Christmas Memories: Childhood

My memories of Christmas in my childhood are all positive. This is amazing. I grew up during the Great Depression and my family had very limited financial resources. I am one of nine children and so there must have been illnesses. Early on I believed in Santa Claus and so some disappointment must have accompanied that. But all of those negatives have been erased.

The anticipation of Christmas still stirs my heart. On December 10 we were allowed to “hang stockings”. And we did. They were those long ugly woolen grey things we hated to wear. But always on December 10 (my birthday) there would be something in that stocking; maybe an orange or a pencil. It was great discovering them.

We had a German song we sang counting off the days. The literal translation of the title is “Tomorrow Something Will Happen”. The key line (which rhymed in German) was “Once more must we awake; then it will be Christmas Day”. We changed the words to, for example, “ten more days must we awake” and we counted down the days.

About two weeks before Christmas I had to leave my precious (and usually rusted and in poor state of repair) little tricycle out over night. During the night the birds would come and whisk away my trike. It was taken to Santa who happened to be my Uncle Walter who ran a blacksmith shop that doubled as Santa’s workroom where trikes got repairs and repainted, always in red!

I attended a Lutheran parochial school and we were responsible for the Christmas Eve Church Service. It was as far from today’s Disney-like productions one finds in many churches. It was utterly simple and maybe simplistic. No costumes, magi gifts or manger scenes. The teacher would ask a question e.g. “Which high feast are we celebrating in these days?” The answers were all assigned ahead of time. And the previously designated student would be called up to give the answer “The high festival of the birth of the Christ Child” and thus the Christmas Eve catechism went on for about 75 questions and answers. In between, some of the students would march to the front of the church and recite a little poem. This was followed by the entire classroom singing a traditional Christmas carol. (Throughout my eight years of elementary school this program was always conducted in German.)

It was tough to keep our focus on our assignments. Distractions were everywhere: We were wearing our new Christmas clothes, carefully sewn by our mother. To our left stood a massive cedar Christmas tree. In the early years an usher was positioned nearby with a wet rag on the end of a stick to douse any flames that might erupt dangerously from all the wax candles which lit the entire tree. And our eyes could simply not be diverted from glancing at what was piled under the tree. Under that big tree were arranged piles of plain brown grocery bags, one for each child! The bags held dreamed-for treasures: a fresh orange; several walnuts, some loose peppermint-like Christmas candies, and chewing gum (if it was a bit better year there might be a full package of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit gum in each bag. In leaner years there was only one stick.) We pondered for days as to just when we would chew that rare gum.

The Christmas Eve Service was always early enough to allow families to go home, open their gifts, enjoy them, and return for early worship services on Christmas Day. At my home everything was according to ritual. For days we had not been allowed into my dad’s study where Santa would decorate the tree and bring gifts. When it was time to enter we lined up outside the door, eventually all nine of us kids, always by age, from the youngest to the eldest. The tree was full of fake icicles, homemade decorations and lights. The gifts were opened in reverse birth order and for at least 3 consecutive years Santa had brought me my incomparable trike all decked out in new paint.

Christmas Eve celebration continued at my Grandmother’s house. I have no memory of any gifts being involved. I do remember the food, fresh pork sausage and ham, homemade candy and cookies everywhere, freshly made eggnog with gallons of whipping cream, in enormous punch bowls (duly spiked with bourbon.) To the side was a smaller bowl without the alcohol for some delicate women and little children - and to the best of my memory no one ever monitored who drank from which bowl.

Then came a Christmas tradition apparently unique to Texas, the fireworks. We shot firecrackers, and rockets, roman candles and sparklers. Once a group of cousins of mine got very brave. They “borrowed “ a couple of massive anvils from local blacksmith shops. Filled a cavity in one of them with powder extracted from other fireworks, placed a fuse appropriately, positioned one anvil on top of the other, lit the fuse and produced the loudest Christmas Eve blast ever acknowledged in all of Williamson County, Texas.

Finally home to bed so we could get up very shortly to head for Christmas Day Worship services - and for the special dinner to follow!

Memory Loss

I just had my 83rd birthday. I am grateful for overall good health. Of course, I notice a diminution of some skills: my golf drives are much shorter; my body strength is less, my libido diminished. But overall I think, and my Dr. confirms, that I am doing well. However, one aspect of ageing that is becoming more apparent is memory loss. I have decided to document and share my history. My goal is to (if I can remember) each year after my birthday post a blog on “Memory Loss”; so here goes.

The first evidence of my memory loss had to do with the inability to recall numbers. I found that I have great difficulty, for example, remembering house numbers. Another disturbing symptom: remembering specific places not having to do with numbers. Just this morning I went shopping with my wife and agreed that after an hour we would meet at a specific location in the mall. An hour later I was waiting for her at the wrong place. I experienced a different kind of embarrassment with my Christmas letter. In writing of my son’s health situation I wrote that our son had a routine “autopsy” when I meant “biopsy”. After that was called to my attention I made correction to the next batch of letters and then promptly forgot to make the change in the next batch. (This resulted in son David having to post a message on Facebook that his father’s announcement regarding his son’s death was premature.

It is interesting to reflect on areas where memory seems to have remained the same. Crossword puzzles are no more difficult than ten years ago-even when the clues require significant memory. I find I can still deliver a speech of 15 minutes or more without consulting my notes. Class lectures seem not to be affected. I am not finding it necessary to reread articles or sections of books.

So I am wondering what brain specialists would tell me. Are some synapses being disconnected? Do brain cells die or is plaque being formed? How much is it a matter of attention or focus? Consciousness and self-awareness are just a couple of the characteristics that define us as humans and so also, losing some bits of memory are defining who I am at this stage in my life. And how I cope with it will be a part of that continuing definition of self.

DMV

I wonder if there is any state in which the DMV (Dept of Motor Vehicles) is considered a paragon of efficiency and courtesy. The DMV in California is famous for the effort required to utilize its services, which are essential for anyone desiring to operate a motor vehicle in this state. I just had my once every five years opportunity to enjoy this service.

The truth is: it wasn’t too bad. I was told that it really doesn’t save much time to get an advance appointment. So I just showed up, navigated the system and in less than 2 hours was on my way home set for five more years, pondering if at age 88 (five years from now) I will be around to get another five year extension.

While waiting for my number to be called I decided to take a good look at my fellow seekers. Here is what I saw: The room was full of people of all ages. Just to my left an infant only a few weeks old was nursing at its very young mother’s breast. The mother was completely unselfconscious and was obviously just doing what comes naturally with no attempt at what someone else might call modesty. . The mother had simply pulled down her blouse, fully exposing herself and invited the child to get nourished.

At the other end of the age spectrum I watched with some trepidation as a gentleman (obviously older than I) tried with difficulty to navigate the system. His solicitous wife told him when his number was called, stood next to him as he gave personal info, wrote out the payment check, escorted him to the photo department, literally ed him by the arm to the written examination section, stepped back when asked to do so by an attendant and then waited while he (apparently) met all necessary requirements to drive the streets and freeways of this state for another five years. I tried not to shiver in anticipation.

I tried to assess the percentages of the various ethnic languages, skin color, native country groups. Didn’t find many who shared my Germanic background, but saw many of Hispanic origin, surprisingly few blacks, only one who seemed Arabic, Chinese, Indian, and either Korean or Japanese.
I soon observed that people do not dress up to go to the DMV. I saw not even one woman in a dress. The one gentleman wearing a tie seemed to be a supervising employee. Footwear ranged from heavy-duty work boots to flip flops, to furry high-tops, to sandals to high-heeled shoes that seemed very fancy under well-worn jeans.

Activities to take up time while waiting for one’s number to be called were as varied as the clothes. Some were obviously doing school homework. One read a mystery. Dozens were on cell phones, pods, blackberries et sim. One gentleman was engaged in conversation loud enough for us all to hear whether we were interested or not. I got interested and learned that he was disappointed that a bit of the tattoo ink which seemed to cover all available body parts was beginning to fade in places. He was a committed lover of women with no intention for matrimony. This was a pretty good day to be at the DMV as the surf wasn’t very high this morning anyway.

Meanwhile my sub-conscious was creating its own scenarios. Maybe my mind really was slipping and I would fail the written test, forgetting those numbers for unacceptable alcohol blood levels, or how may days in which to report a change of address, sale of car, or to report an accident when the driver of the other car isn’t around…and how many feet does it take for a car to stop if it is traveling 55 miles an hour. Then I wondered if my new glasses would really enable me to read Line 4. Naturally it all went as smooth as the gentlest skid on ice. The first representative used to deliver the newspaper to where I now live, the photographer had personal comments, and the test giver recommended I post my 100% test results on my refrigerator. And I was on my way home with all due and proper permission to navigate the lanes, streets and freeways of California for another five years with the full permission of the California DMV.

Spare the Rod

One need not be a Bible scholar to complete the above sentence by adding the words: “and spoil the child.” Further, my experience is that almost 100% of the people who quote this verse believe it advocates parents spanking their children. I used to believe that too. But not anymore.

My parents believed in spanking. I am sure my dad spanked me; yet I cannot recall any specific time that he did so. I do recall my mom spanking me (and at the same time three or four of my siblings). We were under strict instructions from her to have the dishes washed and the kitchen cleaned by the time she returned from using the “outhouse”. We had done neither, but were having a great water fight. She spanked us all (and a couple of us twice) when we just kept being silly.

The other spanking was dramatic. When I “misbehaved” in a front pew in church, mother picked me up. She carried me near the church wall where my shoes banged on each wainscot board as we exited. The spanking outside and my loud yelping were heard by all.

Earlier this week I asked my now 57-year old son if he remembered me spanking him. He remembered in some detail. I know I also spanked our number 2 son – and I am sure that I never spanked any of our other 3 children. In my first year of teaching, in frustration I spanked an energetic second grader. I now deeply regret that. I suspect he had attention deficit disorder. I didn’t help – and now I wonder if and how Billy Joe recalls with bitterness his second grade teacher.

