China IV: One Child Policy

(Note: I have just returned from a three-week visit to China and Hong Kong and am reflecting

on some of my experiences and impressions in a series of blogs of which this is No. 4.) 

The trip to China from which I recently returned was trip number seven since 1989. On each trip virtually every one of my Chinese hosts has chosen to talk about the China One Child Policy. This is very understandable because almost everyone in China is affected by it. First put into action in 1978 it limits family size to one child for all couples except those in selected rural areas, minority groups and parents whose first children are a set of twins.

The results are dramatic. It is estimated that half a billion births have been prevented. In the past, births of female fetuses were often avoided through abortion. (It is now illegal for any person to reveal to a pregnant mother the gender of a fetus as shown on a sonogram). Births of daughters were often unreported so that the couple would wait for the second child (hopefully a male) and that birth would be recorded as “first child”. All of this has resulted in a situation where there are approximately 117 young males for every 100 females. Another result from this endeavor is that India has or soon will exceed China as the world’s most populous country. Another obvious outcome is that the number of younger people in the workplace who support the elderly is now dramatically reduced.  

Family dynamics are, of course, significantly influenced. People have no aunts, uncles or cousins. Two sets of grandparents have only one grandchild among the four of them. Parents wonder if their one child will be able to support them in the traditional way of caring for them. (There are even for-profit endeavors to provide Senior Citizen Retirement Communities that can be a source of profit for those who operate them. And, to date, there are virtually no state-mandated regulations for such endeavors.)

 Enforcement of the One Child policy has also become more difficult. Three years ago I still heard female elementary teachers saying that if they already had one child (a daughter) they sometimes were forced to take a pregnancy test to ensure that if they were pregnant they would be required to get an abortion. In my last two trips I was told that this practice has now been stopped. In the past all persons had severe limitations as to where they could live It was all government assigned. Now there is much greater freedom of choice and people buy their own apartments. In the past families with more than one child were on a lower admissions priority for hospital care than families with only one child. That, too, is not something I heard about as still being practiced.

A significant impact has been on parenting styles. While this may be true in all cultures, it is my belief that the “authoritarian’ or “permissive” reality is doubly true in China. Each parent will have only one child. Each grandparent will have only one grandchild. One response is that some really want that child to be an absolutely outstanding perfect child in every way and so the elders are very strict, very authoritarian, often quite punishing of unacceptable behavior. (See the Tiger Mom syndrome.) On the other extreme are those parents and grandparents who say, “You are our only child (grandchild). You are the empress/emperor in our family. Whatever toy, or clothing, or gadget, or second McDonalds you want. it is yours!” To suggest to parents that there is an alternative to these two options is a very hard sell, is counter culture and is why the introduction Parent Effectiveness Training in China is moving ahead very, very slowly.

A recent change I have noticed: I had several people, especially women, say they would be just as happy or even happier to have a girl child than a male child. One taxi driver father with whom we chatted even said that he wished that one of his two children were a girl so that he would get at least one dowry!

As indicated above, there is a growing concern as to how the younger generation will be able to support the much larger older generation. Just last month I was told that in March there was a significant change in policy. Under the new policy if both husband and wife are themselves single children then they are allowed to have two children. The other thing that I experienced, especially in Shanghai and the more affluent urban areas is that couples are choosing to have more than one child because they now have incomes to overcome the state-imposed penalties (poorer housing or higher taxes et sim). They have the resources for a second child so they choose to have them. Concurrently (especially in places like Shenzhen) young couples are choosing to live together without formal marriages and those couples are either not having any children at all or are significantly delaying the birth of their first child. Lastly, the divorce rate in urban areas is rising dramatically (50% now in some areas) so those couples, too, are choosing to not have even that one child.

Three things are certain: 1. China central government will continue to adopt and attempt to enforce a countrywide “population growth policy”. 2. Enforcement will vary greatly from province to province. 3. Children of both genders will be conceived, born and grow up in very complex interconnected world which last week experienced the birth of its 7 billionth living resident.

(Note: I have just returned from a three-week visit to China and Hong Kong and am reflecting

on some of my experiences and impressions in a series of blogs of which this is No. 4.) 

The trip to China from which I recently returned was trip number seven since 1989. On each trip virtually every one of my Chinese hosts has chosen to talk about the China One Child Policy. This is very understandable because almost everyone in China is affected by it. First put into action in 1978 it limits family size to one child for all couples except those in selected rural areas, minority groups and parents whose first children are a set of twins.

The results are dramatic. It is estimated that half a billion births have been prevented. In the past, births of female fetuses were often avoided through abortion. (It is now illegal for any person to reveal to a pregnant mother the gender of a fetus as shown on a sonogram). Births of daughters were often unreported so that the couple would wait for the second child (hopefully a male) and that birth would be recorded as “first child”. All of this has resulted in a situation where there are approximately 117 young males for every 100 females. Another result from this endeavor is that India has or soon will exceed China as the world’s most populous country. Another obvious outcome is that the number of younger people in the workplace who support the elderly is now dramatically reduced.  

Family dynamics are, of course, significantly influenced. People have no aunts, uncles or cousins. Two sets of grandparents have only one grandchild among the four of them. Parents wonder if their one child will be able to support them in the traditional way of caring for them. (There are even for-profit endeavors to provide Senior Citizen Retirement Communities that can be a source of profit for those who operate them. And, to date, there are virtually no state-mandated regulations for such endeavors.)

 Enforcement of the One Child policy has also become more difficult. Three years ago I still heard female elementary teachers saying that if they already had one child (a daughter) they sometimes were forced to take a pregnancy test to ensure that if they were pregnant they would be required to get an abortion. In my last two trips I was told that this practice has now been stopped. In the past all persons had severe limitations as to where they could live It was all government assigned. Now there is much greater freedom of choice and people buy their own apartments. In the past families with more than one child were on a lower admissions priority for hospital care than families with only one child. That, too, is not something I heard about as still being practiced.

A significant impact has been on parenting styles. While this may be true in all cultures, it is my belief that the “authoritarian’ or “permissive” reality is doubly true in China. Each parent will have only one child. Each grandparent will have only one grandchild. One response is that some really want that child to be an absolutely outstanding perfect child in every way and so the elders are very strict, very authoritarian, often quite punishing of unacceptable behavior. (See the Tiger Mom syndrome.) On the other extreme are those parents and grandparents who say, “You are our only child (grandchild). You are the empress/emperor in our family. Whatever toy, or clothing, or gadget, or second McDonalds you want. it is yours!” To suggest to parents that there is an alternative to these two options is a very hard sell, is counter culture and is why the introduction Parent Effectiveness Training in China is moving ahead very, very slowly.

A recent change I have noticed: I had several people, especially women, say they would be just as happy or even happier to have a girl child than a male child. One taxi driver father with whom we chatted even said that he wished that one of his two children were a girl so that he would get at least one dowry!

As indicated above, there is a growing concern as to how the younger generation will be able to support the much larger older generation. Just last month I was told that in March there was a significant change in policy. Under the new policy if both husband and wife are themselves single children then they are allowed to have two children. The other thing that I experienced, especially in Shanghai and the more affluent urban areas is that couples are choosing to have more than one child because they now have incomes to overcome the state-imposed penalties (poorer housing or higher taxes et sim). They have the resources for a second child so they choose to have them. Concurrently (especially in places like Shenzhen) young couples are choosing to live together without formal marriages and those couples are either not having any children at all or are significantly delaying the birth of their first child. Lastly, the divorce rate in urban areas is rising dramatically (50% now in some areas) so those couples, too, are choosing to not have even that one child.

Three things are certain: 1. China central government will continue to adopt and attempt to enforce a countrywide “population growth policy”. 2. Enforcement will vary greatly from province to province. 3. Children of both genders will be conceived, born and grow up in very complex interconnected world which last week experienced the birth of its 7 billionth living resident.

China III: The Church In China

(Note: I have just returned from a three-week visit to China and Hong Kong and am reflecting on some of my experiences and impressions in a series of blogs of which this is No. 3.)

