Obituary: Larry Allan Poston

As an English major and former journalist, I’ve had many challenging writing assignments. But the hardest one by far was this one. How do you write an obituary for a man you never wanted to say goodbye to? Your daddy. Your hero. How do you string enough sentences together with the hope that they might at least capture a fraction of the impact one man had on so many people? I don’t know, but here’s my best shot…

Let’s get through the “formal” stuff first. It wouldn’t be right to exclude dad’s accomplishments, not only because they are tremendously impressive but also because he was among the most humble of men, and many of you may not even know half the things he did.

Larry Allan Poston was born in Leesburg, Virginia to Leslie and Joanne Poston in 1952. He was bright, excelled in school, and throughout his life, both teaching and learning were an integral part of every day.

Larry lived life to the fullest and was known for his infamous “charts,” where he meticulously recorded his daily activities. He used the same chart (tweaked a bit) for most of his adult life. This was a testimony of his discipline and desire to make the most of every day he was given.

Larry attended Bridgewater College in Virginia, where he studied Philosophy and Religion. He transferred to Grace College of the Bible in Omaha, NE, and graduated with a B.A. in Bible and Christian Education. At Grace, he met his beloved wife of 50 years, Linda (Derksen) Poston.

In 1978, Larry graduated from Trinity Evangelical Divinity School (Deerfield, IL) with a master’s in Christian Missiology. He and Linda then moved to Sweden, where he studied History of Religions at Göteborg’s Universitet. It was there in Sweden that I was born.

Upon their return to the United States, Larry attended Northwestern University (Evanston, IL), where he received a master’s and Ph.D in History and Literature of Religions & Islamic Studies.

Larry and his family moved to New York in 1989, where he was a professor of Comparative Religion at Nyack College (Nyack, NY) for nearly 35 years. There, he was also a chair on the Department for Religion, Coordinator for the Interdisciplinary Studies Program, Director for Off-Campus Study Programs, Vice-Chair of the Faculty, Chair of the Self-Study Steering Committee, and Chair of the Curriculum Development Committee.

In addition to his roles at Nyack College, Larry also taught at Messiah College (Mechanicsburg, PA), Stevenson University (Owings Mills, MD), Morgan State University (Baltimore, MD), Iona College (Rochelle, NY), Wheaton College Graduate School (Wheaton, IL), Asia Graduate School of Theology (Yogyakarta, Indonesia), Northwestern University (Evanston, IL), and Nordiska Bibelinstitutet (Saffle, Sweden). He was fluent in English, Swedish, and could read French, Arabic, and German.

Larry had dozens and dozens of publications throughout his academic career, perhaps the two most noteworthy being the books, “The Changing Face of Islam in America” (Camp Hill, PA: Horizon Books, 2000), and “Islamic Da’Wah in the West: Muslim Missionary Activity and the Dynamics of Conversion to Islam” (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992).

Listed above is just a fraction of all that he did. But those are merely fancy names and titles. If you were his student, you are absolutely nodding your head as you read this: even after all the hard work he put into his education, he did not allow anyone to address him as “Dr. Poston” or “Professor Poston.” He was simply, “Larry.” And even though he was a biological father to just one very blessed daughter, the truth is he was a dad to dozens, perhaps hundreds, of students. His teaching extended far beyond the walls of his classroom. He taught students to drive. He taught students how to manage finances. He taught them how to think for themselves. How to ask questions. He taught them how to read with an eagerness to soak up words and hold them in their hearts. How to retain knowledge and dissect information.

Every school year, Dad gave each of his new students an index card and asked them to write prayer requests on it. And so every year, without fail, his desk at home was piled with stacks and stacks of index cards, rubber-banded together so they wouldn’t scatter. Each day after reading his Bible, he went through every card and prayed. I know because I watched him for years. He spent hours in the morning praying for his family and his precious students.

Dad was generous in so many ways. Often, he anonymously donated a portion of his salary to pay for a student’s tuition if he knew they couldn’t afford it. So if you’re reading this and you recall getting a “paid-in-full” tuition letter from the Financial Aid office without any explanation, it was probably Dad. And he did it because he believed in you.

Many of his students adopted his philosophy of discipline, which was based on the Jesuits, led by Ignatius of Loyola. They were disciplined in every area of their lives, striving to perfect every ability they possessed, pushing their bodies to limits they never thought possible. Dad jogged 5-7 miles every morning for decades. He loved his runs. He often chose out-of-the-way roads, much like Robert Frost’s poem, “The Road Not Taken.” It was during his quiet early morning jogs that he found peace and beauty all around him. Deer that didn’t mind his light footsteps on the pavement. Freshly fallen snow that hadn’t yet been touched or tainted. The crunch of Autumn leaves on crisp October mornings. He took it all in, and he found beauty in the most ordinary things. Often, students would tag along for jogs, particularly his Saturday runs, which were 13 miles. He valued his physical health just as he did his emotional and spiritual well-being.

His books. Oh, the stacks and piles of books he had. At any given time, he was working his way through at least two different books, often one of which was written in a different language. When I was little, he read to me every night, even when he’d had a long day, even when he was sick. Even when his voice was hoarse. And together we read all the classics: Moby Dick, To Kill a Mockingbird, Watership Down, Fahrenheit 451, Alas, Babylon, and Bambi. Dozens more. Nearly every situation we faced, good or bad, could always be summed up or fixed with a quote. He could make a terrible situation better by quoting Atticus Finch or The Outlaw Josey Wales.

