It’s Christmas Eve, 1961. At midnight I sit next to my 10-month-old daughter, Betty. She’s in a hospital bed in the intensive care unit of Lutheran Hospital Ft. Wayne, Indiana. She is fighting for her life, threatened by pneumonia and a serious staph infection. In spite of oxygen tents, respirators and I don’t know what other catheters, plug-ins and tubes, she can hardly breathe. It breaks my heart to see and hear her struggle for every breath. Worst of all is when she tries to cough, tries to get mucus out of her overburdened lungs. With each cough she grows weaker. The nurse had told me that if Betty survived until midnight then she would probably live. So I have prayed. I have meditated on another Child at Christmas midnight. I have tried to trust the goodness of God. I cannot stop my tears as another forced cough shakes her little body.
Is there any more agonizing experience for a parent than seeing one’s child hurt or sick or dying? Is there any greater challenge to one’s perception of how things ought to be than to see or to fear that one’s child will precede one in death?
It was not time for Betty to die. She not only survived, but has thrived. Even today as a mother and a clinical psychologist she has a special bond and care for little ones.
And her father has never again experienced Christmas Eve without thanking God for the gift of the Child and of His child, Betty/Lyzse/Elizabeth.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Death
Death is a natural part of the human experience. From my earliest memory I was taught to not fear death. It was always assumed that children were present for the funeral and burial rituals. In the rural part of Texas in which I grew up we went to the home of persons who had died and often “viewed the body” laid out in a casket in the parlor of the home where the deceased had lived.
During grade school years all of us students in the Lutheran school attended all funeral services in the church situated next to the school. At the close of the service we would all walk by and look into the coffin. My father tolled the church bell as the coffin was moved from the church to the nearby cemetery. The church-owned “teacherage’ in which we lived adjoined the cemetery. Death was not a stranger.
But dying was. It was not until years later that I was physically present when a person died. By then I was in Hong Kong. A student from the school of which I was principal was involved in a traffic accident. I was called to the emergency room. In those days medical services in Hong Kong simply could not cope with all the challenges of a refugee swollen population. I found the student unattended, lying on a stretcher on the floor, bleeding profusely. I grabbed a medical staff person and pleaded for assistance. I was told, “Can’t you see? He’s been fatally injured. There’s nothing we can do for him. He will soon be dead.” I knelt next to him, held his hand, prayed, and felt him die.
There were other death experiences. The aged Lutheran gentleman from America was finally released from house arrest in China by Mao Tze Tung and allowed into Hong Kong. He was frail, weak, unable to stay alive. So I stood by the side of his hospi8tal bed. Since he spoke German we prayed the Lord’s Prayer in German - and then he died - with his aged wife virtually the only one who knew him.
I immediately took the grieving widow to our house where she sobbed inconsolably and went to sleep only when my wife took her into bed with her.
Then I went to the casket-making street in Hong Kong, negotiated a casket, found a grave site and hired 4 coolies to carry the coffin up a hill to an open grave. Halfway up the hill the bearers set the coffin down. They refused to carry it further up the hill until I paid them an extra stipend. Then we laid Mr. Henkel in the grave, conducted the interment liturgy and made our way slowly back down the hill.
Since then I have been present for peaceful deaths, the quiet death of a still-born and the lingering death of those ill with cancer.
So I see death as one step in the God-given journey of each human. Because of the death and resurrection of Christ, I think I am moving to my own death completely unafraid.
During grade school years all of us students in the Lutheran school attended all funeral services in the church situated next to the school. At the close of the service we would all walk by and look into the coffin. My father tolled the church bell as the coffin was moved from the church to the nearby cemetery. The church-owned “teacherage’ in which we lived adjoined the cemetery. Death was not a stranger.
But dying was. It was not until years later that I was physically present when a person died. By then I was in Hong Kong. A student from the school of which I was principal was involved in a traffic accident. I was called to the emergency room. In those days medical services in Hong Kong simply could not cope with all the challenges of a refugee swollen population. I found the student unattended, lying on a stretcher on the floor, bleeding profusely. I grabbed a medical staff person and pleaded for assistance. I was told, “Can’t you see? He’s been fatally injured. There’s nothing we can do for him. He will soon be dead.” I knelt next to him, held his hand, prayed, and felt him die.
There were other death experiences. The aged Lutheran gentleman from America was finally released from house arrest in China by Mao Tze Tung and allowed into Hong Kong. He was frail, weak, unable to stay alive. So I stood by the side of his hospi8tal bed. Since he spoke German we prayed the Lord’s Prayer in German - and then he died - with his aged wife virtually the only one who knew him.
I immediately took the grieving widow to our house where she sobbed inconsolably and went to sleep only when my wife took her into bed with her.
