I have finally gotten around to reading Mitch Albom’s “Tuesdays With Morrie”, subtitled "an old man, a young man, and life’s greatest lessons". One of the topics they discuss and upon which I have been reflecting is FEAR and my experiences around fear.
I have no recollection of the common childhood fears of dark places, ghosts, or things that go bump in the night. With one exception. I must have been - oh, maybe in the third grade. It was after dark. I was all alone in the dining room doing my homework. Dad was in his ”study” and I guess Mom was putting my sisters and younger brother to bed. Suddenly I was sure I heard a noise in the dark room just off the kitchen. I perked up my ears and looked. Sure enough, a shadow was moving across that dark neighboring room. I quickly ran across the hall to Dad’s room alerting him, ”There is a prowler in our back room.” He ran out his door and through the yard to the back. He rushed into the room. I heard a loud shriek! He had caught the intruder, only to discover that it was Mom looking for an item she wanted to retrieve. Then we laughed, but for a few minutes I had been afraid.
A second incident about that same time in my life left more lasting effects. I had somehow or other secured a broad-rimmed black hat. I thought I looked great in it and proudly wore it to school the morning after I had received it. As I neared the school a group of men from the congregation were on the water tower working on a leak. They noticed me. I could hear them laugh. Then one said in German “Na, hut, was hast du denn in zinn? Wo willst du mitt den jungen hin!” (Rough translation: “Now hat, what is in your head? Where are you taking that little lad?”) I knew it was a put-down. I was being laughed at. And I felt it in the core of my being. It produced a fear of people making fun of me, a fear of what would people think of me. That ingrained fear resides in me still and I have not yet overcome it. (See previous blog entitled “What Will People Think”.
I have been afraid when I feared loved ones would die. Daughter Elizabeth at less than a year lay in intensive care on Christmas Eve and the Dr. had warned us that she might not be with us on Christmas Day. On a later occasion wife Jane was in a coma from a cerebral aneurysm and our emergency flight from Asia to the USA encountered headwinds forcing a stopover in Alaska. Three times I have been in intensive care units wondering if persons who had attempted suicide would die. My guess is that these fears were not so much the fears of death, but of the consequences of death on me and my family or close friends. Now those are fears worth contemplating.
Fear, of course, is often a natural and God given response, which helps us protect ourselves. So I am glad that sometimes I am still able to be afraid.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Not Afraid
As I reflect upon some episodes in my life I marvel at my lack of fear. At the age of 13 my parents sent me off to a religious ministerial training prep school, a boys only boarding situation. I was really quite naïve, having grown up in the country surrounded by a close-knit family, relatives and friends who cared about me and watched over all of us youngsters who were considered part of a very large congregation-wide extended family. I knew nothing about guys “from the city” or kids whose parents were something other than farmers, ministers or country trades-people. But off I went unconcerned and unafraid. The school was small enough so one could play on all sports teams. The Profs knew us and our parents and most of us came from equally depleted depression era homes. I was unafraid and it worked great!
When I later worked in Hong Kong I always felt perfectly at ease everywhere I went in that Colony, even in the relatively off limits section called Kowloon City. Once I went roaring through there when I probably should have been afraid. My assistant principal had guaranteed some loans and then was unable to repay them. He contacted me to come in my car to pick him up from a designated location. I should have been forewarned when he ducked low and crept into the back seat of my car. He had glanced back just long enough to see another car about a hundred yards behind us ready go come get him. I sped away. Flying up and down streets and alleys until we lost our pursuers in Kowloon City. I found a route to the rural New Territories where he asked me to just drop him off and drive away. I do not remember being afraid.
