It was one of the best parties I’ve ever attended. Beautiful site, incredible food, aged wine, stimulating, supportive friends. Allan gave the party for Brenda, his wife who turned 60. The focus of course was on Brenda. So I was surprised when Brenda and her friend Nancy came to Jane and me with little gifts. They were in appreciation of our roles in leading a just completed tour to Luther Land in Germany.
One of the gifts was a small rock, nothing more than a pebble. It was picked up at the Wartburg Castle in Germany, the site where Luther was held safe from those who sought to kill him. We had explored that castle, stood where Luther stood, peered in the cubicle that was his home for 9 long months. This little rock spoke to our friends saying, “Take me to Mel and Jane.” They did. It is indeed a precious stone.
Stones have not always seemed so precious to me. When as a young child I dug in the dirt, pesky stones prevented me from digging very deep. When I picked cotton and the knees on which I crawled down the rows landed on a stone it really hurt. Years later I fought a nasty legal action against a corrupt construction company which only took stone from a church/school site instead of leveling the site for construction of the building.
I spent more than 2 years on a church fund-raising effort built upon a Biblical theme of an Old Testament stone set up as an icon for remembering the greatness and goodness of God.
And now this little stone takes on surprising meaning for me. Like Luther, I struggle. Like Luther, I get upset with the institutional church. Like Luther, I feel like hurling things at evil forces. More importantly, like Luther, I find something outside myself to rest upon, to hope upon, to rely upon: a Rock of Ages.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
It Still Hurts
“I’m glad it still hurts,” said Wayne.” He was leading devotions at a Lutheran School Administrators Conference. He was principal of the oldest Lutheran parochial school in America, St. Matthews, Manhattan, New York City. What he was speaking of was his need to fire a teacher. There were plenty of reasons for the dismissal. The teacher was failing. The kids were not being well served. He had tried to help, but to no avail. So he fired the teacher. It hurt both him and the one let go. It was not the first time he had fired someone. Yet we all knew he meant it with all his heart when he said, “I’m glad that it still hurts”. It hurts to end another person’s employment.
It stirred up memories of the times it has been necessary for me to terminate a colleague’s employment. It’s never easy and never more difficult than in my early years in Hong Kong. It was really difficult to find a job in those days. It was often especially difficult for some teachers for they were frequently without documents to prove their education background. They had fled for their lives with only the clothes on their backs. They didn’t always have the remotest chance of carrying their official diplomas and the schools from which they had graduated were now closed by the Communists. The school records were all burned.
However, we had gotten Mr. Wong certified to teach. He was overwhelmed with joy and appreciation. Now he could get off the street. He could feed himself. After a few months he was able to buy a suit to replace the one from the charity bin. However, I soon discovered that he was (in King James language) not apt to teach. There was no classroom discipline. The only method he used was lecture. I observed him often and made suggestions. I had my academic dean try to assist him. It was decided that we would not renew his contract. This would have tragic consequences. In the Chinese idiom, “His rice bowl would be broken.” He would have a very hard time getting another job. His loss of face was overwhelming.
I will never forget the day I had to give him the bad news. It was the right thing to do yet it hurt me to do it. It still hurts. I’m glad it still hurts.
It stirred up memories of the times it has been necessary for me to terminate a colleague’s employment. It’s never easy and never more difficult than in my early years in Hong Kong. It was really difficult to find a job in those days. It was often especially difficult for some teachers for they were frequently without documents to prove their education background. They had fled for their lives with only the clothes on their backs. They didn’t always have the remotest chance of carrying their official diplomas and the schools from which they had graduated were now closed by the Communists. The school records were all burned.
However, we had gotten Mr. Wong certified to teach. He was overwhelmed with joy and appreciation. Now he could get off the street. He could feed himself. After a few months he was able to buy a suit to replace the one from the charity bin. However, I soon discovered that he was (in King James language) not apt to teach. There was no classroom discipline. The only method he used was lecture. I observed him often and made suggestions. I had my academic dean try to assist him. It was decided that we would not renew his contract. This would have tragic consequences. In the Chinese idiom, “His rice bowl would be broken.” He would have a very hard time getting another job. His loss of face was overwhelming.