I now believe that parents spank out of ignorance of better parenting patterns. And I question whether that Bible verse about sparing the rod even talks about spanking. In the 70’s and 80’s I was the Director of the internationally acclaimed Parent Effectiveness Training (P.E.T.) which gave parents alternatives to corporal punishment. P.E.T. was so broadly understood that James Dobson of Focus on the Family fame devoted an entire chapter in one of his books warning against P.E.T. and especially the P.E.T. idea that parents did not have to spank and yet could still raise responsible children.

My memory is (but I could not find a record of it) that I debated him on this topic at a public forum. I do recall conducting a word study on the Biblical use of the term rod. I noticed that Psalm 23 asserts, “Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” More and more I saw “the rod” as an instrument for pointing the way; as a guide to green pastures and gently flowing streams. I saw my role as a father to be that of guide, model, teacher, and pointer. So now I try to never spare the rod inappropriately. I make very sure never to use it to hit anyone, especially a precious young child. My children share this conviction of mine and none of my eight grandchildren is spoiled.

Speaking Fees

I enjoyed (Is that the right word?) reading the latest report compiled by NEWWEEK on (among other things) the speaking fees earned by those it labeled “pundits and politicos”. Among its listings: Rudy Guiliani – more than $8million a year, Glen Beck - $3 million, Bill Clinton - $200,000 a year, Sarah Palin - $100,000 per speech. The article chose to not even guess at the appropriate figures for Rush Limbough or Sean Hannity.

All of this got me to reflecting. “Hey, I’ve given lots of speeches. How did I do?” I must admit that in all the courses I ever took at school to become a “duly certified teaching minister” of the church, the topic of appropriate speaking fees never once got a minute of attention.

I now regret that in my early years as I invited guest speakers (or spoke at one myself) at graduations, conferences, parent-teacher assemblies, I never once recall paying anyone a speaking fee.

That changed a bit in the early 60’s. I was home on leave from Hong Kong where I served as an education missionary. I was expected to and happily did travel all over the country giving talks, especially slide lecture presentations on the Lutheran Church’s work there in Hong Kong. It was expected that the hosts would provide room and board – and anything above that went to support our work. That was a joy. I used the generated gifts and fees to support school tuition for poor students in Hong Kong. Those investments paid very rich blessings for those students, the church, and the world.

Two other minor incidents around missionary speaking fees do now cause me to smile. One night a very gracious “little old woman” announced to me that she was grateful for my work and presentation and wanted to give me a personal token of appreciation. Before I had a chance to protest she slipped it to me: a nice package of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit gum.

On another occasion the pastor of the group I was addressing asked me to make an appeal for the Mission Fund of our denomination as the congregation had fallen behind in its pledge. I did my best and protested when a woman insisted she give me her gift personally and directly. She insisted and pressed into my hand a crisp one-dollar bill!

Years later, in the late 60’s and 70’s, I worked for a district/synod of the church. It was official policy that we were allowed to receive (as extra personal income) any honorarium or speaking fees offered us. That resulted in a couple of incidents my colleagues Ron and Don and I recall to this day. Ron received as an honorarium a watermelon, which he brought home on his lap as he flew home. Don hit the jackpot the day his “fee” came in the form of 2 heads of freshly picked cabbages.

That makes it understandable why I once telephoned a church officer to report that a mistake must have been made in my honorarium. I couldn’t believe I was being paid $75 for just one morning of preaching and speaking.

Believe me, I report all of this above without anger, bitterness or resentment. The Church has treated me well. Organizations have since given me more than generous speaking fees and individual friends continue to be more giving and supporting than I deserve.

So, go ahead, Rudy, Rush, Glen, Sarah, Bill and all the rest. Enjoy the fees and what you can do with them. As for me, I’ll just smile and remember that when I once received a crisp one-dollar bill, I thoroughly enjoyed the 6-pak of beer I was able to purchase with that very special speaking fee.

Places PartV: Places to Pray

I was taught early in life that it was an important conviction of Christian teaching that one can pray anywhere, no exceptions. Early in life the places were the usual: at the dining table (always, although we used to have so many potatoes that we joked that if there were no potatoes on the table it wasn’t really a meal and therefore no table prayer was required.) I have memories of my mother teaching me to pray every night before going to sleep. The habit continues. I was once chided by a pastor after admitting that I had prayed over a four-foot putt; and I no longer do that. Even with divine guidance I missed them anyway!

Interestingly I was not taught to pray on my knees and to this day I almost never pray on my knees except at the Communion altar.

I do not really appreciate the truism that ”there are no atheists in foxholes”, but it has been my experience that great fear and anxiety do produce deep prayers. I recall more than a few of those situations: when hitchhiking and being driven by an very inebriated driver who had to take very intent aim to make it between the two sides of a narrow bridge, accompanying my wife in the plane across the Pacific while she struggled with a cerebral aneurysm, being shot at as I was fleeing Tian An Men Square in 1989.

There have been moments of extended immersion in blatant secularism that my soul ached for the non-material and the spiritual. I recall these feelings especially after a few days in Russia years ago, especially after my Leningrad guide fed me several days of official atheistic communist propaganda. It was more subtle but as palpable to spend two weeks leading workshops for secular psychologists in Germany and then finally finding my soul refreshed in prayer at the beautiful cathedral in Cologne.

Remembering the dead in thankful prayer is for me an important virtual. I love taking a candle on All Saints Day and slowly parading before God my parents and others in grateful remembrance. When I stood at the Punch Bowl War Memorial Cemetery in Hawaii I was so overcome with feelings that I was speechless. My heart remembered all those young lives. They died for my freedom as an American citizen, including my freedom to pray if I should choose to do that. I did.

Then there are moments that point to realities beyond that which can be quantified or measured by scientific definitions. I include watching our children being born and then holding each new child for the first time, or the view of the sunset across the Pacific, or a glorious bright morning sun making the freshly fallen Alpine snow glisten in all its Switzerland beauty.

There are so many times, places and situations in which my heart overflows and what flows out is prayer.

Places To Do things Part IV: Places To Have a Drink

Places to have a drink. Now that is a big and important subject. It begins at the very basic level of survival as infants feed at their mother’s breast as did I. It continues with getting pure water as we did from the well and from the windmill pumped water from the water tower. It includes the unparalleled pleasure of drinking from a special container in the 100-degree heat of a Texas cotton field.

Yet, at least in the English language, “ place to have a drink “ usually refers to a place to enjoy an alcoholic beverage or two. It is in that context that I want to reminisce a bit. For most of my childhood there were two places where my dad might have a drink: the two saloons in the two near-by towns of Walburg and Theon. Dad went there rarely and I went along even more rarely. I recall their starkness, with just a short bar and very few tables and no food being served. Two things made a deep impression on me. One was that I got to drink a strawberry soda (and it wasn’t even the time for the annual school picnic). The second was that even as kid I always sensed the respect shown my father. He was the parochial school teacher and everyone in the bar had at one time or another been his pupil; so they were conscious of serving or drinking with their “teacher”.

Since I went to a religious boarding prep school there was virtually no drinking. As we neared the age of 18 we discovered a Mexican restaurant that was not too diligent about checking age ID”s and sold Carta Blanca beer from Mexico to us on those very rare occasions someone had a birthday and the parents had sent a little money for a birthday party.

Things got more exciting and romantic once I got into college. When my Uncle Otto came into town in the loop in Chicago he invited me to his hotel “for a beer”. I will always remember that they did not ask me for an ID, and more important: Uncle Otto paid $1.00 for that beer. That was unprecedented for I had never heard of a beer costing more than 25 cents. In college I fell in love with Jane. We seldom had hard liquor for the simple reason that we had no money for it. However, on a special occasion we would find our way down to Circle Avenue in Forest Park and furtively enter Otto’s. The booths were dark and secluded. Bourbon and Seven-Up and love flowed.

In Hong Kong I learned the unequalled pleasure of a cold beer (or two) after a round of golf. My British friends drank it warm and sometimes mixed with ginger beer, but for me that cold San Miguel was ambrosia, especially at 17 cents a bottle! In Hong Kong I was also introduced to pub life at the Neptune Inn where Guinness was augmented not only with sausage and mash but also with darts!

Later in the States our annual church conventions provided a very cherished opportunity for a drink, song and fellowship. Carloads of fellows (yes, only guys) made it to a bar in downtown Ann Arbor. There we enjoyed beer but equally as much we enjoyed song, all kinds of songs from rowdy college ditties to Lutheran hymns. Everything was in beautiful harmony. In those moments theological differences and ecclesiastic policies took back seat to wonderful reverie, friendship and just plain good feelings

I also recall a time or two I really wanted a place to drink but none was available. I was working in Australia. Working very hard, in fact. I led workshops, dealt with very touchy legal issues, traveled all over, and did TV interviews. All without a drink, for my wonderful hosts from the clergy of the Uniting Australian Church did not condone the drinking of alcohol. Then came an evening when my hosts announced they would return late and I was on my own. “Perfect,” I mused. In Australia there are bars everywhere as Aussies really enjoy hoisting a few. So as soon as my hosts left I went out on foot searching for the nearest pub. Two hours later I trudged back home, having found not a single bar or establishment at which I might enjoy the first beer in a month! I survived.

Another and much sadder memory. At the Top of The World Trade Center there was a marvelous cocktail lounge named the Hors de ouverie. The MaitreDe was very professional and appreciative of tips to get the best table in the house. I loved to take visitors and especially visiting family there to sip a glass of wine and marvel at the spectacular views of New York. We all know what happened to that site and I mourn all of those consequences, the least of which is my loss of a place for a drink, and I honor the memory of all who did at one time or other stopped in there and found a wonderful place for a drink.