I make no claims on being an expert on the Christian church in China today. I simply reflect upon my personal experience in the churches my wife Jane and I visited there last month. The first Sunday we visited the Beijing Chongwenmen Church. Like all registered churches in China today it does not claim any denominational affiliation, as denominationalism has been declared illegal in China. However, The brochure of the Chiongwenmen Church speaks of it being established in 1870 under the auspices of the American Methodist Church. Today it is a registered “Three-Self Church”. As such it has three important characteristics. One, it must be self-governed, that is, not accountable to any foreign hierarchy or Board like the Vatican or an American Mission Board. Secondly, it must be self-propagating. Foreign evangelists are not permitted and the evangelistic preaching must all be done by Chinese. Thirdly, it must be self-financing. Restrictions for the operating funds of local churches in China are severely enforced.

The service we attended was one of 5 that the congregation held that day. Four were conducted in Mandarin and one in Korean. The church was packed - at least a thousand worshipers. I noted the great diversity. While women were in the majority there were certainly many males present. The age grouping was fairly representative of the general population. The dress was “middle class informal". Two female pastors served the congregation. The beautifully robed women’s choir sang beautifully. The hymns and readings were posted on the overhead screens and the audiovisuals were all done very professionally.

As foreign visitors we were seated in the section equipped with headphones and we could select English as the translated (interpreted) language. We were only 4 Americans among the many visitors who were introduced and the attractive young woman who sat next to me introduced herself (in English) as coming from Russia.

The liturgy was traditional, with the readings the same as those read by thousands of other Christian churches around the world. (Aside: this is one reason I like the traditional designated readings. I can be in a Christian church anywhere in the world on any given Sunday and know that the people of Calvary Lutheran Church, Solana Beach, California will be listening to exactly the same reading on that Sunday. Note: No offering was received, but offering receptacles were at the door as one left.

The second Sunday we went to church in a smaller city some 60 miles west of Xian. We attended there because our Chinese host, Laurie Li,, has a mother and brother who are members of that congregation. It is quite unusual for any foreigners to be in that church and very rare (if ever) for a foreigner to address the congregation. I was very clear that I did not intend to “preach the sermon: The elders did get permission from their duly appointed Government Liaison Officer for me to bring greetings, to lead a prayer, and to speak the benediction. This church, too, had about 1000 in attendance that day. The church was packed. The women and men’s choir was beautifully robed and did an outstanding dramatic presentation of readings and song. Even with several thousand members this church does not have a pastor as there simply are not enough pastors ordained to serve all the parishes. So this church, Immanuel by name, was led by three elders, one of whom is part-time at the seminary and hopes to be ordained and then serve as pastor of this church.

This church, too, had, of course been closed during the Mao years. The churches were all converted to warehouses, factories, even arsenals. But now they are being restored (sometimes even with Government assistance).

Just three asides: 1. When the pastor introduced us he mentioned that we were celebrating our 60th wedding anniversary. The congregation applauded vigorously. During communion tens of members stopped by our pew and used their cell phone cameras to have their pictures taken with us. But most surprising was that after telling about our wedding the elder announced the Psalm reading for the day. And it turned out to be exactly the verses (Psalm 34:1-4) that the pastor had used as homily text when we were married all those years ago in Ft. Wayne, Indiana. 2. After the service Jane and I and Laurie’s family were hosted to a very simple, yet profoundly moving luncheon in a little room in the back of the church. It was just salted peanuts, a green vegetable, some bean curd and a lovely steamed fish, but in that setting and out of that poverty (the lead elder’s monthly salary is $80.00) I was moved almost to tears. 3. Our host’s brother is a member of that church. For years he was a silent member as he was a Communist Party member and dared not be exposed as a Christian. However, the climate has changed, he is “out” as a Christian and even sings in the choir where all can see him

Fact: There are probably over100 million Christians in China today. They come from all classes of society and are of all ages. They meet in registered state-approved churches and in the non-official house churches. Sometimes they are persecuted, jailed and even killed. But generally the church is seeing a renaissance which is affecting all levels of society and the individual stories could fill volumes.

China/Hong Kong II: Hospitality

(Note: I have just returned from a three week visit to China and Hong Kong and will reflect on some of my experiences and impressions in a series of blogs of which this is No. 2.)

Almost all of the world’s great religions call upon their followers to “practice hospitality”. I have tried to follow that important injunction. However, on the trip from which Jane I just returned the tables were turned: We were the objects of others’ hospitality, and at a level beyond my wildest imagination. I am still reeling in overwhelm.

It all started simply enough. One Sunday morning after I taught a class at my church I announced that I would be gone for a few weeks as I was headed to China. A gentleman by name of Elwein came up to me and asked if I needed assistance with air travel. I explained that that was not required as the organization for which I was doing this trip had already purchased my round trip ticket. However, in response to some impulse that I am not sure I know from whence it came I added, “But if my wife I make it through 60 years of marriage next year and our health permits, we would like to celebrate with a visit China, and if you could help us out with a few frequent flyer miles so that we could move from the back of plane to the Economy Plus that would surely be appreciated.”

This almost casual remark yielded a marvelous gift. Leon and Sarah booked us First Class to Beijing with return from Hong Kong. On top of that they provided accommodations at the top JW Marriott’s in each of those cities. And more: they got us our visas, facilitated access to the Executive Lounges, and picked up all meal costs in Beijing.

When we arrived in Beijing Leon casually announced that we were there to celebrate our 60th. Immediately the check-in person slipped next door, spoke with the manger and returned with the announcement: “To help you celebrate, we are upgrading you to a corner suite with an extra sitting room, 2 baths and office space.” We had barely arrived in that glorious space when the manager and a butler arrived with a magnum of champaigne, two flutes and an assortment of sweets beautifully arranged on a bed of rose petals. And (believe it or not) this process was repeated some 10 days later when we checked into the Marriott in Hong Kong.

Of course, it didn’t stop there. There was a Peking Duck Dinner at the premier Peking Duck restaurant in Beijing (complete with a certificate showing the registered numbers of the two ducks we had eaten certifying that they were indeed of the genuine highest quality available anywhere in the country.) When our host took us for dinner in the home of the top Ophthalmologist of Chinas, we tagged along as guests. We were greeted with a beautiful personal gift of a tea set, served a 20 dish meal, and fêted not only with Qingdao beer but also with a very good moa tai.

All of our travel and accommodations within China were given us by a marvelous friend by the name of Laurie Li Xiao Hung and her husband Wang Qing. I first met Laurie when she was my country guide on the first of 4 tours I led in China. Our relationship went beyond the professional. When she visited the Sates I was blessed to baptize her into the Christian faith.

Laurie is a very smart and effective businesswoman. When she was about two years of age she literally lived in a pigsty when her father as an intellectual was sent to the countryside by Mao Tze Tung for “reeducation” during the Cultural Revolution. Now 50 years later she has utilized her amazing organizing, marketing, and service skills so that she now owns two apartments and two offices. One of those apartments she made available just for Jane and me for our stay in Xian. This was not just a place to sleep: She equipped it with a well stocked bar, new silk bed coverings, specially arranged computer and phone access, and (get this) she moved a piano into the apartment and had it specially tuned so that Jane could play the piano while we were visiting. Of course, she hosted us everywhere we went. We couldn’t even pay for a cup of tea.

It keeps going: Because Laurie is in the travel business she arranged for one of the very top Tour Guides in all of China to give us a personalized tour of the Tierra Cotta Warriors with reserved VIP parking space included. When we went to visit the Shaan Xi Provincial Museum Ping our Guide was really such an expert that I commented upon it. Lauri’s reply, “Of course, she is the best. You must know that when Bill Gates and Warren Buffet were in China she was appointed their official guide!”

Laurie and her husband Qing (whose government official boss had loaned us the car for our visit) took us everywhere, served us in special restaurants (including the one where our menu was a succession of 8 different kinds of specially prepared mushrooms), entertained us at a Tang Dynasty Cultural show and helped us meet a University professor who had taught our son years ago when he studied in China.