I will never forget the day I had to give him the bad news. It was the right thing to do yet it hurt me to do it. It still hurts. I’m glad it still hurts.
Brief Encounter – Edith
I hardly knew her, but 25 years later I can still picture her. She was the only English woman in my class of 45 Pakistan parents I was teaching in Karachi. I see her now, sitting on my right, two rows from the back. She seemed to hang onto every word. She engaged in the role-plays with intensity. The topics of active listening and honest self-disclosure seemed to especially to her attention.
On about the third day she spoke with me briefly during a break and asked if we could arrange for a longer interview. Of course. We set that up. When we met she spoke of the importance of being listened to and of the deep pain of not having anyone with whom one can be totally open.
Slowly she poured out her story.; She was one of two wives of a Pakistani gentleman. This was perfectly legal. The other wife was Pakistani. Her husband was kind to her and not like other husbands she knew who beat their wives. He provided for her and even gave her an adequate allowance to purchase personal items. Yet, she said, she was missing something. She knew that she was “number 2 “ in the relationship. She knew that she was never fully accepted into his family. She knew some of her husband’s friends asked him about her and asked some painfully intimate questions about the relationship. She said she could endure all of this.
But what was most difficult for her was that there was no one, absolutely no one with who m she could share her experiences, her thoughts, her feelings., her longings. Nor was there anyone who would just listen without judgment, moralizing, advising, or even blaming. So we talked for a log time and she felt free to release what had been building up in her for more than two decades.
She came to see me again after the last session. She said to me, “There is one place I can express my self. I write poetry. And I collect the poetry of others who share my feelings. I have actually compiled them into a little book of which I have only a very small number. I would like to give you a copy of that book if you would accept it.”
In my retirement I have disposed of almost all of the thousands of books I have owned in my lifetime. The one given to me by Edith I hang on to.
On about the third day she spoke with me briefly during a break and asked if we could arrange for a longer interview. Of course. We set that up. When we met she spoke of the importance of being listened to and of the deep pain of not having anyone with whom one can be totally open.
Slowly she poured out her story.; She was one of two wives of a Pakistani gentleman. This was perfectly legal. The other wife was Pakistani. Her husband was kind to her and not like other husbands she knew who beat their wives. He provided for her and even gave her an adequate allowance to purchase personal items. Yet, she said, she was missing something. She knew that she was “number 2 “ in the relationship. She knew that she was never fully accepted into his family. She knew some of her husband’s friends asked him about her and asked some painfully intimate questions about the relationship. She said she could endure all of this.
But what was most difficult for her was that there was no one, absolutely no one with who m she could share her experiences, her thoughts, her feelings., her longings. Nor was there anyone who would just listen without judgment, moralizing, advising, or even blaming. So we talked for a log time and she felt free to release what had been building up in her for more than two decades.
She came to see me again after the last session. She said to me, “There is one place I can express my self. I write poetry. And I collect the poetry of others who share my feelings. I have actually compiled them into a little book of which I have only a very small number. I would like to give you a copy of that book if you would accept it.”
In my retirement I have disposed of almost all of the thousands of books I have owned in my lifetime. The one given to me by Edith I hang on to.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Bars
I was six years old. Prohibition had just ended. I walked into that small Texas town saloon with eyes wide open, my nose sniffing the new smells, my ears hearing the debate as to whether this 15 cent bottle of bought beer was really better than home brew. I eyed the muddy boots, the Oshkosh overalls, the sweated Stetsons. The barkeeper behind the simple bar wore a white half-apron drooping from his waist. The dominoes clicked. The language became guarded as we entered because my father who brought me there was the principal of the local parochial school and had taught them all. Even in that saloon I knew he was probably the most respected man in the community. He bought a beer for himself. Then he slid over a nickel for a big bottle of red strawberry soda pop for me. I had been introduced to the world of bars, saloons, pubs, lounges.
My Uncle Otto was in town, staying in a big fancy hotel in the downtown loop of Chicago. He had invited me, a college freshman in suburban River Forest to come see him. When I arrived he invited me to join him in the bar. He said he would buy me a beer. “Buy me a beer… - but I’m not of legal age”, I thought. But he took me in. We sat in a booth. He ordered 2 beers. But I’ll never forget it. What surprised me was not that the waiter never questioned my age, but that he asked for $2.00. “That’s a dollar a bottle!” my mind screamed. I had never in my life heard of a beer costing more than a quarter. It was one of the memorable beers of my life.