Now, I know of the potential evils of drink. I have seen the devastating effects of alcoholism. I know of its potential for ruining lives. Yet because of the pleasure it brings when used in moderation and especially with good friends I join the Psalmist in being grateful for a little wine, which gladdens the heart

One last place that has on occasion been a great place for a drink. That is when I have been on a very difficult assignment, have worked long hours, have finally finished my speeches or workshops, accomplished all my errands, cleared the hassles of airport security, gotten up-graded to first class and hear the flight attendant ask “Now sir, what can I get you to drink?” That’s when 35000 feet above sea level can be the best place of all to just have a little drink.

Places To DoThings Part III

Places to be Sick

My memories of sick people and the places to experience sickness begin with very early childhood. I was one of 9 children in my family. We had all the childhood diseases, sometimes several of us had the same malady at the same time. They included whooping cough, measles, chicken pox, mumps, red eye, and scarletina. Accidents were treated at home. For sore throats or coughs we had mustard plasters for the chest and fatty bacon wrapped around the neck. Since we tended to wear shoes only for church our toes and knees and feet were often scraped and we regularly stepped on glass, nails or really tough thorns. To prevent infection we soaked the appropriate body part in kerosene and then applied a famous “black salve” which allegedly had the power to draw out both any unwanted material in our body and any infections it may cause.

My first trip ever in any capacity to a hospital was when I had a ruptured appendix at about age six. It could easily have been fatal as antibiotics were still in the future. Yet I have some very pleasant memories of that illness, such as my “rich Uncle Frank” gave me a fancy little toy sail boat and a certain nurse told me she loved me and said she would wait for me to grow up and then she’d marry me. I believed her.

It slowly became clear to me that childbearing was not an illness but a natural process. It occurred at home-, usually overnight when I was sent to sleep in the home of a relative. Dr. Wedemeyer with his little black bag and a certain Ms. Schwaush were always in attendance.

Many years later I spent entirely too many anxious moments in emergency rooms of hospitals. The saddest was when I rushed to the hospital in Hong Kong to see one of our high school students (I was the principal) who had had a terrible collision between his bicycle and a truck carrying long iron bars. In those days the Hong Kong hospitals were overwhelmed. I found him lying on a stretcher on the floor of the emergency room. No one was attending him. I frantically rushed to a nurse and exclaimed my anxiety. “Oh,” she calmly replied ,”we have looked at him. There is nothing we can do. He will be dead in a few minutes.” And he was.


Too often my visits to hospital emergency rooms have been to attend to persons who had attempted suicide. One was to visit another Hong Kong student. She had swallowed poison after her father had locked her in a dark closet for 3 days as punishment for going to a tea room with another member of our church youth group She survived and is today doing very well. Several times I have been at the bedside of adults who were overwhelmed with depression and had decided to stop all sufferings.

I especially appreciated good hospital care when my wife Jane gave birth to our five children, even though on one occasion she had had to climb up three flights of stairs to get to the delivery room and another time I was told that the nurse wanted Jane to pull her knees together to delay the birth as no doctor was around. But it was also at a Hong Kong hospital where the personal physician to Madam Chiang Kai Shek happened to be in town from Taiwan, saw my wife and made a very difficult but accurate diagnosis of a cerebral aneurysm, without any use of an angiogram or other body imaging tools.

Now that I live in San Diego I still can’t believe the almost first-class resort-like atmosphere at UC San Diego Thornton Hospital, or the immediate excellent care I received at Scripps Hospital Encinitas where within hours of my arrival there I had a heart stent perfectly in place. And as I think of that excellent care I contrast the setting with that of Bethesda Hospital in Ambur, India where beds were even lined up outside the rooms. Yet it was also at that hospital where I was deeply impressed and forever moved by how caring medical personnel, loving family members and praying loved ones are among the greatest blessings one can have when it has been determined that one needs a place to go because he /she is sick.

Places to do things Part II

PLACES TO WORK

I guess everyone’s ideas about places to work are shaped by early experiences. Thus I imaged a small parochial school as the ideal place to work. After all, that is what my father did and I idolized everything about him. But there were other places that stirred my imagination. My uncle and aunt ran the general store and it seemed very attractive to me to be behind a counter, preferably next to the chewing gum and candy. The local bank was owned by my uncle and it seemed quite sophisticated and easy to be a banker, but that attraction was tempered by the threat of bank robberies. It was the 1930’s and to this day I believe that Bonnie and Clyde checked out that bank. I quickly ruled out imitating my cousin who ran the garage because I knew nothing about fixing cars. And the welding, plow sharpening and horse shoeing that was done at the blacksmith shop by still another uncle came close to frightening me.

During the summer we picked cotton, responding to my father’s urging “In the field by sun-up!” I knew I didn’t want to do that. It was too hot and my hands moved way too slowly. I suffered the embarrassment of even my sister being able to pick more pounds of cotton in a day than I. It wasn’t much better at my Aunt Elizabeth’s chicken farm where my main task was scraping and carting off chicken droppings.

It was good that another set of cousins ran a country store and butcher shop. Restocking shelves was quite easy. Milking the cows allowed a lot of time for quiet reflection. De-worming wounds in the skin of sheep helped create empathy for all four-footed living things; even though every Thursday found me assisting in the butchering of many of them.

Later I got promoted to being a waiter after being the guy who peeled bucket after bucket of potatoes and carrots at Wukash Brother Cafe just off the campus of the University of Texas. That brought me close to fame as I stayed at the same rooming house as Bobby Layne who later became a famous Detroit Lion quarterback

After graduation from college I had an incredible string of great places to work. St. Paul Lutheran School in Tracy, CA with less than 100 pupils but a great supportive bunch of parents. The opportunity to open a new school in Glendale, Calif. Then on to Hong Kong which took me to the most fascinating places in the world to work from squatter huts on hillsides to the Queen’s birthday celebration at the Governor’s mansion…always with the great kindness of supportive and competent Chinese colleagues. Then a year long USA tour giving a missionary slide lectures, but also taking time to witness and reflect on those 17 Lutheran schools for blacks in a completely segregated South. Later work just added places and opportunities for testimony, teaching, worshiping and work-shopping all over the world including places as divergent as Helsinki and Karachi. Still it hasn’t stopped. I just returned from a month of teaching opportunities in six cities in South China. And almost every Sunday morning gives me a wonderful platform for teaching; the Adult Class at Calvary Lutheran Church in Solana Beach, California.

As I today read the paper and listen to colleagues mourn their unemployment or even being stuck in a place of work offering little reward beyond take home pay I am forever grateful for all those varied and wonderful places to work which mark the important milestones in my life.

Places To Do Things (Part I)

I grew up in a small Lutheran congregation- owned teacherage (a teacherage is the home a congregation supplied for its parochial school teacher: just like it supplied a parsonage for its parson.) My home was a part of a several-acres complex which included a parish school, a parsonage, a teacherage, a cemetery, a couple of barns and two plots for vegetable gardens. It was located about a mile from the nearest town (Walburg, Texas) which advertised itself as having a “population of 87 friendly people and one old grouch”.

From my perspective this location provided everything I would ever need to live a happy and productive life, food for body and soul, good people, fun, a medical doctor who carried his little black bag as he visited those who needed him. Any food needed could be grown within walking distance of where it would be consumed, The church, its school, a country store and a saloon supplied all one needed for body and soul, sickness and health, fun and hope. All in all a great place to grow up. Yet I moved on from there to places never dreamed of even when I climbed that big tree in my back yard, stared into that vast Texas expanse of blue and pondered my future.

In the next several blogs I want to reflect on that place and the other places to which my life took me.

PLACES TO EAT As I was growing up eating was, of course, a necessity. But it was also more than that. It was family time, prayer time, teaching time, enjoyment time, family devotions time, social life time. My mouth waters at just the memory of my mother’s fried chicken prepared from roosters freshly slaughtered and fried in lard, mashed potatoes with country cream gravy, fresh corn on the cob, homemade bread, fresh peach cobbler. All of this washed down with sweet iced tea. Nero or Chinese emperors never ate better.

In the days of my youth there were other wonderful places to eat. Although I never ate in a restaurant until well into my teen years, special eating places included wedding bar-b-ques, Even during the depression there was a big feast in connection with any wedding. After the church ceremony we went to the farm home of the bride. There beer and bar-b-que and all the trimmings (especially home made noodles) awaited us, all in sequence. Beer was served by men adorned in white aprons, carrying pitchers and glasses. The bar-b-que, of course came from beef raised just for that wedding celebration and bar-b-qued in pits dug especially for the event. Occasionally the beef was supplemented by a hog or two and once in a great while even by mutton or goat meat; but goat was definitely a third choice. I don’t remember ever having chicken bar-b-que at a wedding as that was reserved for other special meals. The dining tables were long tables all arranged in a big tent made from farm tarpaulins erected especially for the wedding.

There was a definite sequence for seating and serving of guests. They were served in the following order: first the men and the wedding party, then the children and lastly the women. The reception would go on well into the night. As it got closer to midnight the chivary took place with the men banging on plowshares, oil drums, and any other metal that could be found on the farm. They were served their due portion of beer until it was time for “midnight lunch”. That was late at night and included sandwiches and cake. Somewhere in between all this the bride cut and served the wedding cake. No one went home hungry. (Maybe I was too young to notice, but I have no memory of anyone ever getting drunk at these events. Nor do I have any memory of any wine being served.)

The social life of the community centered around family events - baptisms, confirmations, birthdays, marriages, wedding anniversaries and funerals. Each had its prescribed food rituals. One thing was key: there must always be more than just enough. It was all home-made and certain residents became identified as the “best in their field". e.g. a family was famous for its bar-b-que, a woman for her angel food cake, another for her potato salad, another for bread and butter pickles, etc. Glorious!