When I worked in Hong Kong I had the privilege of serving Lutheran schools in all parts of that metropolitan community. Sometimes this entailed night meetings in all sections of Manhattan, the Bronx and Brooklyn. I always went, carefully and confident, assured that my colleagues were not asking me to do anything they themselves did not also do. I had nothing to fear. I remember especially one evening when I met with a group of parents in a Harlem apartment. They had invited me there in an attempt to help save their Lutheran school. During the conversation they told me of a community network they had established which kept an eye on each of the pupils on their way to and from school, assuring their safety. Then they told me that they had made a similar arrangement for me that night to get safely to my car and home. I had no need to be afraid
On another occasion I had reason enough to fear and I wonder why I do not recall that emotion. My two sons and I had gotten caught up in the Tien An Men Square massacre in l989. We were trying to get out of Beijing. We had actually hired a very small van driven by a man determined to defy the authorities. We drove past barricades which had been run over by tanks. We saw burning busses. We watched crowds ebb and flow as the military approached and backed off. We smelled the odor of burnt bodies, some hung from lampposts. Just as we thought we had gotten through the worst of it we suddenly heard the sound of guns from our right. Bullets could be heard flying near our small van. We proceeded forward and suddenly all was still. In retrospect it seems to me that I experienced it somehow more as an observer than as a participant. I do not recall being afraid. I do recall praying, so that is probably the more accurate remembrance.
I do not fear death. I sometimes feel uneasy about what could be a painful process preceding death. But I have no fear of death and the after-life. I figure that God and God’s Grace have that pretty well handled.
When I later worked in Hong Kong I always felt perfectly at ease everywhere I went in that Colony, even in the relatively off limits section called Kowloon City. Once I went roaring through there when I probably should have been afraid. My assistant principal had guaranteed some loans and then was unable to repay them. He contacted me to come in my car to pick him up from a designated location. I should have been forewarned when he ducked low and crept into the back seat of my car. He had glanced back just long enough to see another car about a hundred yards behind us ready go come get him. I sped away. Flying up and down streets and alleys until we lost our pursuers in Kowloon City. I found a route to the rural New Territories where he asked me to just drop him off and drive away. I do not remember being afraid.
When I worked in Hong Kong I had the privilege of serving Lutheran schools in all parts of that metropolitan community. Sometimes this entailed night meetings in all sections of Manhattan, the Bronx and Brooklyn. I always went, carefully and confident, assured that my colleagues were not asking me to do anything they themselves did not also do. I had nothing to fear. I remember especially one evening when I met with a group of parents in a Harlem apartment. They had invited me there in an attempt to help save their Lutheran school. During the conversation they told me of a community network they had established which kept an eye on each of the pupils on their way to and from school, assuring their safety. Then they told me that they had made a similar arrangement for me that night to get safely to my car and home. I had no need to be afraid
On another occasion I had reason enough to fear and I wonder why I do not recall that emotion. My two sons and I had gotten caught up in the Tien An Men Square massacre in l989. We were trying to get out of Beijing. We had actually hired a very small van driven by a man determined to defy the authorities. We drove past barricades which had been run over by tanks. We saw burning busses. We watched crowds ebb and flow as the military approached and backed off. We smelled the odor of burnt bodies, some hung from lampposts. Just as we thought we had gotten through the worst of it we suddenly heard the sound of guns from our right. Bullets could be heard flying near our small van. We proceeded forward and suddenly all was still. In retrospect it seems to me that I experienced it somehow more as an observer than as a participant. I do not recall being afraid. I do recall praying, so that is probably the more accurate remembrance.
I do not fear death. I sometimes feel uneasy about what could be a painful process preceding death. But I have no fear of death and the after-life. I figure that God and God’s Grace have that pretty well handled.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
So Close
I am in Harrod’s Casino, Reno, Nevada on January 28, 1951. My wife Jane and I have traveled there from our home in Tracy, California, some four hours away. We are dirt poor, combined income of some $2,000 a year. But we’d spent some Christmas gift money for gasoline and planned to drive to Reno and back on the same day because we don’t have the $6.00 required for an overnight stay in a motel. We do have, however, one dollar each for the slots. We feed the nickel machines.
The slots smile on us. By the time we feel we need to head home we have parlayed our $2.00 into $5.00. We take a breather, have a discussion, and make a decision.