I either was 21 years of age or at least appeared to be. I sat in a dark midwestern neighborhood tavern, in a high wood-paneled booth. I was there with my new girl friend Jane. I ordered her a bourbon and 7-up. We looked into each other’s eyes. We held hands. We sipped our drinks. We swam in our love.
I had tipped the maitre d’ generously and he had come through. Immediately he led us to a choice table. We were at the Windows of the World cocktail lounge at the top of Tower II of the World Trade Center in New York. The table was right next to the window. The view of New York on this beautiful day stretched magnificently below us. I ordered a bottle of good wine. It was great to be in New York. Wonderful to be with a wife and a sister I loved. Perfect to be in the best seat at the best bar in New York. All was well with the world.
Nevermore!
My Uncle Otto was in town, staying in a big fancy hotel in the downtown loop of Chicago. He had invited me, a college freshman in suburban River Forest to come see him. When I arrived he invited me to join him in the bar. He said he would buy me a beer. “Buy me a beer… - but I’m not of legal age”, I thought. But he took me in. We sat in a booth. He ordered 2 beers. But I’ll never forget it. What surprised me was not that the waiter never questioned my age, but that he asked for $2.00. “That’s a dollar a bottle!” my mind screamed. I had never in my life heard of a beer costing more than a quarter. It was one of the memorable beers of my life.
I either was 21 years of age or at least appeared to be. I sat in a dark midwestern neighborhood tavern, in a high wood-paneled booth. I was there with my new girl friend Jane. I ordered her a bourbon and 7-up. We looked into each other’s eyes. We held hands. We sipped our drinks. We swam in our love.
I had tipped the maitre d’ generously and he had come through. Immediately he led us to a choice table. We were at the Windows of the World cocktail lounge at the top of Tower II of the World Trade Center in New York. The table was right next to the window. The view of New York on this beautiful day stretched magnificently below us. I ordered a bottle of good wine. It was great to be in New York. Wonderful to be with a wife and a sister I loved. Perfect to be in the best seat at the best bar in New York. All was well with the world.
Nevermore!
9/11
9/11
The date is September 11, 2001. It’s 9:30 p.m. and I have just left a dinner at the American Club in Hong Kong. I was the honored guest of the Alumni Association of Concordia Lutheran School, Kowloon. It has been a wonderful evening of memories, laughter and hope.
A car and driver had been sent to pick me up and return me to my hotel. The driver is obviously agitated, paying very close attention to the car radio. My Cantonese is surely not what it used to be, so I don’t catch all of what he and the radio are announcing. But I do get the message than at airplane has hit a building in New York. I do understand enough Cantonese to know that the driver keeps repeating, “This is terrible, terrible!”
I rush to my hotel room. Worldwide CNN is there live to air the tragedy. Like millions all over the world I watch in horror as the second plane hits, the twin towers collapse. Throughout the night I watch in sadness, horror and anger.
In light of the indescribably terrible consequences so many experienced, because of this tragedy, my messed up plans, cancelled flights and delayed trip home, of course, amount to nothing. Further, in view of all the sadness so many endured because of this tragedy, my own memories of the World Trade Center amount to nothing.
Yet for each one of us, our memories are personal. And mine of the World Trade Center are all wonderful. I loved the bar at the top at the Windows of the World restaurant. It was a “must stop visit” with any relatives and friends who came to see us in New York. There was a the private club on that same floor at which Jane and I (and a host of private donors) arranged for an appreciation luncheon for all Lutheran School principals of the metro New York area. For all those urban principals this was their first experience in the marvelous exclusive setting. It was on the 98th floor of the other tower where I had conducted workshops for the staff of an international bank. It was in the basement where we always found parking to explore so much of what those towers offered.
Now all that made up the physical components of that center has been pulverized, melted, or carted to a dump on Staten Island. As I write this more 8 years since that fateful day, the whole world continues to weep, to cope and dares to hope.