It was Laurie who gave us the tickets to Guilin and who paid for Peter, our guide, who took us down the Li River. It was Laurie who had her colleague in that city host us for a gorgeous dinner and sent us on our way with gifts. (See my upcoming blog, Religion in China, for Laurie took us to a very special worship service with her family)

In spite of my protests that I wanted to be the host, the Parent Effectiveness Training licensee in Shenzhen feted us at plush Seaside Sheraton Hotel which at lunch featured a gorgeously decorated 60th Wedding anniversary cake, all documented by the official photographer whom she employed to record our little celebration. The host by the name of Coco hired a private car to ease our exit from China and entry into Hong Kong where this amazing hospitality just kept going. Private transportation everywhere on a Mercedes driven by former student Kim Lin Chu who hosted us with meals at places like the Peninsula and Repulse Bay hotels. This happened after another couple of former students met us virtually upon our arrival at our hotel to give us a relaxing message, provide us with a generous wad of “walking around” money, gave us a cell phone and an assortment of other gifts. Other alumni and friends just kept feting us - at their home, at The American Club, the Yau Chuen Club et sim. It all came to a grand finale when some 150 alumni threw a massive 60th wedding anniversary celebration formal dinner with much multi-media, flowing wine, humongous wedding cake, free flowing wine, gifts, excellent emcee, thanksgiving prayers, dedicatory books, the naming of Kieschnick Garden etc.etc.

Then First Class travel home and now the memories to last beyond a lifetime.

China/Hong Kong I: Energy

(Note: I have just returned from a three week visit to China and Hong Kong and will reflect on some of my experiences and impressions in a series of blogs of which this is No. 1)

Energy; I felt it as soon as I got off the long flight. People moved quickly through the airport. The persons waiting in line with their signs to welcome newcomers jostled each other to get closer to the exiting passengers. On the drive from the Beijing airport to our hotel I got the first experience of traffic in China today. Gone are the millions of bicycles or even the ox carts, or pedicabs of earlier visits. Now it is all cars and trucks by the millions in traffic that seems incredibly chaotic to an American (And I am accustomed to New York City, Chicago and Los Angeles). Lanes mean nothing. Cutting in front of other drivers is the only way to make progress. Shifting of lanes is constant, exiting from a right exit by crossing across four lanes. Drivers kept their cool, accidents were no more common than in other countries. It was just millions of Chinese determined to get to their destination as quickly as possible.

Pedestrians have no roadway rights. It was explained to me this way, “There are billions of people in China. If pedestrians ever had the right of way, vehicular traffic would be in permanent stop. This is the only way traffic could ever move.” And I was also told that as a pedestrian I must keep walking forward, if stopped, then halt momentarily, but by no means should I ever take a step back. “If you ever take a step back as a pedestrian you will just confuse everyone in China. Don’t do it. Keep your face forward and when there is a three foot space in front of an approaching car move into it.”

This urge to move finds another way of expressing itself in elevators. As soon as a person enters an elevator the “Close door” button is pushed. If another person enters before the elevator starts up, that person, too, immediately presses the “close door” button. When I was a bit slow in inserting my hotel key into the special slot before pushing my floor number I felt the impatience of my fellow passengers. The message is: Hurry, Hurry, Hurry!

This hectic pace is reflected in an unprecedented flurry of construction. China has paved more miles of highways in the last few years than the rest of the world combined. The typical way of dealing with a mountain is to tunnel through it. Wide expanses like the ocean between the city of Qingdao and outlying islands are simply spanned by the world’s largest (by far) sea bridge. Bullet trains are what the people expect everywhere, not just in Shanghai. For years the joke has been that the national bird of China is the crane. Huge construction cranes dot the landscape of every large city in China. In Xian alone I saw thousands as far as the eye could see. Massive construction sites of apartment units utilize a separate crane for each structure.

The old wedding walk in which the male friends of the groom accompanied him by foot to get his bride from her home was a centuries old custom. Now this is replaced by car caravans, often including autos especially rented for the occasion. In the long fast driving procession the cars get into a row and speed down the freeway. Their intention is clearly identified because they are decorated with wedding flowers, ribbons and specially designed license plates that have cartoon style depictions of the bride and groom. In some cases they even have a police car escorting the pack, hurrying them on their way at 75 miles an hour..

Thanks to the growing economic power of the masses, Chinese can now become tourists to the amazingly varied and plentiful tourist suites in this remarkable country. So new hotels, restaurants, tour buses, tour boats are everywhere. We went down the beautiful Li River to marvel at the overwhelming beauty of the mountains of the region. The first time I went down this river in 1989 we were on the lone boat to make that trip that day, with a passenger capacity of less than 100. This time there were 20 boats in this caravan-each with some 200 passengers on board, by far the vast majority of them being Chinese.

The only thing more hectic than travel in Beijing or maybe Shentzhen is travel in the beyond –all comprehension-pace of life in Hong Kong; but that’s another story.

Object of Charity

Throughout my life I have been the blessed object of charity, well beyond my deserving or anyone’s imagination. It begins with the early memory of me as a five-year-old kid at our church/school picnic. My uncle gave me a quarter. That amount was huge, enough for five ice cream cones or a hamburger, a cone, a candy bar, a strawberry soda pop and then another cone.

When I was in high school preparing to teach in the church I received a most unusual gift. A bride from my home church had gone through the ritual of that time to pass around the bride’s shoe and the guests would put in coins as a special gift for her. She decided not to keep it but to send it to me to help with my tuition.

When I was in college I did not have the money even for a bus ticket from Concordia Chicago to Texas at Christmas time. So on December 23rd I was busy as a bar tender at a Christmas party at the Oak Park Club. When I got to my dorm after midnight there was a check from another uncle for $100.00, a full term’s tuition at that time!

My first assignment after college graduation was as principal of St. Paul’s Lutheran in Tracy California. At Christmas the parents of my students gave me the cash to spend Christmas with my fiancé teaching in Michigan. When we returned a year later as a new couple the pantry shower held for us caused our kitchen to overflow with goodies. This was followed by chicken for the fryer, tomatoes to can and an occasional six-pack to enjoy.

The gifts kept coming. One night at my next parish in Glendale, California we went to a dinner at the end of which a big television was rolled into the room. It was our first TV ever.

From there we went to Hong Kong where colleagues and parents of students even out of their poverty were most generous with gifts of many kinds, including, for example, two freshly laid eggs a grateful mother sent from her meager little operation in gratitude for the education her children were receiving. Just before we boarded a flight to the USA to take to a hospital my wife who was suffering from a cerebral aneurysm, my 12-year-old son came running into the house. “Dad, the woman at that little shack of a store at the end of our street heard that Mom was sick. Here, she sent an orange for Mom and a bottle of beer for you!”

When a long recuperation period for my wife was demanded, the generosity we experienced more than matched our anxieties. The faculty wives of Concordia Chicago baby-sat a couple of times a week. Mabel Warnke who had visited us in Hong Kong provided a refrigerator and meals twice a week. When the editor of the church’s periodical realized I did not have an overcoat he literally took his off his back and placed it on my shoulders.

It goes on to great lengths which overwhelms me (and might bore the reader): “The green fees are on me”; Gift cards like “dinner for two at the steak house”; “I’ll host a meal at Ghaddi’s in the Peninsula”; “Just take those hearing aids. I have been looking for someone who could use them”; Next month Jane and I take off for 3 weeks in China, all First Class and all paid for by friends, old and new!

Probably most amazing of all is that when I get all these undeserved gifts the donors have never made me feel like “an object of charity”. I have never felt like an object, but always like a person who reflects in gratitude, wonder and praise to the Giver and the givers of all these good and perfect gifts.

Four Strong Women

I have been blessed to be in a family line that has included many very strong women. Lately I have reflected upon just 4 of them.

Great Grandmother Friedrich grew up in the post-Civil War sparsely settled ranch and farmlands of Texas. She raised the vegetables, the hogs, the calves, the chickens that kept her family fed and nourished. At one pint she noticed that the number of chickens in her coop seemed to be diminishing at a rate faster than what she had been slaughtering them. Then she noticed that this reduction seemed to occur during the night. So one night she stationed her self in the back of the chicken pen armed only with a very strong flashlight. Sure enough: In the middle of the night a figure appeared in the doorway. As he stepped in she flashed the light upon him and recognized him as a young farm worker who lived in one of the huts on her farm. He was, of course, as startled as she. He stammered, “I am lost. Can you tell me the way to Giddings?” (a nearby town). Immediately Great Grandma stared him down and said, “You (expletive deleted) know the way to Giddings as well as I do. Now get out of here because if you come again I will have something stronger than a flashlight on my hand!” From then on the only chickens that disappeared from her hen house were those that ended up in her frying pan.