Then I went to the casket-making street in Hong Kong, negotiated a casket, found a grave site and hired 4 coolies to carry the coffin up a hill to an open grave. Halfway up the hill the bearers set the coffin down. They refused to carry it further up the hill until I paid them an extra stipend. Then we laid Mr. Henkel in the grave, conducted the interment liturgy and made our way slowly back down the hill.
Since then I have been present for peaceful deaths, the quiet death of a still-born and the lingering death of those ill with cancer.
So I see death as one step in the God-given journey of each human. Because of the death and resurrection of Christ, I think I am moving to my own death completely unafraid.
Herb
Tomorrow the “mortal remains” of Herb Brokering will be laid to rest. But this I know, neither he nor his “remains” will ever be completely at rest. Herb will continue to inspire, evoke a shake of the head, create a smile and stir a tug at my heart.
Herb was dubbed the “Leonardo DaVinci of the Prairies”. So when we see him identified as pastor, professor, or staff associate of Wheat Ridge we know that those titles don’t get close to describing him. When we recall him as poet, hymn writer, author, lyricist, “master of free association” or creative provocateur then we come closer.
Many others are writing official obituaries and well-deserved paeans of praise. For me it all becomes personal.
The first time I met him he had all of us writing poetry. When I told him that my teen-aged daughter was a better poet than I he encouraged me, but also insisted that I take to my daughter a poem he had written along with his encouragement for her to continue to write poetry.
Once when he was at my church with our very creative musician Stan Beard and they were doing a presentation together, Herb looked at Stan and said to him, “Play something orange!” Stan did and the two of them were off where previously only angels had made music and musings.
When we were in India together (running hours and hours behind schedule because Herb kept finding more immediate signs of God), he left behind those of us looking for traditional souvenirs. He went to the open-air clothes market. There he bought baby socks. He took them to the States and gave them to infants as a sign that all the babies of the world share a need for warm toes and hopes for a wonderful life.
When he and I were to have a planning session at a hotel 30 miles from Chicago he excused himself. The front desk had called and said someone whom he had never met before was looking for him. The young man had alcohol and other drug problems. Someone somewhere in Chicago had told him to find Herb. He did, came to the hotel and Herb lifted the man’s vision – and then most likely never heard from him again.
Just weeks before he died he telephoned me. We have a mutual friend about whom Herb was concerned. Herb said, “Mel, call him. He needs some advice and encouragement from you. So just call him and talk to him.”
So I muse with Herb as he writes “Cat Psalms” or “Dog Psalms”, or “Earth and All Stars” or “Thine the Amen” and I hope that with his unmatched vision to see what others cannot see, Herb is smiling and telling me to get ready for just one more surprise.
Herb was dubbed the “Leonardo DaVinci of the Prairies”. So when we see him identified as pastor, professor, or staff associate of Wheat Ridge we know that those titles don’t get close to describing him. When we recall him as poet, hymn writer, author, lyricist, “master of free association” or creative provocateur then we come closer.
Many others are writing official obituaries and well-deserved paeans of praise. For me it all becomes personal.
The first time I met him he had all of us writing poetry. When I told him that my teen-aged daughter was a better poet than I he encouraged me, but also insisted that I take to my daughter a poem he had written along with his encouragement for her to continue to write poetry.
Once when he was at my church with our very creative musician Stan Beard and they were doing a presentation together, Herb looked at Stan and said to him, “Play something orange!” Stan did and the two of them were off where previously only angels had made music and musings.
When we were in India together (running hours and hours behind schedule because Herb kept finding more immediate signs of God), he left behind those of us looking for traditional souvenirs. He went to the open-air clothes market. There he bought baby socks. He took them to the States and gave them to infants as a sign that all the babies of the world share a need for warm toes and hopes for a wonderful life.
When he and I were to have a planning session at a hotel 30 miles from Chicago he excused himself. The front desk had called and said someone whom he had never met before was looking for him. The young man had alcohol and other drug problems. Someone somewhere in Chicago had told him to find Herb. He did, came to the hotel and Herb lifted the man’s vision – and then most likely never heard from him again.
Just weeks before he died he telephoned me. We have a mutual friend about whom Herb was concerned. Herb said, “Mel, call him. He needs some advice and encouragement from you. So just call him and talk to him.”
So I muse with Herb as he writes “Cat Psalms” or “Dog Psalms”, or “Earth and All Stars” or “Thine the Amen” and I hope that with his unmatched vision to see what others cannot see, Herb is smiling and telling me to get ready for just one more surprise.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Five Far Apart Thoughts
Usually I try to focus on only one thought or experience per blog posting. I have just had a very interesting 5 days which brought up 5 different reflections. So here goes.