The date is September 11, 2001. It’s 9:30 p.m. and I have just left a dinner at the American Club in Hong Kong. I was the honored guest of the Alumni Association of Concordia Lutheran School, Kowloon. It has been a wonderful evening of memories, laughter and hope.
A car and driver had been sent to pick me up and return me to my hotel. The driver is obviously agitated, paying very close attention to the car radio. My Cantonese is surely not what it used to be, so I don’t catch all of what he and the radio are announcing. But I do get the message than at airplane has hit a building in New York. I do understand enough Cantonese to know that the driver keeps repeating, “This is terrible, terrible!”
I rush to my hotel room. Worldwide CNN is there live to air the tragedy. Like millions all over the world I watch in horror as the second plane hits, the twin towers collapse. Throughout the night I watch in sadness, horror and anger.
In light of the indescribably terrible consequences so many experienced, because of this tragedy, my messed up plans, cancelled flights and delayed trip home, of course, amount to nothing. Further, in view of all the sadness so many endured because of this tragedy, my own memories of the World Trade Center amount to nothing.
Yet for each one of us, our memories are personal. And mine of the World Trade Center are all wonderful. I loved the bar at the top at the Windows of the World restaurant. It was a “must stop visit” with any relatives and friends who came to see us in New York. There was a the private club on that same floor at which Jane and I (and a host of private donors) arranged for an appreciation luncheon for all Lutheran School principals of the metro New York area. For all those urban principals this was their first experience in the marvelous exclusive setting. It was on the 98th floor of the other tower where I had conducted workshops for the staff of an international bank. It was in the basement where we always found parking to explore so much of what those towers offered.
Now all that made up the physical components of that center has been pulverized, melted, or carted to a dump on Staten Island. As I write this more 8 years since that fateful day, the whole world continues to weep, to cope and dares to hope.
The Benefits of Gin and Tonic
The Building Committee of the Lutheran Church of Hong Kong for which I served as chair made a mistake. We hired a construction contractor to do the site formation for Saviour Lutheran Church and School on Tai Po Road. He was a fraud on many counts. I did not know that when we had the first of many “unfortunate incidents”. He was blasting away a rock hillside to create the level building plot. He had erected a huge bamboo screen to contain the blasted rock. Then one day he used entirely too much explosives. One of the rocks flew over the screen. It landed on and shattered the front windshield of the Rolls Royce parked there. The owner: The Chief Justice of the Hong Kong Supreme Court.
By the next morning I had the official notice from Crown Lands. “All site formation at said site is herewith terminated until further notice.”
I knew that I did not have a strong case when I went in to make my appeal for another chance. For over a month all work on that site was suspended.
Through the kindness of the Director of Kodak International, a wonderful Lutheran layman from the USA, I had been accepted into associate membership in the exclusive Royal Hong Kong Golf Club and I regularly made use of that privilege.
Since only British citizens had the right to full membership, we associate members did not always interact with those with higher status. But one day after a round of golf one of “them” invited me to join him on the veranda. I offered to buy the first round. We made our introductions. When he learned of my work with Lutheran schools he asked me if I had any connection with that new building planned for the Tai Po Rd site next to the new court building. I confessed that I did indeed have some responsibility. He informed me that he was the person responsible for all blasting permits in Hong Kong. His next sentence was unequivocal “Well, blasting at that school site will continue on exactly the same day hell freezes over !” I hastily ordered another round of gin and tonics which I offered as apology for his having to deal with a very upset judge.
And so we commiserated: my problems with greedy contractors, my deep desire to get that school built and open for the poor children of the community and his having to respond to people living near construction sites and all their unreasonable objections and complaints. One more round of gin and tonics and we might be able to endure!
Exactly ten days later I received the registered letter on official crown stationery. “The blasting permit for the site on Tai Po Road is herewith immediately reissued.”
By the next morning I had the official notice from Crown Lands. “All site formation at said site is herewith terminated until further notice.”
I knew that I did not have a strong case when I went in to make my appeal for another chance. For over a month all work on that site was suspended.
Through the kindness of the Director of Kodak International, a wonderful Lutheran layman from the USA, I had been accepted into associate membership in the exclusive Royal Hong Kong Golf Club and I regularly made use of that privilege.