Aunt Elizabeth became a widow responsible for two young children when she was just in her thirties. She managed it all by raising chickens and marketing them and the eggs they produced. In her old age she lived alone. One night a young man (possibly on drugs) appeared in her room. He was armed. He demanded she go get him money. She refused to budge. Instead she started a conversation. She reminded him that somewhere he must have a mother who loved him and who would be disappointed to see him robbing an old defenseless widow. She kept the conversation going as the would-be robber became more reflective, decided not to pursue the robbery and was about to leave. At that point Aunt Elizabeth said “No, wait. Sit down. We are going to have a prayer.” And so she prayed for the young man, his mother and his future. She was never intruded upon again.

My Mother had to be physically strong. She bore nine children. One summer she “put-up” 800 quarts of vegetables and fruits to feed us through the winter. She washed our clothes without a hot water heater, wrung the clothes dry by hand and hung them up on wash lines. Then she starched and ironed basketful after basketful of them. She nursed us all through red-eye, measles, mumps, whooping cough, scarletina, poison ivy, broken bones and broken hearts.

One image stands out for me. Somehow or other the very large pasture surrounding our house, barn and sheds caught fire in the midst of a dry Texas summer. The parched grass and broom weeds were blazing and heading toward our home. Dad was not at home. Mother marshaled us. She got out 5 cans holding 5 gallons each and old burlap bags. I can still see my mom lugging two enormous cans each holding five gallons of water. She ran to the edge of the fire some 100 yards away, wet down the burlap bags and beat down the flames at the edge of the on-coming conflagration. Then she ran back refilled those cans, again she lugged them to the fire, instructing us to join her. She repeated this until the fire was extinguished. I still see her, not only struggling with those heavy containers, but after the fire breathing very heavily, completely exhausted, sweating, black with ash and sighing after saving our home from destruction.

My sister Mimi had already proven herself by rising to be first the head nurse and then the widely acclaimed administrator of a community hospital. Then one average Saturday morning she walked into the small Walburg State Bank to make a simple transaction. In the midst of this, two angry men walked in, armed and aggressive. They ordered Mimi to lie face down prone on the floor. She did. They ordered the teller to turn over the cash. He complied and still they fired at him with the bullet grazing his head. One of the robbers stood over Mimi straddling her body. Then just before exiting he fired and blew the skull off the back of her head. Ambulances arrived, emergency care was provided. Contrary to every prognosis and due to Providence, old ammunition, and the strength and determination of one very strong woman, Mimi recovered enough to advance in her profession and receive statewide acknowledgment of her skills and leadership. Then recently she had “ a medical incident”. The attending physician who had not really studied her medical history said to her “Hmm, this activity seems to be the result of some severe trauma to your brain. Do you have any memory of something like that happening?” She remembers, of course, but it has not kept her from being one more of those strong women who continue to be for me much-valued models and inspiration.

Blog: Sounds, Silence, Community

SOUNDS: There are so many sounds I just love to hear. The Dr.’s voice “Mother and baby are both fine” The grandkids in the room next door just having fun together. The key opening the front door as my teen-ager returns from her date. The Hallelujah Chorus. The roar of the crowd at a home game with my team scoring the winning run. The plop at the bottom of the cup after a long putt. The intimate whisper that says, “I love you” The very personal sounds of satisfying sex with one’s spouse. The train whistle in the dark distance. The hustle and bustle of people, cars, buses, policemen, hawkers of central Hong Kong or downtown Manhattan. Soft and gentle or raucous and lively, I love sounds.

SOUNDS: There are so many sounds I hate to hear. A parent yelling putdowns to her child. Heavy rock metal. Your flight has been delayed. The stock market is down 500 points. A religious zealot telling me that “if you just…” The answering machine telling me I have 21 messages. Unfortunately the test results came out…” The talk show host who just won’t shut up. The alarm clock after what seems like just minutes since I fell asleep.

SILENCE: There is a silence I love. I walk in silence under the majestic redwoods of Muir Woods. The TV is off, no one speaks, no cars are within earshot. The rare quiet of the sanctuary before the prelude. The loud couple at the restaurant table next to ours has just signed their credit card. Parent-teacher conferences are over for the day and I sit at my desk alone. I stand alone at sunset over my parents’ grave in the Texas country church graveyard. I lie awake at 2:00 am and just reflect and all is okay.

SILENCE: There is a silence I don’t like. I wait for the phone to ring with good news, but there is no ring. I make a presentation to a class, ask for reaction and no one speaks, I ponder a tragedy, I ask, “WHY?” and can hear no response from anywhere. I do something well and await some affirmation but no words reach my ears. I seek for just the right words to say to someone in pain but come up only with silence.

COMMUNITY: I reflect upon SOUND and SILENCE as I read about David Brooks new book, “The Social Animal”. From it I learn an essential truth: In all my sounds and silences there is a part of me that is seeking a “connection, a closing of the loneliness loop, an urge to merge a community. In all my sounds, in all my silences, I am never completely alone. I am connected with nature, with others, with the eternal.

I Am Glad The Tears Still Flow

For the second Sunday evening in succession I felt the tears roll down my cheeks. I was surprised to find myself so emotionally affected by a television program. Both times I had been watching 60 Minutes. The first time the copious tears rolled was as I watched the images of children injured in Iraq and the efforts of one American woman to get them new legs, to correct terrible facial scars, to bring healing to body and soul. Those kids, damaged and repaired, touched me at the heart of who I am.

The second set of visuals was entirely different. They were of older men and women, some with scraggly dirty beards; others with clean clothes and eyes that betrayed bewilderment and disorientation, aloneness. These persons, too, had been in Iraq and in Afghanistan. They were adults, veterans from the US military. The other thing they all had in common: they were homeless, living on the streets of America. I became deeply aware that I as a citizen had asked them to go to war for me and now I, as a citizen was playing a role in the homelessness, dispair, inadequate physical and mental health resources. And I wept.

It reminded me of years ago. I was at a Lutheran School Principals Conference in New York. Tough times for principals and some had had to let staff go. One principal recounted how he had let an ineffective teacher go. “It was rough”, he said. “She really needed that job but the kids were not learning”. Then he added words I have never forgotten “I am glad it still hurts”

So when I find myself crying because a fellow human being is hurt, or sick, or disfigured or homeless or lost, my heart aches a lot. In the midst of the flowing tears I hear a tiny voice whispering, “I am glad the tears still flow”; for if those tears ever stop then I have stopped being fully human.

Father's Day 2011

Like millions of other kids on this day, today I remember my father. Of course, my memories are biased. They should be as I hope every kid has a positive bias in recalling their father. I certainly hope my kids bring a very positive prejudice (free even from justly deserved negative judgments) to this special day. So here go a few of my very fond and strong memories of my DAD.

Faith: My father was a man of deep religious faith. He believed in grace. I recall that at dad’s funeral the pastor said that he had a problem preaching on the text which my father had requested. My father had selected a text which referred to himself as “a chief sinner.” The pastor said that no-one who knew my father would ever have used that designation-but for dad it was a take-off to point to grace, boundless love and unconditional acceptance. My father’s faith in God, in family, in kids, in the possibility of preferred future, continues to ground and inspire me. He even had faith that someday his beloved Chicago Cubs would actually win a World Series!

Trust: My dad trusted me. I recall that when I was still quite young I lied to him. Even in that undeserving situation he trusted me and took me at my word. Toward the end of his life I came to tell him that I had made a major decision regarding my future and I wondered how he would react. He said “Mel, I raised you in a way that I could trust your judgment.. I have always trusted your judgment-“do what seemeth right to thee”.