Later years brought other and very different places at which to eat. I have moved to many wonderful places where having food was more than mere sustenance. Elegant places like Ghaddis in the Peninsula Hotel in Hong Kong and Windows of the World in New York Twin Towers. Incredible ethnic food included samples from most of the eight major groups of Chinese, all over China, African chicken at the Pusada Inn in Macau, reindeer tartar in Helsinki, charusco in Porto Allegro Brazil, hearty beef borscht in Russia, marvelous hot, yellow mutton curry in Karachi and red curry vegetables in New Delhi, smorgasbords with touches that are just a little different whether in Denmark, Sweden or Norway, tapas in the street-side café’s of Barcelona, jaeger schnitzel in Bonn, and even tacos on the streets of Ensenada. What variety, sensations, subtle hints and mouth-opening flavors, each telling a bit about the place where it was being consumed, always inviting me to try just a little bit more. No wonder even heaven is described as the place where an endless feast will be available!

College Costs: Personal Reflections

This Labor Day, as a retired Lutheran Church education minister I am reminded of the many years in which this day marked the day before another school term began. As my mind focuses on college and college costs here is what creeps into my consciousness.

GRATITUDE. I was able to attend residential prep school, college and graduate school only because of the extraordinary kindness and assistance of many others, beginning with my two elder sisters. Both of them were (and are ) very bright. Both were valedictorians of their high school class. Both were offered college scholarships. Neither went to college. Instead they went to work as household maids. The money they earned helped their kid brother (that is I) go to school!

At one stage in my schooling I received a most unusual contribution toward its cost. In the rural Texas community in which I grew up there was the custom of passing round the bride’s shoe at the wedding reception. Guests placed coins or dollar bills into it. Often that was a nice gift for the bride. However, one of the brides announced, “Instead of me keeping this money, I am going to send it to Melvin Kieschnick to help pay for his education. He is planning to be a teaching minister in the church and I want to help him!”

When I was accepted for study in grad school I was broke. A cousin loaned me the $100.00 I needed to register. When I wrote my thesis it was my wife who many nights (often beginning at midnight because of her other responsibilities), sat down and typed out the manuscript with all its complicated footnotes! (Remember, this was before computers, before even “white-out” and no erasures were allowed.

Our five kids made it through college plus three masters and two doctorates because of their incredible commitment. Of course, they worked every summer and every vacation period while in school. They took out loans. Now they are all professionally and financially secure with all loans repaid and they are investing in their own children’s college education with the proviso that those kids also work both during the summer and while in school and once they start graduate school they are on their own financially.

My gratitude extends to all those who provide scholarships for others. I am thinking of a grandparent who is funding his child’s college costs. Another friend is doing the same for his godchild. Still others set up scholarship funds simply for those who need it.

EMPATHY. Concurrently I think of kids and their parents who are really struggling to pay for college costs. I think of those who work and study and forget sleep and everything except bare necessities to pay tuition. I recall a very poor black mother in Detroit who told me she scrubbed white people’s floors so that her son could attend a Lutheran school. Another mother did the same for her son in Mississippi. That son earned his doctorate and is now helping Christian urban schools. I recall a mother who raised a few chickens next to her hillside squatter hut in Hong Kong so that he children could come to our special school for poor kids. One of those children is now a successful lawyer in New York!

PUZZLEMENT. As I reflect on the above I am puzzled by stories I hear. I hear of the high school and even college aged kids who do not work either over the summer or during the school term. They feel their college education is the sole responsibility of their parents. I am puzzled by students unwilling to take the risk of getting a college loan because they do not choose to be burdened by having to repay it; so they demand all school fees from their parents, often while they (the students) claim their inalienable right to have their own car both in high school and college.

But now I fear like I am beginning to sound like a grumpy old man and I did not get schooling to learn that. So I end saluting all the diligent students of the world and all those who make their education possible.

China: A Personal Perspective – Children

I have recently returned from a month long visit to southern China where I introduced Parent Effectiveness Training to several thousand parents. So, of course, I am especially interested in the current situation as it affects children.

A great time to be a child in China.
In many ways this is a wonderful time to be a child in China. With the one-child policy now in effect for some 35 years, almost every child is a wanted child. Even the pro-male baby bias is diminishing. It is true that the latest data still shows almost 120 baby boy births registered for every 100 girl births. It is illegal for medical personnel to reveal the gender of an in utero fetus, so abortions of females have lessened. Also, personal conversations as well as newspaper reports indicate a growing equal acceptance of boy or girl babies and several young couples told me they hoped their child would be a girl.

Children are often so valued that there is a danger of permissiveness as the child is treated as a “little emperor” or “empress”. And since grandparents will have only one grandchild, that grandchild is often the focus of extra attention, love and gifts.

While tragically there are still too many pockets of poverty, hunger and high infant mortality rates, over all trends for these matters are positive.

It was interesting to me that the matter of children participating in household chores is not an issue. “Children don’t do chores. Children study. Any parent who expects the child to participate in household care is irresponsible.” I was told this more than once.

As I watched children go to kindergarten, be on the street, or enjoy food, they seemed to be quite content.

An anxious time to be a child in China. But not everything is ideal. There is tremendous pressure on the child to be perfect, to get into the best school, especially for boys to bring honor to the family name.

Virtually all kindergartens and primary schools now have police guards at school entrances. This is in response to at least 7 attacks this year in which raging “maniacs” have attacked and killed children even as they sat in their classrooms. While the resulting number of deaths is well under 100, the news of this terrorism on children naturally has caused great anxiety for teachers, parents, and children.

There is also obvious anxiety in many youth in their late teens and early twenties. Many, especially from poor rural areas, have flocked t o the city. There they produce all those “made in China” goods. They live in cramped dormitories, work very long hours with minimum days off and send almost all their earnings home to poor parents. It takes its toll. While I was in Shen Zhen the 11th suicide of the year for this group was reported. Anxiety spreads through all of these youths and their families back home.

The national government in Beijing recently called a conference on a new parent-child issue. Surveys indicate that among the most financially successful private entrepreneurs 90% stated they hoped their child would continue their business. Yet when the children were polled, 95% said they did not want to eventually take over their parents’ enterprises.

A time for shaping the future of the world. Each morning I watched kindergartners happily enter their kindergarten. One morning they gathered outside for a moving and very patriotic national flag raising ceremony. As I watched, it hit me again: The 19th century was the century when Great Britain ruled the world. The 20th century saw the USA as the number one world power. The 21st century will be the century of China dominance. I can only hope and pray that those Chinese kindergarteners raising that flag today, who will be the leaders of the world tomorrow, will lead all of us into ways of peace, prosperity and mutual respect and into a world in which all children can live fulfilling lives.

China: A Personal Word on Chinese Food

Of course, Chinese food is the most commonly eaten food on the planet. With its billions of people, multiple ethnic strains, varied geography, vast gap in resources and its long history, the food in China is varied beyond imagination. It has been my good fortune recently to once again spend a month in China and grab a teeny sample of its wonderfully varied cuisines.

Because of my schedule and commitments it was around midnight when I had finally finished my third dinner of that day. The next question from my host was, “Now for breakfast do you want rice noodles or flour noodles?” I made a quick decision, rice noodles. So early the next morning she was in the hotel lobby ready to take me to breakfast. We parked on a side street. I looked for the restaurant. Then I realized that I was standing in it. The restaurant was one of those sidewalk, small shop affairs where the meal is cooked on a simple, single gas burner on the curb. Guests sit on small three legged “milk-stools” and enjoy the fare. I was even asked what kind of meat I wanted with those noodles and saw the cook mix in the half teaspoon of chopped pork. It was all delicious.

In Kun Ming we went in the opposite direction. The walk-way to the very upscale restaurant was through a beautifully long curved tree lined path. At intervals along the way sat beautifully red-robed instrumentalists. Each played marvelously on traditional Chinese stringed instruments, a perfect prelude to really fine dining. It was similar to other 12- course dinners I’ve been served on special occasions. Two things were new, however. The first is that one of the early dishes was a massive platter of exquisitely prepared and presented sushi, something new for me in China. The other was that while, of course, tea, beer and soft drinks were available, this time the options included a steady supply of wonderfully aged French wine supplemented by what other guests brought with them. Several had selected their own special brand of that fiery Chinese drink called mao tie. Toasts were drunk from each variety. Food, fun, friends (old and new) made for a not to be soon forgotten evening

While on the island city of XiaMen across from Taiwan I was taken to “the best sea food restaurant in the city.” I was told that once again 12 dishes were being ordered. Each one came from the sea. Each one was going to be a delicacy that I was guaranteed to never have eaten previously. And so creatures of many sizes, shapes and flavors from the sea supplemented by fungi and other plants made for a wonderful “lunch”. When one of the dishes was served I took a healthy mouthful with my chopsticks and enjoyed it. I noticed a bit of almost imperceptible snickering at my enjoyment of the dish. Then I was told, “There is a Chinese saying attached to this particular dish. The English version is ‘If man eats this dish, woman watch out. If woman eats this dish, man watch out. If man and woman eat this dish, bed watch out!” I got it. This was an aphrodisiac. I enjoyed the food.

In the large and modern city of ShenZhen one can find to almost anything to eat that one might desire. Most of the world food chains MacDonald’s, Starbucks, Papa Johns. KFC. etc .etc.) are all there. A new one simply called Fridays was the site for several good meals. My very sophisticated host enjoyed some very simple delicacies. I especially noted her relishing chicken feet and duck tongue. I preferred the duck tongue to the chicken feet.

Great enjoyment, made both more somber, even more appreciated as I recalled that when I lived in Hong Kong 50 years ago my Chinese colleagues were trying to figure out how to just get a bit of rice across the border to their relatives where millions of Chinese were starving because of Mao TseDung’s horrendous “Great Leap Forward.” And now China is indeed leaping forward and many (including me) get to enjoy more of that marvelous Chinese food!

China: A Very Personal View (I)

China with its thousands of years of history, billions of people and vast spaces of geography defies any simple descriptions or important insights. So while I enjoy traveling there or studying its history and being with its people, my comments must (of course) be very personal, incredibly partial, and severely biased. So having just returned from spending a month there here are a few snippets.

