by 1955 he was a pastor in Pequot Lakes, Minnesota. He spent a little more than the sixties in Spokane, Washington, where he helped raise five daughters while serving a congregation (Our Savior's Lutheran Church) and even preaching on the air (Radio Station KCFA).
The seeds of street ministry were sprouting, concern for justice and equity moving to the fore. An older daughter remembers, “They were always boycotting something.” In Spokane, in that era, he stood out; appointed to the board of just about everything, he finally found himself before a panel of bishops charged with deciding what to do with him. “So what did they do with you, Dad?” a younger daughter finally asks, impatient with Nyer’s usual cliffhanger ending to this story. “Well, they talked for three days…and they sent me to Seattle.”
Nyer featured in fewer and fewer of his own stories from this point, so this story becomes mostly a daughter’s memories.
They sent him to Immanuel Lutheran, a tall old church in the shadow of the freeway, made taller by the squat old houses and brambled lots that then surrounded it. He claims to have signed a contract that was for two years or “until the money ran out.” It must not have quite run out. Sunday morning’s dry-edged pastries and urns of mild coffee made way for steam table suppers for ever more of those who were in many ways hungry. The floor of the gymnasium in the church basement became a maze of mattresses in the winter. Ten intern pastors each spent a year with Nyer and with his congregations in the sanctuary and on the street.
During these years our family life was measured in Sunday mornings. They came early, with animals to care for first, then a ferry boat ride of which we were sometimes wary. When Nyer’s questions on the boat seemed to come out of the blue, they were usually coming from his sermon notes. Louise featured in his anecdotes most often. He teased her this way, almost as often as he would by suggesting, “Why don’t you sing for us, Louie?” at moments when she was least inclined. He’d say it right now, I’m sure, if he could.
The next part of Sunday morning was my favorite. My brother and I took turns making thee long walk with him from the ferry terminal to our old Datsun parked for free past the Kingdome. We always found someone to stop and talk with, reclining on the old public dock at the foot of Washington Street. Clarence and his dog Lady were special friends.
Sunday morning at church usually extended well into the afternoon. There was always one more person he needed to talk to…no, to listen to. Nyer didn’t so much answer questions as satisfy them. It takes a lot longer that way.
When Nyer left Immanuel in 1987, it was less a retirement than a change of pace. He took time, after leaving full-time work, to embrace other aspects of life. Nyer and Louise spent time together with abandon, once even taking a day and a half to make a trip that could be done in four hours. He learned to make lattes, and to use a digital camera, both of which became daily pleasures. He took great pride in developing an irrigation system for their gardens and lawns, fed from a creek.
But his passion for ministering on the streets still grew.
Nyer spoke of people for whom the street is home – some call them the “chronically homeless,” but he gently explained that after years on the streets sometimes a shelter bed or apartment could be too confining - it “just isn’t where they’re at.” Turns out, getting off the streets – into retirement – just wasn’t where he was at either. He found his way back among these friends by way of the Compass Center, in Pioneer Square.
By then, I was away, and was more likely to meet his friends through his pictures. He developed the portraits in a darkroom off his garage, and later, printed them just as artfully from the computer. He’d linger over a picture, lovingly explaining that one’d “had a rough life…but look at that smile,” that another was “a neat, neat guy, who’s really hurting right now.”
This work fed him. Louise recounts that though he was often exhausted by a day’s work at Compass Center, especially these last years, he usually came home exhilarated, brimming with stories. I saw this too, especially when he spoke of the groups of young people who would come to walk the streets with him. They came from the suburbs and small towns as far as Montana to pass an evening on the streets, meeting people and listening to their stories. Another cherished part of this work was his Wednesday visits to Compass Cascade Women’s Center. He spoke of these women’s struggles to regain strength and spirit with what I can only described as reverence. It was clear that their trust was among the greatest honors he’s received.
Nyer never retired again. He just kept on making lattes, telling jokes, and cleaning out his study. He kept walking the streets, and listening as if he had all the time in the world. Just days before the end, he was still working to reschedule a meeting he’d missed concerning a project close to his heart – a new congregation forming at the Compass Center chapel. He performed the marriage of his youngest child, his son, four days before he died.
A pastor friend, recalling how he’d heard through the grapevine of Nyer’s work at Immanuel phrased it this way: “…And he loved them, and so they found their life.” Nyer would have quickly diffused such a grand compliment, finding a way to share, if not outright refuse, the credit. But I think he would accept this turn of the phrase: he loved us, all of us – family, friends, parishioners, clients, colleagues – and so he found his life.