Worker: Dad worked hard-probably too hard. When I was young he taught grades 4 to 8, was the principal of a two room Lutheran school. He concurrently served as the congregation’s choir director, organist, youth director, brass band director, custodian, and congregation secretary...all the while raising nine children, and sufficient pigs, chickens cows and vegetables to provide food. During the hot Texas summer he took himself and his kids into the fields to pick cotton - always with the injunction “In the field by sun-up!”

Story teller: Dad told stories at home-especially when we kids pleaded with him to tell the stories of his childhood when wolves howled at night, horses suddenly stampeded, grandmother encountered chicken thieves, and his dad’s black farm hands shared their own dreams of greatness. In school he told the stories of the Bible in such a way that recalling them sustains me to this day. At the Texas rural weddings (after he played the organ for the ceremony) there would come a time after much beer and bar-b-que where Teacher Kieschnick was asked to tell his fantasy stories about the bride and groom. Then he closed the entertainment with the appropriate version of his solo about how fortunate to marry either a very large or a very petite spouse-always changing the words to fit the situation.

Teacher: For his entire career my Dad was often just called TEACHER Kieschnick. And that was certainly the most appropriate title. He taught all those years at the elementary school level. He taught the values of faith and trust and humor and integrity, but I also marvel at how much academic stuff he taught. In that little two-room school I, for one, learned proper grammar and to this day know how to diagram sentences and determine if a verb is transitive or intransitive. He taught us how to multiply and divide fractions, the names of the capitals of all the sates, the three branches of government, and regularly checked to make sure we knew the names of all the secretaries on the US president’s cabinet.

Lover: Each of us nine kids is convinced that we were dad’s favorite child. Later this love was extended to in-laws and grandkids. One night there must have been near 20 of us in his small house. We were sleeping all over the place with our blankets and palates on the floor from wall to wall. I woke up during the night to see dad just walking by that mass of sleeping family and his heart was aglow. He loved us all and thought we were all great. He often spoke of and constantly demonstrated his great love for his wife-our mom. One of the saddest moments I remember of my dad was when in his old age once late at night he confessed to me that his one regret in life was that he never made enough money to give mom all that he would have liked. Of course, mom would join us and especially me in saying “Dad, you gave us riches way beyond your wildest imagination!”

Nobody Knows My Name

It was way back in the 1950’s that I became haunted by James Baldwin’s “Nobody Knows My Name”. Haunted is the right word. Personally, I saw in his writings a reflection of my own deeply ingrained racism. Professionally, I knew that as a Lutheran educator I needed to face up to the reality that the Brown vs. Board of Education decision would bring blacks also into the previously all white Lutheran schools. At an even deeper level I recall pondering what it would be like if, in fact, “Nobody Knows My Name” were true for me.

“Nobody Knows My Name” was not a personal reality for me. I was a fish in a very small pond where everybody knew everyone else’s name. In the small Lutheran community in Texas and the small German Lutheran community within that and the even smaller Missouri Synod community within that everybody knew my name. I was Melvin, the son teacher Kieschnick the most respected educator in that pond. I went to a very small Lutheran academy. Less than 50 students and everybody knew my name. It didn’t change when I went to Concordia Teachers College, a pond so small everybody knew everybody’s name, including mine. My circle stayed small; of course everyone in the Conference of Lutheran School principals of Northern California knew my name. Then I went to Hong Kong and within the small pond in which I swam everybody knew my name. I was the only American in most of those gatherings. And so it continued for another 40 years. In my small pond everybody knew my name. And that was “nice”.

The other day I was sitting at a lecture on anticipated changes in health care for seniors in America. I looked around. Nobody there knew my name. When I asked a question of the woman sitting next to me she glanced at my name badge and said, “I don’t think I know you.” When earlier this year I roamed corridors and exhibit hall at a national conference of Lutheran educators nobody knew my name. Even in my own congregation at clusters of those under 40 I am sure nobody knows my name. And I understand. I know I am now living in that huge pond named “retirement”.

All of this has led me to think about the millions in their world for whom “Nobody Knows My Name” is an entirely too common reality. They feel unnoticed, or neglected or just a cipher. What a tragedy.

Two reactions settle into my consciousness. 1. I will more often recall the words of the prophet who assured us that there is indeed One who “calls us by our name”. 2. I will work even harder to make sure I get the name of the persons with whom I have an interaction (no matter how casual) and call them by name. That way they will not be able to say, “Nobody Knows My Name.”

Blood, Sweat & No Tears

As I sit and watch blood being drawn from the arms of people of various ages my mind wanders. This time I am only a spectator as I am there with my wife Jane who was making an autologous blood donation in preparation for her hip and knee replacement surgeries. I recall how now some 60 years ago I somewhat apprehensively donated my first pint. Then came the first gallon milestone. After that things got interesting because I was in Hong Kong with different protocols. Most of the Chinese colleagues were very poor, with barely adequate diets and quite understandably apprehensive about giving up any of their blood. Then our school accountant’s wife desperately needed blood. Of course, I donated. I was overwhelmed with the response. It almost took on some heroic proportion as the talk spread throughout the campus “Principal Kieschnick has donated blood. It went to a Chinese woman. And she is doing well!”

There was another surprise. Immediately after the blood was drawn the nurse asked me “”Now, do you want a shot of rum or or scotch?” I assume she was kidding me as I had always been told to avoid alcohol for 24 hours after donating. But she assured me it was okay, that it was the usual practice to make this offer to any foreigner who donated blood in Hong Kong. She went on: “We get most of our donations from British servicemen and the only way we get them to do it is to offer them a nice tot of rum after the donation!”

I no longer donate because the last time I did it took me an hour to fill that little plastic bag. But I do feel good about those several gallons I have given and wonder where (if anywhere) it still flows.

Later the same day I was relaxing at a bar with a delicious margarita. I observed a high school kid come in and fill out a summer work application form. He was all bright-eyed and ready to go to work. My guess is he would do almost anything offered him. I asked the bartender about the job prospect for a summer job. “Zilch!” he said. “We have a drawer full of apps from kids like him. Of course, we have no jobs but we hate to discourage young lads like that.” Today summer jobs for teens are almost nonexistent. That got me to reflecting on my summer jobs. One word said it all: SWEAT.
Most of my summer jobs were with construction companies and I was always at the very lowest end of worker competence. The tools most often given me were pick and shovel. I dug and trimmed and deepened foundation trenches. In San Antonio Texas! In the summer! In temperatures often above 100º! My memories of my summer work are of being drenched in sweat. But I did work and I saved the money and I made it through college and I can still feel and smell the SWEAT.

BLOOD, SWEAT but NO TEARS. I had thought about tears because I had just paid more money for a complete set of tires than I had ever paid in my life and I was in the dumps over that. Then that margarita helped put things into perspective. I calculated that the 45,000-mile warranty on those tires will take me to age 87 so I had just bought my last set of tires and that is no reason for tears!

Little Drops of Water

I reflect with amazement. Today a little ditty I leaned in my first years of Lutheran elementary school back in he 1930’s kept running through my mind. I wondered how his little tune got to Teacher Bleeke who taught us first graders, especially since almost any song we would have been taught would have been hymns – in German.

I first turned to a source never dreamed of even in science fiction back in those days: Google. I found a version of the poem attributed to one Mrs. J.A. Carney, written in 1845. Then my wife Jane, also a graduate of a Lutheran elementary school found in a book entitled “Select Songs for School and Home” published in 1922. The Preface of the book tells us that the songs in the book were written at the express command of the Lutheran Church to come up with an English song book to supplement the German “Liederperlen”. Then in the late 1930’s (I think) a new all English songbook called “The Music Reader” became a standard songbook for Lutheran schools and it, too, (if memory serves me correctly) included this little gem.

Interestingly, the words change from text to text reflecting what I believe to have been concern for doctrinal and theological orthodoxy. And on this sunny day of 2011 it all came back to me in a version clearly etched in my brain. I will go with what I think is the original:


Little drops of water
Little gains of sand
Make the mighty ocean
And the beauteous land.

Little deeds of kindness
Little words of love
Make our earth an Eden
Like the heavens above.