The Chinese: wonderfully hospitable; Once again I was the object of great unreserved hospitality. My hosts made every effort to care for me. They wanted me to have the best accommodations, most appropriate food, highest places of honor at feasts, safety on the streets and the appropriate respect for my role of teacher. When they learned I was 82 years of age and still conducting workshops they expressed a reaction almost of awe. But then they learned something else about me which raised me even higher in their estimation. They learned that the most famous movie director in China, John Woo, was a student of mine in elementary and high school. That trumped age and any other experience or set of skills I might have carried with me.

The Chinese: Ambivalence about children. Of course, Chinese. like parents everywhere, love their children. The child is the focus of love, attention, favors, and the very best education possible. I learned that only in a very few homes is a child expected to do chores, for that may distract from the child’s most important role, namely, that of being a diligent student - twenty-four-seven; year round. In their zeal to have their one and only child be all that s/he can possibly be Chinese (like parents in most parts of the world) tend to swing between severe authoritarianism (this child must do exactly as I teach it and be rewarded or punished to achieve that) or the child is king or queen, so the parent is extremely permissive and “what this wonderful and only child wants, this wonderful and only child gets!” On the other hand, in a much-needed effort to control population growth the one child per family law is still being enforced. Tragically, especially female fetuses continue to be aborted and some children with birth defects continue to be abandoned.

The Chinese: Driven by capitalism. The government may still be socialist but private entrepreneurs drive the economy. When I traveled along the coast at Xiamen, just across from Taiwan, I noticed a building which looked strikingly like the new Goldman Sacks Building on Wall Street, it suddenly hit me: in the month that I traveled only in southern China Government was convening a forum in Beijing to discuss this matter.

Chinese: Atheistic and spiritual. The Chinese “constitution” continues to declare atheism as the official position of the country. And there is plenty of evidence of a secularism in which spiritual values are dismissed as irrelevant. Concurrently there are deep undertones of spiritual yearnings and pursuits. The same organization that is promoting Parent Effectiveness is very successful in offering seminars and workshop on “Your Spiritual Being”, “Meditation” and “Higher Consciousness”. The story of Christianity in modern China is almost beyond belief. There are now many more professing Christians in China than at any time in history. Both the three-self churches (self-propagating, self-governing and self supporting) which number more than 15,000 and the more than 30,000 unauthorized house churches are growing at an unprecedented rate and estimates of the number of Christians in China run from 50 million to 100 million.

Of course, I barely stuck one toe into that vast ocean called China. I will say a little more about one other toe in those waters in my next blog.

I Love New York (II)

There is a buzz of activity and life and hope in New York that comes from places other than its streets, avenues and parks. These sounds of life, energy, frustration and hope come from classrooms and specifically also from the hundreds of classrooms of the Lutheran schools of New York. I had to return to hear them again. I attended the Annual Dinner meeting of The Lutheran Schools Association of Metro New York. There I was with hundreds of those teachers and administrators who bring learning and opportunity and hope to those kids. The energy in the room was palpable. Laugher, and hugs, and conversations mingled with hugs and drinks and congratulations. It is a sad and yet profound truth that there are many areas in New York City where it is flat-out impossible to get any kind of a decent education in the public schools of that community. The system is broken. Parents who seek the alternative of a non-public (often faith-based school) will work three jobs including scrubbing floors to get their kids into one of those schools and pay the necessary tuition. There they meet teachers who care, who work at salaries way below their counter-parts in the public system. The teachers reach out to communicate with parents who in the case of one school in Queens spoke 19 different primary languages. They serve with commitment and faith and sometimes with disillusionment. One of the great things about the dinner I was attending was that it brought encouragement and recognition to teachers from all segments of that cosmopolitan community. So some came from affluent Long Island while others came from tough underserved impoverished sections of Brooklyn. But all were celebrating learning, hope, faith and possibility - and their energy and commitment to kids permeated the room and enveloped me.

The next afternoon I got to be a part of another little piece of New York, that of working the system! My long time friends and colleague Howard Capell, Esquire had always taken on Lutheran schools legal issues. He served us with extreme competence, with all his connections and with a passion for mission. I knew my evening with him would again be special. He had promised to pick me up at 6:00, but around 4:00 the cell phone rang. “I have just crossed the TriBorough Bridge. Get to the corner of 93rd and Second and I’ll pick you up in a few minutes”. Naturally, he was on the phone as I climbed into the car. ”See you in 20 minutes’, was the message to the next contact.” “Just come down to the street.” So some 20 minutes later the well dressed gentleman on the curb of Fifth Avenue in mid-town came to our car door to hand us well placed tickets for that night’s performance of La CageAux Folle. Howie has his police contact who got to the half-price ticket counter in Times Square the minute it opens. He finds out what’s available, puts on hold a couple tickets, notifies the next person in the process who picks up the tickets who gets them to the person who meets our car on Fifth Avenue and hands us the tickets as we roll along.

Next stop is Times Square. Howie identifies the officer patrolling the section. With a quick nod he directs us to a parking garage where an attendant is waiting, the car is parked, and we are back on the street in 90 seconds. The patrol officer had been the one who first investigated and then noted what was going on with that failed bomb attempt recently. He recounts those events to us in vivid and chilling detail. Howie, of course, knows him by name and tells him that he has already sent a generous donation to the Police Benevolent Society in honor for this particular public servant.

But we wanted to eat and had no pre-theater reservation. Howie took one look at the famous restaurant across the street, asked the officer about chances for table, without reservations. “It may take up to 5 minutes”, came the reply,” but come with me.” The Maître de was by-passed; the manager had a table for us and only 3 minutes had elapsed. The service, drinks and dinner were great. The show was even better. The car-parking fee was, of course complimentary and Howie and I continued on our post-theater evening.

That, too, is how the system works in New York and I am fortunate enough to have a friend who knows exactly how to use it!

I Love New York (I)

Blog: I Love New York (I)

I love New York and it was way past time for me to return there to get my “New York fix”. So in between one granddaughter’s wedding in Maine and another’s confirmation in Connecticut I was off to the The City. As the bus rolled down the streets of Harlem the memories flooded in. There was that Lutheran Church just barely surviving while almost across the street the Abyssinian Baptist Church still reverberates with beautiful soul and echoes of Adam Clayton Powell. The Lutheran School On the Hill, which produced so many wonderful black graduates, sits shuttered.

The street-side food hawkers await me at the Port Authority Bus Terminal entrance and I can’t resist that fully loaded New York hot dog, delaying the mustard smeared pretzel for later.

After a good night’s sleep courtesy of faithful friends and colleagues Marlene and Helene, I am off from their wonderful apartment on East 93rd Street determined to walk all the way to Times Square. Second Ave. now is overwhelmed with a new subway going in underground and the blasts of dynamite regularly raise the ire and shake the very building foundations of neighbors.

But business must go on and so I pass the shops showing only women’s hats, or thousands of options in olive oil, delis and fruit stands. I watch in admiration as a young mother is determined to get her photo of her little son trying to maneuver his skateboard in the middle of the crowded sidewalk.

I work my way west into that most marvelous green heaven called Central Park. Baby carriages of all descriptions are pushed in all directions. The pushers are women from every country on earth and usually with a skin color different from the baby being tended – who all seem to be white. Then I notice the competition and yet harmonious sharing of space all around me. That woman is leading a class in yoga. There is the small musical trio with traditional brass while barely out of earshot is the guy beating the rhythms of his country on a set of pots and pans. Tourists mingle with lovers weaving their way around pre-school outings. Horse drawn carriages glide next to skateboards, wheelchairs, and pedicabs while just outside the Park the New York cabs stream by as in an unruly funeral procession.

I leave the Park and enter the Plaza Hotel. I need to stir those memories of high tea in the vast entryway, drinks at the Oak Bar and the remembrance that the last time I stopped there it was on my way home from a grand event at the top of The World Trade Center. I must at least pay a quick visit to the Trump Tower and recall the serendipitous visit I had with a resident of that address who had invited me aboard his big yacht moored in the Bahamas when he was there for vacation and I was there to mediate a conflict at a Lutheran church/school.

I make it to Times Square in time for lunch. I sit at the bar, sip my beer and reflect on my years in New York. I recall those incredibly committed teachers and parents of the more than 50 Lutheran schools there, the hard-nosed negotiations with government officials to ensure that non-public schools get their fair share of allocated state and federal funds, my time as part-time assistant to the Bishop, work at the Center for Urban Education Ministries, church/school conflict resolutions, anniversaries, the AIDS epidemic!

Memories seep in and out-and as I get ready to pay my check. The gal tending the bar looked at me and (out the blue) says “Just notice that I decided not to charge you for that second beer. It’s on me!’ And all of this takes me until only early afternoon. The evening is another story and the topic of my next blog, I Love New York (II).

Wedding Anniversary

Today is the 59th wedding anniversary of Jane and me. As I recall my expectations of that day so many years ago I realize what an optimistic and idealist young guy I was. Yet it’s even more true that my dreams have come true, my idealism was too limited, my expectations too narrow

Who could ever imagines the life we have been sharing. Our five kids, eight grandkids and the in-laws that go with all that continue to amaze and bless us. The shifts in vocation and settings for our life are in sharp contrast to what we then anticipated. Both of us then imagined very satisfying lives as teachers and possibly as principal in Lutheran parochial schools. And that could have been great. But we never dreamed of international career opportunities, service around the world, colleagues at many levels of organizations and foci as broad as our faith and as interesting as interpersonal communications.

All of this in the midst of drama and trauma, Infant daughter Elizabeth in intensive care on Christmas Eve fighting for every breath. Leaving a classroom in Kowloon just minutes before bullets streamed in from a rioting crowd outside. Flying across the Pacific with kids in tow and Jane in a coma with a cerebral aneurysm. Scrambling out of Tiananmen Square as the Chinese army moved in and mowed down protesting students (and then being unable to communicate with home for three days). Years later being stranded for days in the Far East when terror struck the World Trade Center.

Living together in 17 different apartments, homes, condos and a retirement community.

Remarkable evenings out together for dinner at places as exotic as Gaddis in the Peninsula Hotel, the top of the World Trade Center, Hawaiian beachfront lounges; and also including the best available fish stomach soup enjoyed with very poor refugee colleagues in Kowloon.