Since only British citizens had the right to full membership, we associate members did not always interact with those with higher status. But one day after a round of golf one of “them” invited me to join him on the veranda. I offered to buy the first round. We made our introductions. When he learned of my work with Lutheran schools he asked me if I had any connection with that new building planned for the Tai Po Rd site next to the new court building. I confessed that I did indeed have some responsibility. He informed me that he was the person responsible for all blasting permits in Hong Kong. His next sentence was unequivocal “Well, blasting at that school site will continue on exactly the same day hell freezes over !” I hastily ordered another round of gin and tonics which I offered as apology for his having to deal with a very upset judge.
And so we commiserated: my problems with greedy contractors, my deep desire to get that school built and open for the poor children of the community and his having to respond to people living near construction sites and all their unreasonable objections and complaints. One more round of gin and tonics and we might be able to endure!
Exactly ten days later I received the registered letter on official crown stationery. “The blasting permit for the site on Tai Po Road is herewith immediately reissued.”
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Retirement
Sometimes I think I ended up as head of Lutheran Education for a major Lutheran denomination as a result of a fluke. For a very brief period (before it was ruled to be illegal age discrimination) the Church had a rule that heads of major departments had mandatory retirement at 65. My predecessor, Dr. Arthur Miller, got caught by that rule and entered forced retirement, the only officer ever required to do that.
One of the saddest moments of my stint as his successor was when he came to see me not long after I assumed office. He told me that he had taken a new job. He was going to be a door to door salesman peddling encyclopedias.
I saw (and still see) this as a tragedy Art was a man of great passion for Christian education. He himself earned a Ph.D. when few professional church workers made that choice. What he lacked in personal charm or charisma he made up with meticulous attention to detail, astute management of budget, surprising skill at getting larger fiscal appropriations for his department and great ability at hiring and supporting very competent staff.
And for that he ended up knocking on doors, selling books on credit.
Out of that came a personal resolve. I would retire at 65 by my own choice, not by bureaucratic rules. I would manage my finances so that we would not feel impoverished. In retirement I would pursue interests congruent with my skills and values.
That is how I planned to retire. That is how I have done it now - many times.
One of the saddest moments of my stint as his successor was when he came to see me not long after I assumed office. He told me that he had taken a new job. He was going to be a door to door salesman peddling encyclopedias.
I saw (and still see) this as a tragedy Art was a man of great passion for Christian education. He himself earned a Ph.D. when few professional church workers made that choice. What he lacked in personal charm or charisma he made up with meticulous attention to detail, astute management of budget, surprising skill at getting larger fiscal appropriations for his department and great ability at hiring and supporting very competent staff.
And for that he ended up knocking on doors, selling books on credit.
Out of that came a personal resolve. I would retire at 65 by my own choice, not by bureaucratic rules. I would manage my finances so that we would not feel impoverished. In retirement I would pursue interests congruent with my skills and values.
That is how I planned to retire. That is how I have done it now - many times.
More Than A Sex Symbol
I regret that I recall neither her name nor the name of her son. But I do know that the boy was a student in the first grade and that I was his teacher. The boy’s tuition was being paid by an elderly woman from our church who was the landlady for the woman and her son.
I remember what the mother looked like. She was stunning. Tall, slim, well endowed, long flowing hair. She was a Southern California carhop, a waitress at a drive-in. She came to the cars to take and deliver food and drink orders. Her scanty halter-top uniform, I’m sure, helped her generate generous tips.
It may have been because she was not home in the evening to assist her son with homework or it may have been something else. For whatever reason, he was not doing well and it was time for a parent-teacher conference.
We met in the principal’s office and discussed the issue. I soon learned how much she loved her son and was saddened by his slow progress. She really wanted the best for him. She wanted to be a good mother. We discussed a variety of options. I assured her that her efforts would bear fruit.
As we came to the end of the interview she thanked me. Then tears suddenly began to roll down her cheeks. She looked across the desk at me and said, “Thank you. You must know that no man in my whole life has ever talked to me in this way.”
It was probably an exaggeration, but I got the message. No human wants to be deemed merely an object, or symbol. We all yearn to be accepted as being more than a title, just someone’s spouse, someone who’s rich or poor, or any other symbol. “See the me who’s a real person” is the plea of us all.