And the little moments
Humble though they be
Make the mighty ages
Of eternity.

And why are those words and the accompanying tune ringing in my ears all day today? Because today I was nourished by those little drops of water and was sustained by those little grains of sand. My wife has been ill. Email brought the little drops of water in the form of get well cards; Then the mail arrived: more drops. This afternoon I was at the drugstore when I noticed a man looking closely at me. When I looked back he said, “Wow! I just want to tell you I really like that shirt you are wearing.” I went to pick up our dinner and the hostess said, “ Mr. Kieschnick, that shirt really looks good on you.” Then another drop: A friend contacted to say that she will visit Jane while I am not home next Tuesday. Little drops of water. Son David stopped by saying, “I brought these chocolate covered strawberries. I thought you might enjoy them.”

So I resolved to swim in those little drops that make the mighty ocean, to savor the little moments, to drop a little water myself. And to share a grain of sand. In this moment I will revel in the mighty ages of eternity.

Mother’s Day 2011 Mental Images

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day 2011. Time for me to recall more images of my mother.
Mother as Writer: It seems very strange to write the phrase: “Mother as writer”. It was my Father who was the writer. It is I who was supposed to be the writer in our family. But this Mother’s Day I recall Mother as the writer: writer of letters. Mother never went beyond the 6th grade at that small Zion Lutheran School in Walburg Texas. Yet she learned to write as evidenced by the many letters she wrote me. They were always in a very clear handwriting. Even more impressive: I do not recall her ever making either a spelling or grammar mistake. They were simple, direct, descriptive, of few words but strong emotion. They not only brought news of the family but also messages of concern, affirmation and hope.. I was a missionary in Hong Kong at a time when church ruled allowed us to return home only after 5 years of uninterrupted service abroad. It was Mother who kept those images of home, of faith, or affirmation or connectiveness alive for me. She did it through her great skill a writer.

My father was called Teacher Kieschnick all his life. His three sons all went into the “teaching ministry”. Yet, one of my strong images of Mother is that of Mother as Teacher. I am not now thinking of her as a teacher of her own children but as teacher of other children-in the church Sunday School. She had plenty of reason not to be a Sunday School teacher. She had her own 9 children to care for. She herself never attended a single day of Sunday School in her life because as she grew up her congregation had no such institution. Yet, today, I recall her, in her sixties - with her classroom Sunday School pamphlets, materials for a flannel graph presentation and star- filled attendance charts on her way to teach Sunday School. She always said, almost differentially, “Well I can only teach the very little ones”. The very little ones were the ones to whom my Mother brought messages of love, forgiveness, faith and hope. She was indeed a ”teacher sent from God.”
Mother as Spouse. I doubt if Mother could relate to today’s appropriate emphasis upon each person having an identity other than “spouse of”. In her lifetime that is simply the primary l way i n which she perceived herself. She was in her own eyes always “the wife of Teacher Kieschnick”. That meant that her husband was considered Minister of the Church and more. He was the congregation school principal, organist, choir director, spiritual leader, consultant on all matters of faith and Christian life - and Mother was "his wife “.

Mother would never even think that someone might seek her advice. If someone asked her opinion on matter of faith or church life, or raising children or proper etiquette, or societal affairs I am sure she would have referred the questioner to her husband. When she selected clothes for her children, when she was approving or distressed over the behavior of her kids, when she heard others make comments `on her children it seems to me that she immediately placed herself into a role Teacher’s Wife. In retrospect I regret that. She had great personal strength of character. She was an incredibly strong woman of purpose ,of pain tolerance, of insight into relationships. She did not need to “find her self esteem” in relation to her role in society - yet I do believe that that is what she did. In the process she humbly accepted: her place ”. It was a role she humbly accepted –and I wish to this day that she could have moved beyond that, to have seen herself as one with a strong self image, a vital role player in the life of others, a teacher and a leader. For truly that is who she was.

So on this Mother’s Day I recall and honor my mother; a writer, a teacher, a leader.

Anger

My pastor took a well-deserved week of vacation the week after Easter and asked me to fill in for him while he was gone. As soon as I arrived at the church office on Monday morning a gentleman was waiting for me. He wanted my help. His brother had just called that he was being denied help at the local Vets Hospital. The gentlemen wanted my assistance for his deeply in need brother.

The story: This Afghanistan War vet was having terrible headaches. He could not keep food down. He was disorientated. He could not get assistance at the Vet Hospital. “Go to the local emergency room!” he was told by the admissions staff. There was very little that I could do for him, but the good news is that the vet was finally admitted.

After those processes were completed and his record pulled up more of the story emerged. He had indeed needed treatment for a brain injury. A doctor had made a previous recommendation for treatment, but then “the system somehow lost the diagnosis and he had never been treated.”

I get angry when I continue to hear stories about our vets who do not get appropriate treatment, especially for post traumatic stress syndrome. The soldier in this case was next to his best friend when that friend took a bullet and was killed. He filed a report and was immediately sent back on duty. No one ever offered him any counseling. Now he is finding it very difficult to cope and even more difficult to get assistance for his own wounds, physical and psychological.

This afternoon I called on the eldest member of our congregation, one of the most gentle of men that I have ever met. But he was agitated. He had just learned of one of his friends (also an Afghanistan vet) who had given up on getting medical treatment due him as a vet. He’d had to finally secure his own private health insurance in an effort to get the assistance he needs and deserves.

That’s why I am angry. We ask our young military people to make incredible sacrifices for us and then, when they need our assistance to get back to some kind of a normal life, we fail them.

This brings me to Wheat Ridge Ministries, which provides resources particularly to churches who want to support returning service personnel. Especially helpful are the recommendations in the book “Welcome Them Home Help Them Heal”. If more individuals and organizations will follow the great processes outlined in this booklet it will do much more than reduce my anger. It will give those who need and deserve our support both assistance and healing.

Holy Thursday: Communing With the Saints

Communing PLACES: This Holy Thursday marks exactly 70 years since I had my first holy communion. It was around the simple wooden altar of Zion Lutheran Church, Walburg Texas. In the years that followed I repeated the experience thousands of times at hundreds of other holy places. From cathedrals in New York and Helsinki to store front chapels in Hong Kong. From quiet secluded sanctuaries to the floors of bustling hotel meeting rooms. From among the olive trees of the Garden of Gethsemane to a rustic chapel at Yosemite National Park. From places of somber meditation to arenas filled with the jubilant sound of a thousand hymn singers. From places with names like Zion, St. Paul, Good Shepherd, and St. Thomas to Calvary. Always the PLACE in that moment was holy ground.

Communing PEOPLE : I recall those 12 nervous teenagers with whom I first communed and wonder where they now are, here or in heaven. I recall the multitudes of others who shared with me those precious elements: my sainted parents, my children now scattered around the world, the black saints who welcomed me as the only white in the assembly, those with whom we now share full communion in denominations with names like Methodist, Presbyterian, United Church of Christ, Moravian. I recall people next to me at the rail who exuded the scent of exquisite and expensive perfume and those who came in their sweat-filled work clothes. I recall an ancient Chinese grandmother and the tense bodies of GI’s on R&R from Viet Nam. Always with those PEOPLE we heard the words “For You.”

Communing PRESENCE : Today I recall that every place with whatever people there was always bread and wine. There were always words. But there was more. There was the PRESENCE. Yes, it was the PRESENCE of mystery, of prayer, confession, reflection and resolve. But beyond it all was a greater Presence. For in with and under the forms of bread and wine was the very REAL PRESENCE of the One who said “This is My body; This is My blood.”

Prayer:Dear Lord, as I commune in this holy season make the place holy, the people blessed and your presence experienced. Amen

A Quiet Little Boy from a Quiet Little Texas Town

I may have reached my 83rd birthday, but in my heart I still see myself as a quiet little boy from a quiet little Texas town. The town, in fact, is Walburg,
Texas. The sign near it reads “87 Friendly People and 1 Old Grouch”. I actually was born and lived in a simple house about a mile from the general store and where the saloon used to be. In the nineteenth century the community was populated by immigrants from the Czech/German border. Half of us spoke German and were Lutherans. The other half spoke Czech and went to the Catholic Church. We seldom interacted and intermarriage was a major challenge to our long held traditions. The tradition served us well. Church on Sunday, chicken salad sandwiches and homemade ice cream for birthdays, shivarees at weddings, and bar-b-que and beer for every important occasion. Quiet enough - and I was just another quiet boy in the community, at least that was my remembrance of it all until I did a bit more reflecting on my morning walk today.