And how our Christmas card lists have changed through these 59 years, ever expanding, names being deleted, memories being amassed and support experienced beyond all reasonable expectations.

Religious perspectives deepened, faith became more profound, greater acceptance of mystery, ever-expanding inclusiveness of who is within God’s providence and care.

Increased sensitivity and skills in listening, resolving differences, sharing dreams, and disappointment and fears and deep and growing love.

No this is not what I could ever have imagined 59 years ago and yet it has all transpired and I know who and Whom to thank. On this day, too, I look not only backwards but also forward, knowing that forgiveness, love, acceptance and partnership will only be enhanced even as the number 59 moves to the next decade.

Mother’s Day 2010-Mental Images

Last year (2009) for Mother’s Day I wrote my blog on Mental Images of my late Mom. I have discovered there are more. Here is a sample.

Mother as Disciplinarian. Having 9 children with a permissive mother could have been sheer bedlam. At times our house may not have looked like the Sea of Tranquility but it surely was not because Mother did not exercise discipline. I am using the old fashioned definition of discipline as meaning the practice of a parent utilizing power to keep order, instill values, express convictions. On occasion Mother would spank. In retrospect I am a little surprised at how seldom she did this and did it with very little physical force. I do recall one particular incident. My sisters and I were supposed to have done the dishes and had been warned a couple times to get it done. We dawdled. Mother’s patience was exhausted. She lined us up in order of our age and administered the spankings. When she got to my younger sister Dorrie, Dorrie objected (in German) with, “Not me! Not me! Not me! Mama Not me!” That struck me as being very funny and I giggled. Mother did not find it funny and I got my second spanking of the evening. One other example of Mother strongly expressing her unhappiness with me was when I used the expression “son of a gun”. To Mother this was near blasphemy. She ordered me to the bathroom where (as directed) I washed my mouth out with home-made soap until it foamed. Then she set me on the steps to the upstairs and told me to think about how important it is that I watch my tongue.

Mother as Seamstress. Mother and sewing is a constant image. I see her at her trustworthy treadle-driven Singer sewing machine. She sewed dresses for my sisters, shirts for me, and aprons for all. Patches were almost a daily assignment, especially to the knees of my trousers during that season of the year when we “shot marbles” from our knees. Materials for the sewing came from, everywhere: the Henry Doering Mercantile in Walburg, from flour and sugar sacks, from parts of other older garments, from wherever. Just recalling my mom with her sewing machine, her needles, and her patterns stirs my heart with notions of being clad by love and care.

Mother as Host. Our home was always open to all and Mother was the quiet but ever-present hostess. The birthday parties were simple and predictable. No organized games, for of course kids knew how to entertain themselves. Mom saw to it that there were always homemade chicken salad sandwiches, (she slaughtered, plucked and cooked the chickens) lemonade, and an angel food birthday cake loaded with candles…and if we could afford the store-bought ice, also freshly made homemade ice cream. When I went to a boarding school 35 miles from home I knew that I could bring home one or a dozen classmates and there would be food enough for all. I even recall the Concordia High School softball team marching into our home early one morning and Mother scrambling up dozens of eggs for the whole crew. When the congregation at which my dad served as organist bought a new organ it was mom who provided a big lunch every single day for the workers who came (and took over a week) to install the organ. Her welcome mat was always out; there was always one more plate available to set and then fill with fried chicken, mashed potatoes with cream gravy and a couple fresh vegetables.

Mother NOT In Images. While I have all these wonderful mages of an active Mother I find it interesting that there are some things of which I have absolutely no image. Even though I was only number 3 of our 9 children I have no memory of ever seeing Mother pregnant. (Maybe I have no memory because as a child we were not allowed to ever say the word “pregnant” in mixed company.) I have no images of my Mother relaxing with a book to read. No images of my Mother just sitting and listening to the radio.

But there are enough memories to sustain the soul and to make Mother’s Day 2010 a day of thanksgiving for and joyful memories of my mother, Lena Doering Kieschnick.

Parenting: From The Bahamas to China

It was in the middle of winter and I was living in New York. The assignment was to take me to The Bahamas. I accepted. The Lutheran School there was experiencing some challenges and the national Lutheran Church asked me to go see if some satisfying solutions could be worked out.

The Lutheran school there had a lot going for it. Nice campus. Committed parents. Some excellent teachers. Fairly stable financial situation. Good reputation in the community. And there were some serious problems. There was a member of the school board who was a strong-willed antagonist seeking his own personal goal to the detriment of the school. Relations with the congregation sponsoring the school were becoming strained.. Teachers wanted to instill good values into their children but they also knew that the tuition funds for many of their students was secured through the transshipment of illegal drugs.

So I worked hard with appointments beginning at 6:30 am and one even beginning at 11:30 pm. I think we made some progress.

I rewarded myself by taking a later afternoon flight out so as to allow time for 18 holes of golf prior to departure. It was beautiful day and a gorgeous golf course. After a few holes I joined another single. He was a very good golfer and had more than that going for him. When he casually mentioned his Manhattan, New York address I realized that he lived in one of the top suites of Trump Tower. As we entered into conversation he invited me to join him for lunch on his yacht which was moored in the harbor. When I asked him how I would identify his particular yacht he not immodestly replied “It’s the biggest one there.”

So I had an elegant lunch aboard. It was beautifully served by a cadre of servants. It was then I learned what he really wanted to talk about. He was about to become a parent for the first time. He knew that I had done parent training and he wanted to pick my brain. He really wanted to be a good parent. Finances and the best schools should not be an issue. But, he wondered, how could he be such a parent that his child would have decent values, be an honorable member of society, achieve their own significant goals, have a healthy personality, etc.? We talked a long time and I shared my ears but also ideas, experiences and resources.
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We parted and I never met him again. But he continues to occasionally rest gently on my mind. I believe that virtually all parents want to be good parents. They almost always really want what is best for their children. However, their actions do not always match their intentions. I know that too often parents are blamed and not trained.

That is one reason I have just accepted an invitation to spend the month of June in China. I will be there as a consultant to an organization which has just secured the Chinese Government’s imprimatur on offering Parent Effectiveness Training in China. They want to reach a million parents and want to do it with quality programs and instructors. I get to be a part of that. And if it doesn’t include golf or yacht lunches it will still be a great adventure.

THE SECULAR AND THE SACRED

I was in Bonn, Germany and my soul had been sucked dry. On the one hand I had just experienced a marvelous uplifting and satisfying week. I had trained some 45 psychiatrists, psychologists and counselors in an intensive human relationships workshop. We had focused on parenting philosophies and skills. We did role-plays, guided recalls and reflective listening.

There was confrontation and there was win-win problem solving.

It was all both intellectually stimulating and energy draining. And it was marked by a surprising secularity. While the training was not designed to be religious in nature I was struck by how persistently issues of ultimate value, of God, of religious training of children, or even personal statements of faith seemed to be the one area not to be discussed. The message I got was that modern educated and sophisticated Germans had moved beyond the superstitions of God and faith.

At the end of the training I had to finalize a business contract. The person in charge seemed suspicious of me and on the defensive regarding what he thought were unreasonable demands.

So I was washed out, physically, intellectually, and spiritually.
Nevertheless, the Sunday afternoon was the only time I had left to visit near-by Cologne and its marvelous cathedral. So I got on the train and went. The very architecture of the cathedral is inspiring. Its lofted towers carry one’s spirit heavenward.

Inside, the incredible organ sent forth marvelous Bach fugues. People actually came for worship, standing, filling up the nave. I soon understood why they came. The German preacher was articulate, obviously well educated and a speaker of great power. To this day, 30 years later, I recall his message, “The Possibility, Yet the Verity of Life After Death.” That’s what I needed. There is hope beyond the immediate. There are possibilities beyond the problem. There is life after life. There is a spiritual dimension that exceeds and excels the purely secular.

Jews: From Prejudice to Partnership

I will be forever grateful for the habits and values I was taught by my parents and the small rather isolated German Lutheran community in which I was raised. From my parents, peers and elders I learned faith, honor, love of country, the importance of work and thrift and the need to care for others. Unfortunately that same community planted within me some seeds which were poisonous and hurtful.

Among those evil convictions is the scourge of prejudice. I grew up with seriously erroneous stereotypes and prejudices. I recall that when an adult from another branch of the Lutheran Church joined our particular branch of the Lutheran Church we described the process as “adult conversion”. I was not even allowed to compete in softball against the neighboring Catholic parochial school lest I become contaminated by their heresies. I could nor possibly imagine that a black person would ever be smart enough to be a lawyer. Persons whose sexual orientation was anything other than straight were evil misfits to be identified only by sexist slurs and to be avoided at all costs.

Jews were, of course, completely outside the pale and I was fed all the usual stereotypes. I had never met a Jew. I do remember being told that a Jewish merchant had opened a store in the near-by county seat and I mused, “I wonder what a Jew looks like? Would he just naturally charge me more for his goods because I was non-Jewish?”

It took me entirely too long to change. That change was facilitated by (among other things) some wonderful encounters with Jewish persons. I recall that when my wife Jane and I were living in Hong Kong she was diagnosed with a possible cerebral aneurysm. We were ordered back to the States immediately. Because of my involvement with The Hong Kong International School word of our distress reached the American community. I had been home from the hospital only a matter of hours before the phone rang. The voice on the other end said, “Mr. Kieschnick, my name is Jacob Rothstein. I don’t know if you remember me. We met a few weeks ago. But I have heard of your wife’s medical situation. She needs the best neurosurgeon in the world. He is at Mt. Sinai Hospital in New York. I will introduce you and he will see your wife the moment she arrives at the hospital. And”, he added, "should you need help with paying for those airline tickets or for your wife’s medical care, just let me know. I will be pleased to assist.”