Nyer is survived by his wife Louise Urness, his children; Kari, Paula, Julie, Sonja, Heidi, Alouise and Joshua. He also leaves behind his brothers John and Jim. There are nine grandchildren and nine great-grandchildren.
Alouise Urness
Seattle, Washington
April, 2006
Nyer W. Urness, passed away with his family by his side on Friday, April 7, 2006 at his home on Bainbridge Island, Washington. He was 81 years of age. Nyer was born on February 7, 1925 at his family home in Melvin, Minnesota. Memorial Services will be held on Saturday, April 22, 2006 at 2:00 PM at Emmanuel Lutheran Church, 1215 Thomas Street, (Close to REI), in Seattle, Washington and Sunday, April 23rd at 3:00 PM at Bethany Lutheran Church, 7968 Finch Road on Bainbridge Island. Memorial contributions can be made to The Compass Center Congregation, 77 South Washington, Seattle, WA 98104. Arrangements by Kass & Cook Family Funeral Home.
The early life of my father, Nyer Urness, is for me a patchwork of his stories.
In February of 1925, he was born at home because there was too much snow for the horses to get to town. His mother asked for too many hugs, but let him name a younger brother after the radio show pilot, Jimmy Allen. Childhood consisted of playing with dynamite and eating penny candy and nickel hamburgers. Childhood ended with an empty chair at his high school graduation – he was already in training as a submariner in the U.S. Navy.
The service treated him well. The men were honorable, not touching $637 left on top of his locker once when he sailed on short notice. He learned the stars on both sides of the equator. Submariners ate the best food the military had to offer, he would reminisce, except for all the pimentos.
Leaves from the ship treated him even better. In Argentina, the coffee was strong and omelets made with twelve eggs. A now legendary oxtail soup was served on the train in England. Ireland held bicycle rides in the rain and a special sort of camaraderie among the sailors. Texas offered southern hospitality never forgotten, and chicken and dumplings never equaled.
The high point seems to have been bringing home a German sub that Hitler could have escaped on. The low point was very low – a hatch left open, the sub sinking fast, sailors silently calculating minutes until the pressure would be stronger than steel.
But Nyer had much, much left to do.
The G.I. Bill sent him to school in 1948; by 1955 he was a pastor in Pequot Lakes, Minnesota. He spent a little more than the sixties in Spokane, Washington, where he helped raise five daughters while serving a congregation (Our Savior's Lutheran Church) and even preaching on the air (Radio Station KCFA).
The seeds of street ministry were sprouting, concern for justice and equity moving to the fore. An older daughter remembers, “They were always boycotting something.” In Spokane, in that era, he stood out; appointed to the board of just about everything, he finally found himself before a panel of bishops charged with deciding what to do with him. “So what did they do with you, Dad?” a younger daughter finally asks, impatient with Nyer’s usual cliffhanger ending to this story. “Well, they talked for three days…and they sent me to Seattle.”
Nyer featured in fewer and fewer of his own stories from this point, so this story becomes mostly a daughter’s memories.
They sent him to Immanuel Lutheran, a tall old church in the shadow of the freeway, made taller by the squat old houses and brambled lots that then surrounded it. He claims to have signed a contract that was for two years or “until the money ran out.” It must not have quite run out. Sunday morning’s dry-edged pastries and urns of mild coffee made way for steam table suppers for ever more of those who were in many ways hungry. The floor of the gymnasium in the church basement became a maze of mattresses in the winter. Ten intern pastors each spent a year with Nyer and with his congregations in the sanctuary and on the street.
During these years our family life was measured in Sunday mornings. They came early, with animals to care for first, then a ferry boat ride of which we were sometimes wary. When Nyer’s questions on the boat seemed to come out of the blue, they were usually coming from his sermon notes. Louise featured in his anecdotes most often. He teased her this way, almost as often as he would by suggesting, “Why don’t you sing for us, Louie?” at moments when she was least inclined. He’d say it right now, I’m sure, if he could.
The next part of Sunday morning was my favorite. My brother and I took turns making thee long walk with him from the ferry terminal to our old Datsun parked for free past the Kingdome. We always found someone to stop and talk with, reclining on the old public dock at the foot of Washington Street. Clarence and his dog Lady were special friends.