I remember the excitement back in the 40’s. It was in the days of the famous outlaws Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker. I shiver in remembering the story of how some one close to me was walking along the country road. A car with two strangers in it (a man with a distinctive hat and a girl) had stopped and asked for directions. Upon reflection we all knew it was Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker and we waited in dread for the day they would come rob the Walburg State Bank!

They didn’t survive a shoot-out with the law shortly after this. But some years later there was a tragic disruption to the still quietness of Walburg and its sleepy bank. A couple of armed robbers did indeed rob the Walburg State bank one quiet Saturday morning. They were serious. My uncle Reinhold who ran the bank did all the robbers asked for. Yet they shot at him with the bullet just grazing his head. Closer to home - my sister Mimi had entered the bank for a simple Saturday morning transaction. When ordered to lie face down on the floor she complied. Yet as one of the robbers was leaving the bank he stood over her and fired directly into the back of her head. By the grace of God she survived. The cops said that the ammunition seems to have been old. Today almost 40 years later she has occasional seizures and the doctors tell her that they are the result of that terrible incident in that quiet little town. And when a highway patrolman stopped the robbers’ car down the road a ways they fatally murdered him.

In my morning walk reverie today I also recalled a little encounter that I would never have expected, growing up in Walburg. In the mid 1950’s I found myself being an educator in Hong Kong. I had been there only a few weeks when on a Wednesday night I was walking home from teaching a class. Even though I was a newcomer it seemed to me that there was extra excitement in the air. The streets were crowded, the tension palpable. When a gentleman made a threatening move toward me with a brown bottle he held in his hand I wondered if he had been drinking. I soon learned that that bottle was filled with explosives and he was threatening me. The building I had just exited had been in the middle of a street riot. Some in my class never left the building. Bullets streamed through the window. Tragically the wife of the Swiss Council General who just happened to be driving through the area was shot and killed. When the police rounded up the rioters they marched them to the police compound a block from our apartment. When they were just below our windows the police forced rioters to run quickly because in the process they all lost their wooden clogs, one less weapon to take with them. Within a day things had settled back down and Hong Kong had rest until the Red Guard movement in the 60’s - but that is another story.

Another story far from quiet Walburg found me in Tiananmen Square in Beijing on June 4,1989. My two sons and I left the square just as the army moved in and the tanks were still a few blocks away. Hours later we stood with weeping students on the Beijing University Campus as they returned from the morgue with the names of their slain friends. A hastily painted sign over the university proclaimed “Tiananmen Bathed in Blood. The Whole World Weeps.”

And so the memories wash over me. It has been and continues to be a blessed and full life, especially in the context of a quiet little boy who grew up in a quiet little Texas town.

Diversity, Rigidity, Opportunity

Attending a national conference of colleagues is not necessarily highly inspiring. However, the one I attended last week was stimulating, affirming and thought provoking. More than 2,300 teachers and administrators in Lutheran schools from around the world were in attendance. It began with a day-long consultation of global leaders. It was great to hear reports from schools in Canada, Hong Kong, Shanghai, Hanoi, New Guinea, India, Australia, So. Africa and Palestine. That is where the variety came in. Hong Kong International School has nearly 3,000 students with another thousand on the waiting list even with an annual tuition of some $25,000. At the other end of financial spectrum are the Lutheran schools of India which serve the still discriminated against lower caste families (even though the caste system is supposed to be a thing of the past.). These students often do not even have a desk for each student. Then there was the report of emerging Lutheran colleges from the highland of New Guinea to the concrete wall-enclosed containment of Bethlehem, Palestine where the Lutheran university there is the largest building project in Bethlehem since the days of Herod the King. An added bonus was to listen to the various dialects in which the reports were given, from Australian English to the heavily German-accented English of South Africa. Even a sometimes jaded old teacher like me could not help but feel admiration, gratitude and enthusiasm for the many ways in which the Lutheran church’s traditional commitment to education and schools at all levels is manifested in wondrous new venues and contexts.

It was not all good news. Lutheran schools in the major cities of America are becoming an extinct species. While there used to be hundreds of them from the Atlantic to the Pacific now they are missing from the city limits of even major cities like Los Angles and Detroit. One reason for their demise is the inability of some of those urban folks and other leaders to image new models for emerging contexts. When Marlene Lund of the Center for Urban Education Ministries gave a detailed list of options for faith-based American urban schools there was almost no-one there to listen. Some stayed away because they simply did not want to consider any option not based on a 19th century model. Rigidity is leading to rigor mortis.

It was then that I saw an opportunity. Many Lutheran jurisdictions are selling off Lutheran schools properties in the city, often generating millions in revenue. I challenge the leaders involved in these transactions to invest the money from the sale of any urban church properties back into a Lutheran neighborhood school operated on any one the models presented by Lund. Hope could be be made available for many city kids and their families for whom a good education today is a denied reality.

What is required is a movement from rigidity to a grasping of the opportunity to an inspired new vision, a vision which is now being brought from outside the borders of the USA to the very heart of the cities of our land.

Lutheran Funeral in Rural Texas

When Victor Kokel died, friends and relatives gathered to swap anecdotes, legends and hard memories. But mostly there were stories of church, of faith, of family and of congregation.

It was 12 noon, only three hours after Victor Kokel had been officially declared dead of a massive heart attack. Already the table and kitchen counter of this Texas farmhouse were laden with food brought by members of the congregation and the community. Frozen produce from the freezers, freshly baked bread, a pot of newly made cheese, whole hams and a large cooked roast were lined up, testimony of a caring Christian community that was used to responding with attention and affection when pain stabbed its communal body.

Victor was 71 years old. He had been born and raised and had lived and died in that same simple Texas farmhouse just up the hill from the Theon cotton gin and down the hill from Zion Lutheran Church and School in Walburg.

His body lay at rest just blocks from the barbershop on the courthouse square where he had been at work only 36 hours earlier. Recurring crises in the farm and cattle business had forced him to find alternative income. So, for almost 35 years, he had mixed the art of cutting hair with he skill of dissecting the politics of a Texas county. The turn-of-the-century barber chairs sat silent, and the well-worn leather razor strop hung unused behind the black funeral notice. Now, customers and cronies joined the cousins and congregants in strong, raw-boned, silent tribute at his wake.

“He just up and went to sleep on me” was the way his wife, Leona, put it as mourners came to express their condolences. Lanky, slim-waisted, cowboy-booted Cal just shook his head, asserting, “I’ve never seen a more peaceful corpse.” After all, Victor had died while in apparent good health. There was no evidence of the intense internal trauma that had suddenly ended his life, and so he appeared to be peacefully asleep, as in his own bed.

As the wake neared the end of the appointed visiting hours, family and friends gathered in the funeral parlor as Zion’s pastor, Lowell Rossow, began a brief prayer service. “Let’s just share a few Victor stories, memories and prayers,” he suggested. And so they flowed. Anecdotes of shy teen-age romance, legends of who got stuck with the beer tab at the local saloon, hard memories of staying alive on fatty pork and potatoes during the Depression of the ‘30s and the droughts of the ’50.

But most of all there wee stories of church, of faith, of family and congregation. There were stories of resistance to change: “If it was a sin then, it’s a sin now,” and “Who needs a new hymnal when the one we use now was just introduced in the ‘40s?” There were recollections of Victor’s dictum that there’s no excuse not to be in church every Sunday. Others testified, almost shyly, to a trust in a God whose promises are always sure. There was no shallow sentimentality, only solid conviction. As the evening drew to a close, those gathered sang all four stanzas of “Asleep in Jesus.” Many sang it completely from memory.