Later I conducted a Clergy Effectiveness Seminar for the Chaplains of the US Air Force. It was not surprising that the Protestants and also the Catholic chaplains asked me to join them for noonday prayer. What I appreciated especially though was when the lone Rabbi there invited me to join him in his prayer rituals, at the end of which he presented me with a gift copy of his personal prayer book, a book which I treasure to this day.

Personal contacts kept coming. When I served The Lutheran Schools of Metropolitan New York there was almost always a law suit or a threat of one for one our 51 schools. I always knew exactly whom to contact, namely, probably the best school law attorney in the state, Howard Capell. He always had time. And for me and many of my colleagues, a great deal of it was pro bono. “I care about your mission and your service to those urban kids” was all the explanation he chose to give. He is still one of my closest personal friends.

In all my dealings with the state or federal education offices I found personal and professional support from the Orthodox and the Reformed and from Agudath Israel.

Then it got even closer. One of our sons married a Jewish woman whom we love dearly. Next month a granddaughter will marry her Jerusalem born fiancé in a ritual presided over by her Christian pastor and his Jewish rabbi.

It is not just the Chinese who have taught me “Within the four sea all are brothers and sisters.”

And the Little Moments

My wife Jane still has that little book called “Select Songs for School and Home “: It has a Concordia Publishing House copyright date of 1922. I guess it is more than 70 years ago that I learned one of the songs-and it still resides gently in my consciousness. A few of the lines read: “Little drops of water, Little grains of sand, Make the mighty ocean And the beauteous land.” Next verse: “And the little moments, Humble though they be, Make the mighty ages Of eternity”

I have been reflecting on a few of “those little moments” today. I have had a bunch of them this week. I wasn’t even out of the sanctuary yet on Sunday when a friend stopped me. “Hey. Mel, on that trip you’re taking to China in a couple months. Got your ticket yet? Just send me the confirmation number and I will use some of my Frequent Flyer miles to upgrade you to Business Class. (What a nice moment.)

On Monday we took an excursion to the Anza Borrego Desert. I stood among the cactae, the unusually bountiful and beautiful spring colored flowers, the expanse of sand and rocks and hills - and for just a moment I was in contact with eons of time, the change from ocean floor to desert, the Indians, the Spaniards and us all. (For just a moment I was in touch with the ages of the universe.)

Yesterday I played golf with a new golfing buddy. For months we had been challenging each other about who will beat whom when we finally play. As we got to the last holes and I just needed a couple pars to shoot my age and I was lining up a long putt, I actually felt this new partner rooting for me to get it home (A simple, yet warm moment.)

Just few minutes ago we had a simple lunch. I once again made a tuna salad. Once again I had to ask Jane what she wanted and didn’t want in the salad. And she, oh so gently, told me for the 125th time” just tuna, celery and a little salt.’ No reminders about how often she had told me that, or any half humorous comment on long and or short-term memory. Just another repetition of what she has told me so often. (Another little moment to give a gentle positive stir in the soul.)

“And the little moments, Humble though they be, Make the mighty ages of eternity.”

Lahore, Pakistan: Pain, Pleasure and Prayer

The headline screams: 43 Killed in Pakistan Blasts. The story gives the details. Suicide bombers hit a military section and the crowded market known as the R. A. Bazaar in Lahore, Pakistan. I read the details of another wave of violence carried out by Islamic extremist. Even though I am removed by time and distance from the place and the events, I hurt inside.

Twenty years ago I was in that Lahore bazaar and in recalling it my mind floods with pleasant memories. I had done a series of workshops in Karachi with school, business and religious leaders from around the country. As I neared the end of my stay my host offered to fly me to Lahore. A class member said her uncle lived there and would be my host. And what a gracious host he was. He welcomed me to his home. Dinner was set before us and his wife who cooked it hurried back into the kitchen for it was deemed inappropriate for this woman to be in our presence while we ate. As I got better acquainted I told my host that I enjoyed the meal. And I asked for permission to personally tell his wife that. He agreed and said it was okay for me to have a conversation with her- with him as interpreter.

The next day was tour day. My host showed me the marvelous centuries- old beautiful sites of Lahore. He took me to the famous Shalimar Gardens. While there he explained that it was the hour of prayer so he took out his prayer mat, knelt on the grass and prayed.
We shared our faith with mutual respect.

Later he offered to take me shopping for some take-home souvenirs. To my surprise he invited his wife to join us. She watched me but said nothing as I bought a small brass vase to take home. Then she disappeared. A little later she returned with an identical vase. “These would make a nice pair,” she said.” I think your wife would enjoy these side by side.”

When I left the next day she came to say good-bye. Her husband translated for her. She asked him to thank me: I was the only non-Pakistani male with whom she had ever
spoken. Together they gave me a peacock feather as a symbol of a brief but beautiful friendship.

And now I read of that beautiful city being blown up in the name of God. My prayers go to a God of all creation, whom I know desires peace upon earth.

Morning Newspaper Antidote

Reading the morning newspaper can lead one to a feeling of sickness. The one I read yesterday is a good example. The lead stories were about the discovery of the body of a missing teen-ager. This came just days after the discovery of another one. Both from the near-by relatively small city of Escondido. Moving from local news to national was not more uplifting: “Kidnap Victim still Missing.” “Dr. and Wife Accused of Killing Dozens” “Drunk Driver Kills Teen-ager in Car Accident”. I try the international section and you know that story: “Car bombing in Baghdad, IUD Kills 12 in Kabul, Anarchy in Somalia, Starvation in Darfur”. My whole body and soul scream for for relief.

I find it. I say good-bye to visiting friends. They have with them their 50-year-old mentally retarded daughter. For 50 years they have cuddled her, taught her, nursed her, been patient with her, helped her smile. Then as I leave my apartment I see one of our neighbors entering another door. “Oh”, she tells me, “Mary has not been feeling well. I am bringing her some food.” I take my morning walk. A young father is jogging along- side his dog and is pushing a wheelchair. It holds the slumping head of his son, severely deformed, unable to walk. But the father’s stride is confident exuding care. “Beautiful day for a walk with my little one” is how he greets me. As I return to my house after the walk I see Chuck patiently, oh so patiently, walking to the dining room with his wife whom I know to have Alzheimer’s. He greets me with a cheery ,“Good morning. Isn’t this a nice day!” Jane and I have our morning prayers and at the end she says, “Just give me one more kiss. I love you so much!”

So, yes, I will continue to read the daily newspaper and more importantly, I will also look for those body and soul restoring antidotes of love, patience, care and respect.

Community

I have rust returned from a national Conference for Lutheran School Administrators. It was held in New Orleans. While there I attended two excellent workshops. I’m proud to say they were led by my nephew Kevin on the topic of “Lutheran School in Community.” One of the great illustrations he shared was that at the school where his children attend there is a Friday afternoon ritual. The kids from the two upper grades take the last half hour each Friday to walk their community and pick up trash. They do more than pick up trash. They meet the neighbors. They ask questions. They share short stories and warm greetings. Slowly the blocks around the school are embracing the school and the feeling is mutual.

It reminded me of another very different urban community. Years ago I sat in a tenement house apartment in upper Harlem in New York. I was meeting with parents and other community leaders who were concerned that the local Lutheran school (School on the Hill) which had served them for a long time was in danger of closing. In the midst of our discussion they shared how the kids who attended there were watched over by the community

They said to me “You know Mrs. Jones. She runs the newspaper kiosk at the end of that school street. She watches each kid that walks to by her shop on the way to school.” And they said, “You know around the corner is good soul Mr. Smith. He just sits on his stoop every morning and afternoon and he knows those kids by name.” A third chimed in, “The one we really like is Mr. Waters. He makes sure he walks his dog just before and after school. Those kids all know that big Rottweiler and that dog loves those kids. Nobody messes around with a kid wearing a School on the Hill uniform!”

When the meeting ended quite a bit later and I was at the door, one of them gently and firmly grabbed me by my arm and said, “Let me just walk with you to your car. I noticed you parked it on 145th Street. “

Unfortunately there was new leadership at the school. The pastor was too busy with whatever he thought was more important than to ever meet the Smiths or the Waters. They weren’t even members of the congregation. The principal saved 10 cents a day by bringing his own water rather than picking it up at the kiosk. He worried about a guy who seemed to just sit on his stoop all day. Before long the school closed.

Yet I thank God for what it once was. Years later I was sitting in a TV studio being made-up for an interview. The person doing the job was a real pro. Then she said to me, “I heard you were with the Lutheran schools. I could just cry when I think about the one I attended. We were a community. Everybody (even the pastor, whose name was Pr. Clem Sabourin) knew my name. We looked after each other. We shared dreams and stories of faith. And the reason I want to cry is because I went to a Lutheran school about which you may never have heard. It was called the School on the Hill and next to my family it is God’s greatest gift to me. “

Always the Unexpected

It was spring of 1950. About 100 of us were excitedly assembled in that large oval room on the ground floor of the Administration Building at Concordia Teachers College, River Forest, Illinois. We were there to receive our “Solemn Calls”. In those days the church-wide Council of Presidents (Bishops Conference) had met with the appropriate college and seminary placement directors. They had assembled all the requests from congregations across the church for the assignment of officially approved “ teaching ministers of religion”. Those decisions had been made without further consultation with the candidates (that what we were called). Each of us was assigned to a particular congregation or other church entity. The assumption was that each candidate would accept the assignment as made.

The suspense in the room was great. None of us knew where we would be assigned or what our specific duties would be. Previous to this we had, of course, met with our Placement Directors and discussed our gifts, our preferences and any unusual circumstances affecting our placement. For me there was really only one over riding question “To which Lutheran church and school in Texas would I be assigned?” The general consensus of the time was that Texans would be assigned to Texas congregations.

I dutifully waited until my name was called and the Placement Director announced “ Melvin Kieschnick, St. Paul Lutheran Church and School, Tracy, California “. Within 72 hours I informed St. Paul’s that I was their newly assigned principal/teacher/youth director and that I was prayerfully accepting their call.