Sunday morning at church usually extended well into the afternoon. There was always one more person he needed to talk to…no, to listen to. Nyer didn’t so much answer questions as satisfy them. It takes a lot longer that way.
When Nyer left Immanuel in 1987, it was less a retirement than a change of pace. He took time, after leaving full-time work, to embrace other aspects of life. Nyer and Louise spent time together with abandon, once even taking a day and a half to make a trip that could be done in four hours. He learned to make lattes, and to use a digital camera, both of which became daily pleasures. He took great pride in developing an irrigation system for their gardens and lawns, fed from a creek.
But his passion for ministering on the streets still grew.
Nyer spoke of people for whom the street is home – some call them the “chronically homeless,” but he gently explained that after years on the streets sometimes a shelter bed or apartment could be too confining - it “just isn’t where they’re at.” Turns out, getting off the streets – into retirement – just wasn’t where he was at either. He found his way back among these friends by way of the Compass Center, in Pioneer Square.
By then, I was away, and was more likely to meet his friends through his pictures. He developed the portraits in a darkroom off his garage, and later, printed them just as artfully from the computer. He’d linger over a picture, lovingly explaining that one’d “had a rough life…but look at that smile,” that another was “a neat, neat guy, who’s really hurting right now.”
This work fed him. Louise recounts that though he was often exhausted by a day’s work at Compass Center, especially these last years, he usually came home exhilarated, brimming with stories. I saw this too, especially when he spoke of the groups of young people who would come to walk the streets with him. They came from the suburbs and small towns as far as Montana to pass an evening on the streets, meeting people and listening to their stories. Another cherished part of this work was his Wednesday visits to Compass Cascade Women’s Center. He spoke of these women’s struggles to regain strength and spirit with what I can only described as reverence. It was clear that their trust was among the greatest honors he’s received.
Nyer never retired again. He just kept on making lattes, telling jokes, and cleaning out his study. He kept walking the streets, and listening as if he had all the time in the world. Just days before the end, he was still working to reschedule a meeting he’d missed concerning a project close to his heart – a new congregation forming at the Compass Center chapel. He performed the marriage of his youngest child, his son, four days before he died.
A pastor friend, recalling how he’d heard through the grapevine of Nyer’s work at Immanuel phrased it this way: “…And he loved them, and so they found their life.” Nyer would have quickly diffused such a grand compliment, finding a way to share, if not outright refuse, the credit. But I think he would accept this turn of the phrase: he loved us, all of us – family, friends, parishioners, clients, colleagues – and so he found his life.
Nyer is survived by his wife Louise Urness, his children; Kari, Paula, Julie, Sonja, Heidi, Alouise and Joshua. He also leaves behind his brothers John and Jim. There are nine grandchildren and nine great-grandchildren.
Alouise Urness
Seattle, Washington
April, 2006
The early life of my father, Nyer Urness, is for me a patchwork of his stories.
In February of 1925, he was born at home because there was too much snow for the horses to get to town. His mother asked for too many hugs, but let him name a younger brother after the radio show pilot, Jimmy Allen. Childhood consisted of playing with dynamite and eating penny candy and nickel hamburgers. Childhood ended with an empty chair at his high school graduation – he was already in training as a submariner in the U.S. Navy.
The service treated him well. The men were honorable, not touching $637 left on top of his locker once when he sailed on short notice. He learned the stars on both sides of the equator. Submariners ate the best food the military had to offer, he would reminisce, except for all the pimentos.
Leaves from the ship treated him even better. In Argentina, the coffee was strong and omelets made with twelve eggs. A now legendary oxtail soup was served on the train in England. Ireland held bicycle rides in the rain and a special sort of camaraderie among the sailors. Texas offered southern hospitality never forgotten, and chicken and dumplings never equaled.
The high point seems to have been bringing home a German sub that Hitler could have escaped on. The low point was very low – a hatch left open, the sub sinking fast, sailors silently calculating minutes until the pressure would be stronger than steel.
But Nyer had much, much left to do.
The G.I. Bill sent him to school in 1948; by 1955 he was a pastor in Pequot Lakes, Minnesota. He spent a little more than the sixties in Spokane, Washington, where he helped raise five daughters while serving a congregation (Our Savior's Lutheran Church) and even preaching on the air (Radio Station KCFA).