1. Really big bucks. I attended a Board meeting of the Van Lunen Fellows Program. We provide executive management skills for administrators of faith-based schools. We get our fiscal resources from the Van Lunen Foundation. When Mr. Van Lunen died about 4 years ago he left behind a trust, a group of 4 trustees, some money and the simple instructions, “Do something good with this money.” The surprise: the money he was speaking of came to approximately $100 million. What “good” does someone do when suddenly having available $100 million?
2. What’s a university for? I also attended a conference of university professors. The focus was on teaching practices at the university level. The keynoter challenged us with the proposition that the sole function of a university professor is for the experience to teach the students to think. Is that correct? Does the university professor want the students only to think or does s/he have in mind a particular way in which they should think? Does the professor care about what conclusions the students reach from their thinking? Does it make any difference if the university is secular or church related?
3. Vices and Virtues. One of the outstanding lectures was on teaching students to reflect upon the 7 vices and their counterpart 7 virtues. The vices, defined as habits or character traits, are envy, vainglory, sloth, avarice, gluttony and lust. The virtues, defined as excellences of characters, habits or disposition, are faith, hope, love, wisdom, justice, courage and temperance. So, what vice do I still have embedded in my character? What virtue do I feel I possess and which am I still seeking? (Note: I decided to try to help me answer that question by teaching an eight session course on the topic at my church.)
4. The limits of humor. On the plane I read Garrison Keillor’s newest book, Pilgrims. I decided that I did not like it. I thought that the author had lost any sense of sympathy for his characters and was just enjoying poking fun at their sincere eccentricities Am I fair? Does a writer need to have sympathy for the characters in his novel or does s/he just describe them and hopefully produce a few understanding chuckles?
5. Nobody knows me. To balance Garrison Keillor a bit I was reading the diary of the great Danish philosopher/theologian Soren Kierkegaaard. While still a young man he wrote this: “How awful it would be on Judgment Day when all souls return to life again … then to stand completely alone, alone and unknown to all.” Does this have anything to do with my decision to write a blog?
1. Really big bucks. I attended a Board meeting of the Van Lunen Fellows Program. We provide executive management skills for administrators of faith-based schools. We get our fiscal resources from the Van Lunen Foundation. When Mr. Van Lunen died about 4 years ago he left behind a trust, a group of 4 trustees, some money and the simple instructions, “Do something good with this money.” The surprise: the money he was speaking of came to approximately $100 million. What “good” does someone do when suddenly having available $100 million?
2. What’s a university for? I also attended a conference of university professors. The focus was on teaching practices at the university level. The keynoter challenged us with the proposition that the sole function of a university professor is for the experience to teach the students to think. Is that correct? Does the university professor want the students only to think or does s/he have in mind a particular way in which they should think? Does the professor care about what conclusions the students reach from their thinking? Does it make any difference if the university is secular or church related?
3. Vices and Virtues. One of the outstanding lectures was on teaching students to reflect upon the 7 vices and their counterpart 7 virtues. The vices, defined as habits or character traits, are envy, vainglory, sloth, avarice, gluttony and lust. The virtues, defined as excellences of characters, habits or disposition, are faith, hope, love, wisdom, justice, courage and temperance. So, what vice do I still have embedded in my character? What virtue do I feel I possess and which am I still seeking? (Note: I decided to try to help me answer that question by teaching an eight session course on the topic at my church.)
4. The limits of humor. On the plane I read Garrison Keillor’s newest book, Pilgrims. I decided that I did not like it. I thought that the author had lost any sense of sympathy for his characters and was just enjoying poking fun at their sincere eccentricities Am I fair? Does a writer need to have sympathy for the characters in his novel or does s/he just describe them and hopefully produce a few understanding chuckles?
5. Nobody knows me. To balance Garrison Keillor a bit I was reading the diary of the great Danish philosopher/theologian Soren Kierkegaaard. While still a young man he wrote this: “How awful it would be on Judgment Day when all souls return to life again … then to stand completely alone, alone and unknown to all.” Does this have anything to do with my decision to write a blog?
Bravado
Earl was a dominating presence. Well over six feet tall with broad shoulders, taut muscles and aggressive tenacity he controlled the lanes of the basketball court. He and I were both in our early twenties with lots of stamina. Our team was sponsored by D & W Billiards Parlor from the wrong side of the tracks in Tracy, California. We took on all comers from the local city league or neighboring small towns and even from Stockton, the county seat.
I don’t quite remember how I got to be asked to play with that particular team. After all, I was the supposedly pious principal of the small Lutheran elementary school and my teammates were not likely to often find themselves in my or any other church.
Earl stood out and sounded out. His oaths were articulate. Highly descriptive threats intimidated many. His after-game relaxation fit right in. Beer was guzzled. Tales of female conquests were recalled. When we drove to some urban sites for games in certain parts of town Earl enjoyed calling the street walking prostitutes by name and telling of their particular skills.