The surprises kept coming;. When once a month I found myself collecting newspapers from garages throughout Tracy I wondered if that was part of the “divine call“, but I really needed to raise the money somehow to pay for curtains in the classroom so that I could effectively operate that brand new film strip projector. I unexpectedly played basketball in the city league as part of a team sponsored by a not very reputable pool hall and filled in as preacher when my pastor’s alcohol problems kept him out of the pulpit. I learned that one really could complete a Master’s thesis if one’s spouse was willing to type after midnight.

The unexpected never stopped. When, without prior consultationwith me, the Church’s Foreign Mission Board extended me a call to Hong Kong. I had to locate a map to find out where Hong Kong was. Once there I learned to take in stride visits to the poorest of the poor among the refugees in hillside huts and to go from there to a formal party for the British Queen at the Governor’s Mansion.

An unexpected cerebral aneurysm in my wife’s brain brought me back to the Sates and to roles as divergent as leadership for a Churchwide Capital Funds Drive to District School Superintendency, to national churchwide offices, to parent training around the world and to the privilege of serving Lutheran schools in the South Bronx, Long Island and other parts of the Metro New York area.

Even in retirement the surprises never stop and all of them flow from One whom I believe has both a sense of humor and wonderful surprises!


*NOTE: This is one in a series of six blog entries related to a presentation I will make at the 2010 Lutheran Education Association National Administrators Conference in New Orleans in February 2010.

Following that event my blog will again be more in the” All Things Considered category”.

Male and Female*

I spent the first six years of my professional life as a Lutheran school principal in California, first in the northern and then in the southern part of the state. I recall with gratitude and appreciation the 100 or so principals who were my colleagues. We met together often. They served me as mentors and models. They impressed me by not only serving as principals, but at the same time being full-time classroom teachers and more often than not also being their congregation’s organist and choir director. One other factor stands out: All 100 of them were male.

In the mid 1950’s I accepted a position as a major leader for setting up a Lutheran school system in Hong Kong (which today enrolls some 25,000 students.). My memory is that when the World Mission Board considered candidates for that position they looked at no female possibilities.

I recall with admiration and appreciation the Lutheran school principals who were my colleagues in Michigan when I served them as their District Superintendent in the late 60’s and early 70’s. They served from the heart of Detroit to the village of Bach. There were over 100 of them in those days. I visited in the homes of as many as possible. This, too, I recall, 109 were male; 1 was female.

In the later 80’s my duties took me to the Center for Urban Education Ministries in New York. It didn’t take long to notice: more and more principals of urban Lutheran schools were female. We convened a significant number of them and asked them to share their stories. They told us that often they had been selected only when no male would accept the position. The more we listened the more we learned another obvious point. These women were committed, capable, professional models for all.

Today when I read the web sites, blogs and other literature I am struck by the fact that one of the most challenging positions within the entire Lutheran Church is the position of Early Childhood Center Director. These leaders deal with incredibly complex issues ranging from extremely complicated tuition and fees schedules, to complicated salary schedules, to concerns ranging from peanut butter to recording devises hidden in the kids’ back packs. Another reality hits me. Almost all of these competent servant leaders are female.

In reflection I am saddened again with the realization of how any society or segment of society deprives itself when it chooses to not utilize the gifts of all members of the society, male and female.

*NOTE: This is one in a series of six blog entries related to a presentation I will make at the 2010 Lutheran Education Association National Administrators Conference in New Orleans in February 2010.

Following that event my blog will again be more in the “All Things Considered” category.

Boyhood Dreams*

I recall only two overarching boyhood dreams. The first (probably more fantasy than dream) was to be a professional baseball player-especially one in the image of New York Giant Mel Ott. Didn’t we even share the same given name? During the baseball season I would hurry home from school, dig into the sports page of the newspaper and look at the stats for Mel Ott. Someday only the last name would be changed. That dream, of course, died young.

My second dream was to be Lutheran parochial school teacher-just like my dad. That was a wonderful calling. Dad was one of the most respected persons in our entire rural community. He was a TEACHER. People asked for his opinion. He wore a white shirt, tie, coat and freshly polished black shoes to school-every day. When boys who had graduated from Zion Lutheran school went off to serve in World War II the one person they made sure to write letters to was my father. Since he was also the church’s organist and choir director he played a major role at every wedding, funeral, baptism, anniversary. He even directed the brass band on a special bandstand at the annual school picnic. Lutheran schoolteacher, that was my dream. I never even considered any other option.

Thus I was shocked once (and only once) when my mother startled me (I must have been about 6 years old) when she looked at me with loving eyes and asked, “Melvin, are you sure you want to a Lutheran school teacher? Surely there must be some better option!”I now know that she asked this question out of a specific reality. It was during the depression and the congregation had been unable to pay dad his salary. We have even become dependent upon her more affluent brothers and sisters for clothes and extra food. Also there had been some conflict ion the congregation and some unkind things had been said about my dad. Mother spoke tome out of genuine mother’s love. I explained to Mother that I had only one dream and was hanging on to that. She never again suggested an alternative and loved and supported me throughout my career and even told me she was proud to be my mother.

As I now look back to that dream of some eight decades ago I affirm that it was a good dream- and the realty of my career far exceeded my wildest dreams.

*NOTE: This is one in a series of six blog entries related to a presentation I will make at the 2010 Lutheran Education Association National Administrators Conference in New Orleans in February 2010.

Following that my blog will again be more in the All Things Considered category.

Pat Robertson and Other Religious Figures

Well, Pat Robertson has done it again. He asserted that the terrible hurricane which hit Haiti is the result of a pact the Haitians made with the devil long ago and that deal made long ago to sell their souls in return for freedom from the French has now come back to strike them with unimaginable devastation.

This kind of logic and religious belief is not new for Mr. Robertson. He has, of course claimed that Florida hurricanes of 2004-05 were because Disney had Gay Day at its Parks. Katrina was brought down by God in anger over the sins of Bourbon Street. Even 9-11 was essentially self-inflicted and sent by an angry God.

Naturally, I do not lay these disasters at the feet of a vengeful God. Rather the God whom I worship sees people hurting and suffering and weeps and calls us to reach out in compassion and sacrificial care.

Yet there is more. I think this is a time for leading spokespersons of the Christian faith-and especially those with an evangelical leaning to publicly and insistently speak out. They should say, “Pat Robertson does not reflect Biblical (and especially Christian) thinking or dogma. He is wrong.” Authentic Christianity points to a God with a special heart for those who hurt, and who mourns in sympathy with all who suffer loss and pain.

While I ask the Christian leaders to do this in connection with Robertson, I make a similar appeal to leaders in the Muslim world in their response to Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab. I would hope that every time an Islamic terrorist claims to take or attempts to take innocent life in the name of God and hope for eternal blessing, that leaders in that world should proclaim loud and clear, “This is not what we believe. This is not the Islam which we preach.”

Let us all, if we must speak in the name of God, speak of a God who calls us all to strive for peace, prosperity and a reverence for life.

Horror:Lutheran School Finances

For centuries Lutheran school around the world have been blessed by the outstanding commitment, skills, and sacrifices of their administrators. Each year their task becomes more complicated. Today’s Lutheran school administrator and especially also the preschool administrators need to manage not only academic excellence and Christian distinctiveness but also public relations, buildings, heightened parental expectation, ever changing regulations, public health issues-and finances. And when it comes to finances some meet the challenge exceedingly well. Other cannot cope and end up with horror stories

The Lutheran preschool director from New Jersey was in tears as she spoke with me on the phone She had consistently withheld all FICA (Social security, income tax etc.) payment from her staff. However she had never sent in those funds to the appropriate government agencies She had needed the funds just to keep her much loved school functioning. The day of reckoning came when she heard from the IRS. First, she cleared out her own personal bank account in an effort to keep her school alive. That was not enough. She knew she had to report the situation to her Church officers, When they would find out, she was sure she would be fired. She reported, was fired and the school was closed

The national offices of the Lutheran Church asked me to pay a visit to the Lutheran school in St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands. Something down there didn’t seem to be going well. I was happy to investigate. After all this school is one of the oldest Lutheran schools in the Western Hemisphere. I was pleased with what I found, good teaching-learning. The top citizens of that island were sending their children to this school. The principal was new. Finally I asked him if there were any significant problems. He hastened to explain. “You see, “ he said I have been withholding FICA payments but have not sent them in to the USA Government to which we are accountable for them and now I have received word from them of our delinquency. I don’t even have the money for the base amount, much less for the deferred interest penalties.” .I asked him if his school board had a plan to deal with this. He replied, “Oh, no. I haven’t told them yet. There is a meeting with them tonight and I was hoping you would tell them this story and give us directions for solving this problem.” At the end of the term the school closed.

But the saddest of these horror stories took place in New York. The school was large and excellent. Teachers ,pupils and families were all cared for. Learning was taking place. Self-esteem was being built. So I was startled to get a telephone call shortly after midnight. One of their best teachers (a single mother ) was calling. She was calling from her hospital bed-and she was devastated by two terrible pieces of news she had just received, First she had been diagnosed with a fatal disease with a very short life expectancy. Secondly, the hospital finance department had called to tell her that her medical insurance was not in effect because the school had not submitted the monthly premiums. As she was trying to cope with this , another though flashed in to her mind . “I wonder if the school has sent in the pension and retirement fees they had deducted from her monthly salary.These were critical for the survival of her daughter. She said she knew it was after midnight but she wondered if I could do any thing about at once and come to the hospital to give her some hope.

To my (and her dismay ) we learned that , in fact , the school had sent in neither health premiums nor retirement deductions for over a year !

I grieved deeply at her Memorial Service only a short time later.

A bit of good news in the midst of it. I contacted our wonderfully caring and competent attorney Howard lapel and he got right on the case. Together with his associate they got the Internal revenue Service to drop all interest and penalty charges and arranged for time payment of the balance. And the Lutheran Church at the national level came through in a very compassionate way to assist with the medical bill and survivor benefits.

The lesson has been relearned; when finances are not handled appropriately the results create incredible horror stories.