“His confirmation text provided an anchor for his life,” said Pastor Rossow at the funeral the next day. “They that wait upon the Lord shall mount up as eagles, they shall run and not be weary.” (Is. 40:31). A large cross-stitched banner emblazoned with this verse hung next to the pulpit, and indeed Pastor Rossow used this text as the basis for his funeral sermon. His message was classic Lutheran theology: sin and grace, justification by faith alone, the sure hope of the resurrection.

When, on the 55th anniversary of his confirmation, Victor had received a plaque inscribed with his confirmation verse, he had chosen not merely to hang it on his parlor wall. Instead, he nailed it tight with 10-peny nails right through the plaque and into the studs of his 100-year-old farmhouse. When his wife asked him why he didn’t simply hang it in the usual way, he said, “Because I don’t want any strong wind blowing it down.”

Victor believed in open-coffin funerals, where the departed lay in state before the communion rail, directly under the chancel cross. Thus, more than 500 worshipers, braving the 102-degree Texas heat, thronged to that rural church on Zion hill, thundered out “I Know That My Redeemer Lives,” and marched in procession past his casket in final tribute.

The organist, a nephew of the now-sainted Victor, knew his uncle and knew the community. As the strains of “Wait on the Lord, Wait Patiently for Him” began, the congregation silently mouthed the words as they processed. Zion had sat on that hill for 35 years longer than Victor’s 71 years of life, and most in the procession were part of that history. Men – farmers with backs bent from incredibly hard work, women - who had borne, fed and clothed 10, 12, even 14 children, in slow and unhurried steps walked by the bier. Some paused to touch the shoulder of the widow. Toughened farmers, who with Victor had shared battles with boll weevils and milk fever and had experienced the pain of seeing farmland covered by concrete interstates, gave gentle hugs to the grieving family in the front pew.

Changes that had come to the community were reflected in the flow of the procession. There was the county judge. There was the placement director from Texas A&M, where a son of the deceased had graduated. There were the erstwhile yuppies who had grown to respect the strongly opinionated barber. And there was the Texas sheriff, replete in cowboy boots, 10-gallon hat and a six-shooter at his side.

Infants in arms, children excused from the parochial school next door so they could attend, and grandparents with canes and walkers filed past to the chords of “For All the Saints.”

Still they marched: young women in smartly fashioned suits, older women in simple home-sewn cotton dresses, and the lone, dignified black man who had shined shoes at the barbershop longer than anyone could even recall. While they marched, some silently mouthed the words of “Jerusalem the Golden”, the strains of which floated down loud and clear from the organ.

This writer had almost convinced himself that he had become an objective observer ad this old-fashioned Texas Lutheran funeral, but then he noticed his necktie. It was stained with the moisture of his own tears. He recovered himself in time to hear the pastor’s words of Christian benediction and to see for the first time the banner just to the left of the coffin: “Sing to the Lord a New Song.”

===============================================================

The following is excerpted from a letter received by Mr. Kokel’s widow shortly after her husband’s death. The writer asked that his name be withheld.

Dear Mrs. Kokel:

Your husband, Victor, never knew of the impact he had on my life. I regret not taking the time to visit with him to express my thanks for a deed he did many years ago that proved instrumental in shaping the direction of my life.

Although I attended the funeral service, I really heard very little of what Pastor Rossow said. My mind kept straying back to 30 years ago when I was a young boy with the simple wish of having my hair cut in a downtown barbershop. This was no easy task. Many barbers had already refused to cut my hair because of my skin color.

I remember how your husband brushed the barber chair clean and asked me to have a seat. It was one of the most memorable moments of my life. Your husband saw only a young man who wanted a hair cut. I’m sure that at that moment he was not the most popular man in that barbershop. But he did what his heart told him to do and was not concerned with what others thought. Later, when I walked out of the shop, I felt 10 feet tall.

As I stood in the rear of the church, staring at your husband’s coffin, it occurred to me that they just don’t make coffins big enough for men like Victor Kokel. To my mind his heart alone weighed 100 pounds.

God be with you and your family.

===============================================================

HEADS UP!

“Heads Up” is a voice I hear often from my wife. And, as usual, she is right. I have gotten into the habit of walking with my head and chin turned downward. Not a good idea. I have nearly bumped into people in the hallways of this retirement community. When I had my head down on my morning walk I narrowly escaped collision with a bicyclist only because she swerved to avoid me. My physical trainer adds her voice to the chorus, “Keep you head up ! It is good for your posture and your whole body.”

Then I recall my father’s advice to keep my head up, and he was referring not just to my physical safety and well-being, but to the very state of my soul. It all began when I was a youngster and watched the roosters in our barnyard. I noticed that when they drank their water they always pitched their heads back with each swallow. Now, my father was raised on the farm and he knew about the swallowing mechanisms of roosters. But he gave me a different explanation. He said, “Melvin, learn from those roosters. They know that every drink of water like everything else comes down from above. So with each mouthful they just tilt their heads back and in rooster language say ‘Thank you God’.”

So this afternoon I am recalling those Texas roosters and my father’s good instruction. I have been in a funk because of some things over which I have little control. I am tempted to put my head down and mope. Then I remember my wife, my trainer, my father and those roosters and I follow their good advice, “Heads Up !”

Mental Illness

Within less than 24 hours of time the issue of mental illness stared me in the face and stirred my heart. I was in an ordinary meeting in the pastor’s office at my church. Suddenly a significant eruption of angry noise blared from the reception area. A very angry person was screaming, threatening bodily harm to humans and physical destruction of the property. It doesn’t really matter what the issue was but it seems that the person was looking for a different person than one to be found at our church offices. Pastor went out to assist. The ruckus continued and in spite of excellent intervention skills by pastor was escalating. Someone said: “Do you think we should call the police?” The Director of Family Life at our church replied, “That would solve our problem, but it surely would not help the mentally ill person.” How true.

When I arrived home I had a message on my answering machine. The caller had not identified herself, but said she was calling at the request of another. I, of course recognized the name. My mind made an assumption “This would be a call from the emergency room of a local hospital. The person leaving the message had probably attempted suicide.” Four times in the past I have been in that hospital ministering to the person whose name was in front of me. Each time this person had attempted suicide and each time had failed. Severe bi-polar disorder. When drugs are taken the disorder is somewhat controlled. When drug are not taken, deep suicidal depression often comes. I knew that if I went I would feel better, but would it really help the sick person?

Later in the day I watched some Tucson Memorial events. Concurrently I read the newspaper. It contained an article with the news that the sale of Glock pistols was up at a record high. I recalled Sandy’s comment: “That may help us, but it surely won’t help the mentally ill.”

That same day another person asked me, “Mel, have you really looked into the eyes of the person who allegedly shot those persons in Tucson? He reminds me of---. “ She was right. The person referenced often had that vacant look in the eye, which betrayed a hole in the heart. That person was very functional in some aspect of life, was able to be a university professor. Yet was not well mentally. Two of the children of this family are mentally ill. I don’t know why they suffer this, but I am assuming that it might be a combination of heredity, environment, and family interactions. I knew about this long ago. I was never able to help.

That evening I opened a book recently given me about service men and women with posttraumatic stress disorder. It contained the startling statistic that more Viet Nam veterans have committed suicide than the number who were killed in action. What will be the number during/post Iraq/Afghanistan?

So the thought comes back to me, How can I respond to Sandy’s remark that sometimes we protect ourselves when dealing with mentally ill, but how are we helping them? I felt disheartened until I did come up with a few things I can do: 1. I can support early intervention, especially in our school systems. I can insist that we provide public funding for children with special needs. 2. I can at least be there with people who are suffering, especially also those with whom it is sometimes difficult because of their mental state. I can give them my presence and my prayers. 3. I can promote parenting styles that are healthy and that tend to result in adults who have healthy coping mechaisms. 4. I can be a spokesperson/volunteer at my church and elsewhere for the ministry of reaching out in support of all veterans and especially those hurting from PTSD. 5. I can be an advocate for all who assist the mentally ill: mental professionals, special ed teachers, parents whose children show symptoms, congregations and other organizations which include the mentally ill in their outreach.

The mentally ill. There are too many of them. I am resolved to do something that not only protects me, but also helps them.