The seeds of street ministry were sprouting, concern for justice and equity moving to the fore. An older daughter remembers, “They were always boycotting something.” In Spokane, in that era, he stood out; appointed to the board of just about everything, he finally found himself before a panel of bishops charged with deciding what to do with him. “So what did they do with you, Dad?” a younger daughter finally asks, impatient with Nyer’s usual cliffhanger ending to this story. “Well, they talked for three days…and they sent me to Seattle.”
Nyer featured in fewer and fewer of his own stories from this point, so this story becomes mostly a daughter’s memories.
They sent him to Immanuel Lutheran, a tall old church in the shadow of the freeway, made taller by the squat old houses and brambled lots that then surrounded it. He claims to have signed a contract that was for two years or “until the money ran out.” It must not have quite run out. Sunday morning’s dry-edged pastries and urns of mild coffee made way for steam table suppers for ever more of those who were in many ways hungry. The floor of the gymnasium in the church basement became a maze of mattresses in the winter. Ten intern pastors each spent a year with Nyer and with his congregations in the sanctuary and on the street.
During these years our family life was measured in Sunday mornings. They came early, with animals to care for first, then a ferry boat ride of which we were sometimes wary. When Nyer’s questions on the boat seemed to come out of the blue, they were usually coming from his sermon notes. Louise featured in his anecdotes most often. He teased her this way, almost as often as he would by suggesting, “Why don’t you sing for us, Louie?” at moments when she was least inclined. He’d say it right now, I’m sure, if he could.
The next part of Sunday morning was my favorite. My brother and I took turns making thee long walk with him from the ferry terminal to our old Datsun parked for free past the Kingdome. We always found someone to stop and talk with, reclining on the old public dock at the foot of Washington Street. Clarence and his dog Lady were special friends.
Sunday morning at church usually extended well into the afternoon. There was always one more person he needed to talk to…no, to listen to. Nyer didn’t so much answer questions as satisfy them. It takes a lot longer that way.
When Nyer left Immanuel in 1987, it was less a retirement than a change of pace. He took time, after leaving full-time work, to embrace other aspects of life. Nyer and Louise spent time together with abandon, once even taking a day and a half to make a trip that could be done in four hours. He learned to make lattes, and to use a digital camera, both of which became daily pleasures. He took great pride in developing an irrigation system for their gardens and lawns, fed from a creek.
But his passion for ministering on the streets still grew.
Nyer spoke of people for whom the street is home – some call them the “chronically homeless,” but he gently explained that after years on the streets sometimes a shelter bed or apartment could be too confining - it “just isn’t where they’re at.” Turns out, getting off the streets – into retirement – just wasn’t where he was at either. He found his way back among these friends by way of the Compass Center, in Pioneer Square.
By then, I was away, and was more likely to meet his friends through his pictures. He developed the portraits in a darkroom off his garage, and later, printed them just as artfully from the computer. He’d linger over a picture, lovingly explaining that one’d “had a rough life…but look at that smile,” that another was “a neat, neat guy, who’s really hurting right now.”
This work fed him. Louise recounts that though he was often exhausted by a day’s work at Compass Center, especially these last years, he usually came home exhilarated, brimming with stories. I saw this too, especially when he spoke of the groups of young people who would come to walk the streets with him. They came from the suburbs and small towns as far as Montana to pass an evening on the streets, meeting people and listening to their stories. Another cherished part of this work was his Wednesday visits to Compass Cascade Women’s Center. He spoke of these women’s struggles to regain strength and spirit with what I can only described as reverence. It was clear that their trust was among the greatest honors he’s received.
Nyer never retired again. He just kept on making lattes, telling jokes, and cleaning out his study. He kept walking the streets, and listening as if he had all the time in the world. Just days before the end, he was still working to reschedule a meeting he’d missed concerning a project close to his heart – a new congregation forming at the Compass Center chapel. He performed the marriage of his youngest child, his son, four days before he died.
A pastor friend, recalling how he’d heard through the grapevine of Nyer’s work at Immanuel phrased it this way: “…And he loved them, and so they found their life.” Nyer would have quickly diffused such a grand compliment, finding a way to share, if not outright refuse, the credit. But I think he would accept this turn of the phrase: he loved us, all of us – family, friends, parishioners, clients, colleagues – and so he found his life.
Nyer is survived by his wife Louise Urness, his children; Kari, Paula, Julie, Sonja, Heidi, Alouise and Joshua. He also leaves behind his brothers John and Jim. There are nine grandchildren and nine great-grandchildren.
Alouise Urness
Seattle, Washington
April, 2006
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