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.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Thursday, October 14, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
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.
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.
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