I remember what the mother looked like. She was stunning. Tall, slim, well endowed, long flowing hair. She was a Southern California carhop, a waitress at a drive-in. She came to the cars to take and deliver food and drink orders. Her scanty halter-top uniform, I’m sure, helped her generate generous tips.
It may have been because she was not home in the evening to assist her son with homework or it may have been something else. For whatever reason, he was not doing well and it was time for a parent-teacher conference.
We met in the principal’s office and discussed the issue. I soon learned how much she loved her son and was saddened by his slow progress. She really wanted the best for him. She wanted to be a good mother. We discussed a variety of options. I assured her that her efforts would bear fruit.
As we came to the end of the interview she thanked me. Then tears suddenly began to roll down her cheeks. She looked across the desk at me and said, “Thank you. You must know that no man in my whole life has ever talked to me in this way.”
It was probably an exaggeration, but I got the message. No human wants to be deemed merely an object, or symbol. We all yearn to be accepted as being more than a title, just someone’s spouse, someone who’s rich or poor, or any other symbol. “See the me who’s a real person” is the plea of us all.
Little League-1930’s Style
Like more than 50% of the television viewers in San Diego I spent time last weekend watching the Little League World Series. The team from Chula Vista just down the road from where I live won it. I admit I had a bit of mixed emotions knowing whom to root for. As an American and Californian I wanted to be loyal to my own country and area. But I also had a heart for the Taiwanese. I am forever grateful for all that my Chinese friends have taught me and just this last year my 11-year-old grandson had spent the year in Taiwan where he really fell in love with baseball and caught that country’s baseball fever. In the end the locals won and I joined in the celebration!
In the process I recalled my baseball life when I was around 10. There was no Little League in Texas in the 1930’s (at least not out in the country where I was growing up). In fact, I remember no structured programs of sports for kids. So we created our own. At school we went to the pasture just outside the schoolyard. We put in the bases and played at school and else where, wherever and whenever. When a group of more than 4 gathered we quickly choose up sides (after flipping a bat to see who chose first) and then went at it. We were our own umpires and we set the local ground rules. At school we played before school, at recess and noon hour (which now in memory I am sure the teachers extended so that each team got to bat at least once). Equipment was minimal. One good ball was a luxury. I remember being a hero. I had codgered relatives and friends until I had 20 tops of Post Toasties cereal boxes. Sent them off. Four weeks later the prize arrived: a brand new 12-inch in-seam softball. To this day I recall taking it to school where it was passed around to all the guy, our first experience of actually handling a brand-new never been hit softball!
Competition was limited. My memory is that we were allowed about 4 games a year, two each against the nearest public schools (in Walburg and Jonah). Being a Lutheran school we were not allowed to play against the local Catholic school. I don’t know which of us feared spiritual contamination more! Forever etched in memory is the day my mom and dad took me to a very rare dentist appointment on the very day we played and I missed the game. I was convinced that my replacement at shortsto,p Wimpy Kalmbach would lose the game for us. I regret to report that after the game when I returned from the dentist it was reported that Wimpy had played very well and in fact made one spectacular put-out. To my shame. I was kind of sad to hear of this threat to my position.
Fantasy often replaced formal opportunity. Sunday afternoon after Sunday afternoon found the two us together: Skippy Mertink and me. We played fantasy big league baseball. The batter stood in front of the barn. The pitcher out toward the barb-wired fence. Singles, doubles and homeruns were carefully delineated by benchmarks. The pitcher was also the radio announcer. Since there were only 2 major leagues with only 8 teams in each league we knew by heart the line-up for each team. Sunday after Sunday we assumed the identity of both player and announcer: the names keep coming back: Bucky Walters, Red Ruffling. Bob Feller, Dizzy Dean, Carl Hubbel - throwing strikes and fastballs at Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig. Jimmy Foxx, Mel Ott, the whole lot ! My blood flows more quickly just remembering it.
So now we have tee ball, Pony League and Little League etc.etc. There are managers, uniforms, and umpires, and water coolers and new balls and aluminum bats and away games and playoffs - even Little League World Series! Great! I am glad our kids have them all. And sometimes this old man would love to see a group of kids just creating their own field, choosing sides and then going at all on their own until the sun goes down!
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