Dad taught me how to love by the way he loved my mom and me. Without condition and wholeheartedly. On our good, bad, and ugly days. Mom was his partner and his equal, and what a beautiful 50 years they had together. He looked at her with gentle, tender love and beaming with pride. Dad would often show me updates about Mom’s accomplishments and say, “That’s my wife!”

When Dad was diagnosed with Pulmonary Fibrosis in 2023, it felt so unfair. When I expressed my frustration to him, certain that he must have felt a thousand times more frustrated, he told me the following story:

In 1995, renowned violinist Itzhak Perlman walked onto the stage to give a concert at Lincoln Center in New York City. He’d been stricken with polio as a child, and consequently walked with braces on both legs and the aid of two crutches. After reaching his chair, he bent down, picked up his violin, and began to play. Yet after the first few bars of the song, a string snapped. Naturally, the audience expected him to stop, perhaps find another violin, or simply cut the concert short. But he did not do any of those things. Instead, he closed his eyes and signaled the conductor to begin again. And that night Perlman delivered the most passionate, marvelous performance of his career, some say. He modulated, adjusted, and recomposed the entire piece in his head as he played.

Dad often used the violin illustration during his final years. With Pulmonary Fibrosis, he still had “three strings” left. His strength and lung capacity were limited and grew worse over time. His coughing fits became more frequent, and his ability to talk for long periods of time dwindled. After his first stroke, he was down to two strings. Though the right side of his body was affected, he gained most of the strength back in his hand. And following his second stroke, more than two years after the PF diagnosis, he was finally down to just one string. That “string” was literally his right hand. The rest of his body was paralyzed, and he was unable to speak. Even though he lived just four days with “one string,” his final performance was nothing short of a masterpiece. Because he could not talk, we communicated with him through writing. We’d hold a little notepad and he’d write us notes. I will cherish them forever. The very first note he wrote for me after I’d rushed in and hugged him was, “How was orientation for Caleb and Jacob?” My boys had just gone to orientation at their new high school after our move to Pennsylvania, and dad had been praying that it would go well. So instead of writing down how frustrated he was not to be able to talk, or that he was uncomfortable, or that he wanted water, or any other thing one would logically ask in that moment…he asked about his grandsons. That was Dad.

I often held dad’s hands when I talked to him during those final days, as it felt like a connection that bridged the communication gap just a little bit. And whenever I looked down, I remembered all the things those hands had done. They taught me to ride a bike. They fixed a hundred things in our homes. They built forts and little snowmen for me. They wrote love letters to Mom many moons ago. They typed dissertations and books. They did the dishes every night after mom’s delicious suppers. They held my babies as newborns. They shook hands with students who had graduated, congratulating them with pride. They held suitcases as he walked through airports in Kenya, Thailand, Sweden, Japan, Egypt…so many places to explore. They were frail and tired at the end, but that’s only because of all the work they had done.

Once, I asked my dad if he was afraid to die. In true “Larry” fashion, he didn’t answer me directly but pointed to his Bible and asked me to start reading at Luke 16:22. I walked over to retrieve his Bible, fully prepared to read a paragraph filled with imagery of heaven, or something of that nature. When I found the verse, I began, “…The poor man died and was carried by the angels to Abraham’s side…” Dad touched my arm and said, “Stop right there. That’s it.” I looked at him, a bit confused.

“I will be carried by angels, Helena. They will carry me to my Savior. Can you imagine how marvelous that will be? So no, I’m not scared.” I don’t know how many times I’ve read the passage about Lazarus, but I certainly never caught that part. That was the thing about dad. He always found the tiny gems that most people miss.

During his final days, when Dad was still alert and able to understand me, I told him, “Dad, Jesus will send his very best angels for you. Only the best for the best.” He gave me a thumbs up.

Dad passed away in the early morning hours of August 23rd. He was so peaceful and so calm. Mom and I sat on either side of him, each of us holding one of his hands. And as his labored breathing slowed down, I imagined angels coming to his bed. Oh, how I wish I could have seen them. I imagined them telling him that it was time and that he had earned his rest. He had been faithful and fought until the very end. He had finished well. And there in the quiet room as mom and I wept, daddy slipped off in the arms of angels.

I suspect he took the deepest breath he’d ever taken, with strong, perfect lungs. But honestly, how much can you care about breathing when you have so many people to see? His brother, his dad, his brother-in-law, so many dear friends. Noah, Abraham, David, Moses. But most of all, the Sovereign King.

In John 14:2-3, Jesus says, “In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I will go to prepare a place for you. And if I prepare a place for you I will come again and receive you, so that where I am, so you will be.”

Dad, I will miss you until I see you again. I love you 3,000.

Larry is survived by his wife, Linda Poston; daughter, Helena Hewlett and her husband Mathew; mother, Joanne Poston; two brothers, Craig (Linda) and Paul J. (Joanna); two sisters, Leslie Jo (Dave) Connealy and Melinda (Tom) Hall; grandchildren, Caleb, Jacob, and Henry; and hundreds of former students, friends, and family who loved him and will miss him dearly. He is pre-deceased by his father, Leslie Poston, and his brother, Philip Poston.

Larry’s family will hold a visitation for friends, family, and loved ones on Saturday, August 30, 2025, from 11:00 am to 1:00 pm at Monahan Funeral Home located at 125 Carlisle St. in Gettysburg, PA, followed by a private burial in Virginia (family only).

In lieu of flowers, memorial gifts of appreciation of Larry’s life may be given to Huntersfield Christian Retreat Center, where he was the speaker for many weekend retreats throughout the years. For additional information about this ministry, please visit Huntersfield Christian Training Center | Home and click on the “donate” link at the top of the page.