We’ll take two dollars of our gain (2 neat rolls of nickels) and secure them in the glove compartment of our car. Then we’ll take our $3.00 worth of winnings and hit the slots again. If we can just win $2.00 more we’ll have enough for a motel room. We’ll spend the night in Reno and head home the next day -just like the high rollers.
Twenty minutes later Jane and I are pulling out of our parking slot, heading back over Donner Pass on the way home for a very late dinner.
Fifty-nine years later I still feel the rush. So close! I’m not alone. From Las Vegas to Atlantic City to Mississippi River boats to Indian reservation casinos to state run lotteries, every day there are millions who feel the rush. “Just maybe...”
The slots smile on us. By the time we feel we need to head home we have parlayed our $2.00 into $5.00. We take a breather, have a discussion, and make a decision.
We’ll take two dollars of our gain (2 neat rolls of nickels) and secure them in the glove compartment of our car. Then we’ll take our $3.00 worth of winnings and hit the slots again. If we can just win $2.00 more we’ll have enough for a motel room. We’ll spend the night in Reno and head home the next day -just like the high rollers.
Twenty minutes later Jane and I are pulling out of our parking slot, heading back over Donner Pass on the way home for a very late dinner.
Fifty-nine years later I still feel the rush. So close! I’m not alone. From Las Vegas to Atlantic City to Mississippi River boats to Indian reservation casinos to state run lotteries, every day there are millions who feel the rush. “Just maybe...”
Prejudice and Pride
The year is 1961. I’m on a “missionary-on-furlough” lecture tour in the Deep South. My primary target: black Lutheran churches in Mississippi and Alabama.
Even though I grew up immersed in the racism and prejudice of central Texas, I am struck again by the racial arrogance of the whites, color segregated schools, restaurants, water fountains, motels, churches. When my black driver picks me up from the airport in Birmingham to take me to a black church he asks me to sit in the back seat. I refuse, “You’re my brother, not my chauffeur!”
I get in the front seat next to him. At the first stop light the white in the car in the lane on our right at us and cuts us off. We narrowly avoid colliding with his vehicle.
In Montgomery the white taxi driver almost refuses to take me to a black church. He’s both afraid and very skeptical of my intentions. He’s suspicious of outside agitators who go to black churches.
I grieve at the facilities and resources in our black Lutheran schools. I can hardly believe the diet at the Lutheran college dining room. I bask in reverent awe as I sit together on her front porch swing listening to a black saint, Rosa Young. She tells me about her unflagging ministry through black schools and churches.
After Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., the Civil Rights Act, Brown vs Board of Education, elimination of the poll tax, no more water fountains, busses or restaurants designated “For Colored Only”, surely the 1960’s or at worst the 70’s would see the end of segregation and racial prejudice in the USA.
It’s a Sunday evening, 1999. We are sitting in liberal California, enjoying a dazzling sunset over the multi-hued Pacific, enjoying a glass of crisp California Chardonnay.
Our guest, a teacher in a nearby public high school speaks. He tells us of a story nowhere reported in the local press. One of his students, Roxanne, has committed suicide. She, the only black in her class, was hounded to death by racial slurs spoken to her, written in her books, scrawled on the blackboard. She was shunned, spit at, known only as that damned n________. It went on for three months. Our guest had tried to be a friend and counselor. He sought assistance. The community claimed he must be a communist. A promising young woman is dead.
I hang my head in shame for my own failures at not more intentionally confronting racism. I feel anger at any system, which still claims some sort of superiority by virtue of a white skin. Once more I examine my own heart. I image the face of a Creator God with tears streaming from his eyes, watching us humans still failing to see that we are all of one blood, all of us sisters and brothers.
Even though I grew up immersed in the racism and prejudice of central Texas, I am struck again by the racial arrogance of the whites, color segregated schools, restaurants, water fountains, motels, churches. When my black driver picks me up from the airport in Birmingham to take me to a black church he asks me to sit in the back seat. I refuse, “You’re my brother, not my chauffeur!”
I get in the front seat next to him. At the first stop light the white in the car in the lane on our right at us and cuts us off. We narrowly avoid colliding with his vehicle.