After playing for the Tracy D & W Billiards team for three years I ended my career with them by missing an easy lay-up that would have won the game. A few months later (unconnected with my missed lay-up) I accepted a call to serve in another church and school 500 miles away. A few years after that I was even further away, in Hong Kong, serving as a missionary.
I was stunned the day a letter arrived from Tracy, California, from Earl. In it he recalled our time together. He informed me that his business was doing well. He told me he was a changed man. Christ had entered his life. He had cleaned up his act. He was happily married, the father of two and determined to raise them up properly. He wrote that he thought I might like to know that. So he went to no small pains to get my mailing address. He just wanted to wish me blessings and express the hope that Hong Kong still provided an opportunity for me to shoot a few baskets.
I don’t quite remember how I got to be asked to play with that particular team. After all, I was the supposedly pious principal of the small Lutheran elementary school and my teammates were not likely to often find themselves in my or any other church.
Earl stood out and sounded out. His oaths were articulate. Highly descriptive threats intimidated many. His after-game relaxation fit right in. Beer was guzzled. Tales of female conquests were recalled. When we drove to some urban sites for games in certain parts of town Earl enjoyed calling the street walking prostitutes by name and telling of their particular skills.
After playing for the Tracy D & W Billiards team for three years I ended my career with them by missing an easy lay-up that would have won the game. A few months later (unconnected with my missed lay-up) I accepted a call to serve in another church and school 500 miles away. A few years after that I was even further away, in Hong Kong, serving as a missionary.
I was stunned the day a letter arrived from Tracy, California, from Earl. In it he recalled our time together. He informed me that his business was doing well. He told me he was a changed man. Christ had entered his life. He had cleaned up his act. He was happily married, the father of two and determined to raise them up properly. He wrote that he thought I might like to know that. So he went to no small pains to get my mailing address. He just wanted to wish me blessings and express the hope that Hong Kong still provided an opportunity for me to shoot a few baskets.
Arabs
Arabs. I thought I knew about Arabs. They lived in the desert. They owned camels. They were the descendants of Ishmael. They were Muslims. I was pretty sure about all this until I went to Beirut in 1968.
My objective was to meet with American missionaries there to discuss education opportunities. They were hospitable: a lunch of 30 small dishes of Lebanese delicacies. They were helpful: tour and contacts at the American University of Lebanon. Then they threw me a curve. For the rest of my trip they assigned me to a local guide; an Arab in a business suit; an Arab who was a university graduate, lived in an apartment and drove a car; an Arab who was a devout Christian; an Arab who was very gentle with his arrogant and ignorant guest.
He taught me about the cedars of Lebanon and the many different ethnic, cultural and religious groups who have walked under those majestic trees. He took me to Tyre and Sidon, recalling for me the history of Phoenicians. He took me to where Jesus walked. He showed me the remaining Crusader Forts built by Christians who had come to annihilate non-believing Arab Muslims who were called infidels. He showed me the massive military build-up by Israel which he correctly predicted would be used to invade his country.
He spoke with no bitterness or animosity. There was no condescension toward my American inspired pro-Israeli bias. He just shared his experiences, his fears, his hopes, his faith.
Now 50 years later I need to remember him as post 9/11 images and rhetoric would ask me to forget or ignore what I experienced in those few days and what I learned from my Arab brother. Arabs, like all ethnic groups, come with a variety of values, beliefs, aspirations. Some of these points of view I despise – others I share.
My objective was to meet with American missionaries there to discuss education opportunities. They were hospitable: a lunch of 30 small dishes of Lebanese delicacies. They were helpful: tour and contacts at the American University of Lebanon. Then they threw me a curve. For the rest of my trip they assigned me to a local guide; an Arab in a business suit; an Arab who was a university graduate, lived in an apartment and drove a car; an Arab who was a devout Christian; an Arab who was very gentle with his arrogant and ignorant guest.
He taught me about the cedars of Lebanon and the many different ethnic, cultural and religious groups who have walked under those majestic trees. He took me to Tyre and Sidon, recalling for me the history of Phoenicians. He took me to where Jesus walked. He showed me the remaining Crusader Forts built by Christians who had come to annihilate non-believing Arab Muslims who were called infidels. He showed me the massive military build-up by Israel which he correctly predicted would be used to invade his country.
He spoke with no bitterness or animosity. There was no condescension toward my American inspired pro-Israeli bias. He just shared his experiences, his fears, his hopes, his faith.
Now 50 years later I need to remember him as post 9/11 images and rhetoric would ask me to forget or ignore what I experienced in those few days and what I learned from my Arab brother. Arabs, like all ethnic groups, come with a variety of values, beliefs, aspirations. Some of these points of view I despise – others I share.
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