In Montgomery the white taxi driver almost refuses to take me to a black church. He’s both afraid and very skeptical of my intentions. He’s suspicious of outside agitators who go to black churches.
I grieve at the facilities and resources in our black Lutheran schools. I can hardly believe the diet at the Lutheran college dining room. I bask in reverent awe as I sit together on her front porch swing listening to a black saint, Rosa Young. She tells me about her unflagging ministry through black schools and churches.
After Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., the Civil Rights Act, Brown vs Board of Education, elimination of the poll tax, no more water fountains, busses or restaurants designated “For Colored Only”, surely the 1960’s or at worst the 70’s would see the end of segregation and racial prejudice in the USA.
It’s a Sunday evening, 1999. We are sitting in liberal California, enjoying a dazzling sunset over the multi-hued Pacific, enjoying a glass of crisp California Chardonnay.
Our guest, a teacher in a nearby public high school speaks. He tells us of a story nowhere reported in the local press. One of his students, Roxanne, has committed suicide. She, the only black in her class, was hounded to death by racial slurs spoken to her, written in her books, scrawled on the blackboard. She was shunned, spit at, known only as that damned n________. It went on for three months. Our guest had tried to be a friend and counselor. He sought assistance. The community claimed he must be a communist. A promising young woman is dead.
I hang my head in shame for my own failures at not more intentionally confronting racism. I feel anger at any system, which still claims some sort of superiority by virtue of a white skin. Once more I examine my own heart. I image the face of a Creator God with tears streaming from his eyes, watching us humans still failing to see that we are all of one blood, all of us sisters and brothers.
Golfing Partner
When we lived in Hong Kong during the l950-and 60’s we did not have many vacation options. US law prohibited travel to the China mainland. Financial limitations precluded travel abroad. So once in a great while I would take a day off by playing golf and then spending the night at the Royal Hong Kong Golf Club.
I was there alone on one occasion when the starter asked me if I wanted a partner for the afternoon round. Of course, I did. The guy was good. I noticed immediately that he had a very good swing and played at very near par. He was not very talkative and I had learned that British protocol precluded me from prying. He did tell me that he was a Scotsman that he had just come from India and was on his way to the USA.
After the golf round we agreed to share a drink and dinner. He ordered “whisky”. In Hong Kong, of course, that meant scotch served neat. I ordered bourbon. He asked, “What is that?” I explained. He stuck up his nose at the thought, especially when I asked for it over the rocks. However when I also asked for a Seven-up mixer, he told me that was almost more than his stomach could handle but in a good-natured way we had our drinks and dinner.
Then he asked me if I would be around the next day and if I would care to play with him. He said that he was playing with the Captain of the Club.
I was surprised at his good connection but felt pleased to accept the offer. I asked him if he knew the Club Captain.
“Not really”, he said. “But you see he is playing with me because I am on my way to the USA to represent my country in an international competition. It is called The Eisenhower Cup.
I was there alone on one occasion when the starter asked me if I wanted a partner for the afternoon round. Of course, I did. The guy was good. I noticed immediately that he had a very good swing and played at very near par. He was not very talkative and I had learned that British protocol precluded me from prying. He did tell me that he was a Scotsman that he had just come from India and was on his way to the USA.
After the golf round we agreed to share a drink and dinner. He ordered “whisky”. In Hong Kong, of course, that meant scotch served neat. I ordered bourbon. He asked, “What is that?” I explained. He stuck up his nose at the thought, especially when I asked for it over the rocks. However when I also asked for a Seven-up mixer, he told me that was almost more than his stomach could handle but in a good-natured way we had our drinks and dinner.
Then he asked me if I would be around the next day and if I would care to play with him. He said that he was playing with the Captain of the Club.
I was surprised at his good connection but felt pleased to accept the offer. I asked him if he knew the Club Captain.
“Not really”, he said. “But you see he is playing with me because I am on my way to the USA to represent my country in an international competition. It is called The Eisenhower Cup.
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