Tough and Tender

My colleague Marlene gets it. For years she was principal of a large urban school, Queens Lutheran in New York. She served so well that she was named a National Distinguished Elementary School Principal and honored for that at the White House. She knew how to be tough.

One day as the kids were being released at the end of the school day she heard that the older kids were being confronted outside the school by a drug dealer. It took her about one New York minute to get to him. “You get out of here – now! And don’t ever return!” But the dealer was not so easily rebuffed! “Lady, this is a public street. Now you let me alone or I will break your leg!” Marlene got into his face and replied “ You can break not only my legs, but every bone in my body and you will not get to my kids!

Now get your ass out of here before I call my friend Bob at the Precinct Police Office just down the street.” The dope pusher left and was not seen again around Queen’s

Lutheran School. Marlene’s toughness paid off.

Some years Later when Marlene was at her desk in Manhattan as Executive Director of The Lutheran Schools Association of New York tears were streaming down her face and she had to avert her eyes. She was looking right down Columbus Avenue all the way to where she looked in unbelief and horror as the Twin Towers crumbled on 9-11. It was then that her tenderness took over.

Marlene with great assistance from John Scibilia and others at Lutheran Disaster Response moved in to help the victims and their families. Marlene’s special concern was for kids in Lutheran schools of New York. At least 60 of them, preschoolers through high school had lost a parent or grandparent in that disaster. Marlene was at the funerals; she was there to comfort children. She was there to hug teachers. She was there to cradle in her arms those who had lost love ones. She was there to embrace the little ones who came running to put their arms around her legs whenever they heard an airplane come in for a landing. She was tender. Her tenderness moved her to action. Funds were raised so that the tuition of those kids who had lost parents or grandparents were guaranteed Lutheran school tuition up to the time of their graduation. To this day her tears flow when she goes to the Twin Towers Memorial Fountain and lets her fingers scroll over the names of those who had kids in Lutheran schools.

Tough and Tender. That’s the paradigm for what it takes to be a successful urban school principal or teacher. I see it especially in the Lutheran schools of New York and Milwaukee. Those teachers and principals are tough. They hold their kids and their parents accountable. No excuses for homework not finished. No excuses for not showing up at assigned parent-teacher conferences. No excuses for using street language on the school campus. Those teachers and principals are tough.

And they are tender. They love those kids, hug them when they are afraid, pray with them when they feel hopeless, tutor them when they have academic problems and pat them on the back when they succeed.

That’s the way Marlene does it and that is the way kids who attend Lutheran urban schools still experience it. That is how I hope to live: Tough and Tender!

Shave and a Haircut-2 Bits

I had not thought of that old expression for a long time-and was surprised that having said it the melody immediately started running through my mind. All of that led me to these very profound memories about haircuts. As I grew up I doubt if I ever sat in a barber’s chair until I got a haircut for my church confirmation ritual when I was I was thirteen.

My father cut my hair and I have good memories of that. He did it out in the back yard next to the wash house. That is where my mother washed all the clothes generated by us 9 kids, all without running water, but with a washing machine and an old style hand turned clothes wringer. I liked for dad to cut my hair, especially during football season. I have these warm feelings of father-son togetherness listening to the radio accounts of the University of Texas Longhorn football games. In the early years they had a great running back by the name of Jack Crane. Later there was Bobby Layne who competed against Doak Walker of SMU. Somehow or other listening to them as dad cut my hair was such a bonding experience that I feel a great warmth just recalling it.

When dad did finally take me to a barbershop it was in Jarrell and the barber was Mr. Kalmbach whose son later married my sister. My guess is that the cost was probably no more than 2 bits, which is 25 cents.

Then I recall my haircuts in Hong Kong. That was a treat. In those days of the mid 1950”s labor was very cheap and I could get that haircut, shampoo and shave all for under US$1.00. But what I remember most was my first experience of having someone shampoo my hair and with that went a long very satisfying massage of the scalp. I remember that it felt so good I decided that it must be sinful for me to enjoy it so much. Those Hong Kong shops were always very clean. A couple summers ago I went to a back alley barber shop in Shenzhen China. My theory is they wanted to show that they were very busy because there was a massive collection of hair that virtually covered the floor of the entire shop!

Now my haircut is by a different barber each time. But they all have a common characteristic. They are the wives or partners of Marines stationed at nearby Camp Pendleton. It seems like the average time for shampoo and haircut is about 8 minutes and it costs what still seems to me be an astronomical price of $20.00. Even so, I tip rather generously because I support our military families and these small tips may help just a little.

There is an often recounted haircut story in our family. When my now deceased brother Harold was in high school at Concordia, Austin, Texas, a boarding school he came home one weekend with a dramatic Mohawk. My Mother whose value system included a very firm “in church every Sunday” mantra, made an exception. She told Harold that there was no way a son of hers would show up at Zion Lutheran Church with that ungodly haircut and she ordered him to stay home. So once again another of mom’s great living principles, namely. “what will people think!” prevailed.

But now I must run get that haircut

Let’s Meet at the Bar

 

“Let’s meet at the bar.” It has been years since I have heard that welcome invitation. Nor have I extended that suggestion for a long time. And I miss it. It is not that I spent that much time there. But on occasion it was wonderful to meet colleagues at the bar or to just go with my wife, or as a rare event to just quietly sit there alone. But that has not happened for a long time and in the last few weeks, for some reason or other, I have missed it. I was kind of hoping someone would say to me, “Mel, let’s just meet at the bar.”

The thought was further stimulated by a very interesting book I have just finished reading. It is “Crossing the Bar” by James Johnson, a man who was a Lutheran pastor for some 20 years and then spent the next years owning and operating a bar in Red Lodge, Montana.

In his book he has an interesting list of characteristics. He asks the reader to identify each description with either the church or a favorite bar. The list includes such items as “This is a safe place to be,” “Here you meet new friends.” “Here you are not judged,” “Strangers feel welcome and you find new friends here.” There are actually 40 items on the list and each item makes for thoughtful reflection.

When I accepted the invitation to “Let’s meet at the bar” I often found myself there with colleagues with whom I could complain or brag or commiserate. At other times it was a place where I could share my anger, hopes, latest joke or reason for celebration. Or maybe it just provided the space to not have to be “on duty,” not have to worry about the next assignment, not feel pushed for what has to be done next.

I wonder what it says about me and my current life situation - that I have trouble thinking of a person living close enough to me to whom I could easily extend that invitation. But whether it might come from near-by or from some unexpected friend far away, I want to say that I am ready to respond “Yes!” to the next person who invites: “Let’s meet at the bar”.

USA Immigration

Even in these tempestuous political times there is one thing all political parties agree upon: The USA Immigration Policy is a mess. This has hit our family directly in the last couple months and I just feel like telling the story.

For more than 15 years our youngest son John, a USA citizen, has been married to Regina who is a Spanish citizen. Their two children are USA citizens. A few months ago John accepted a wonderful position on the faculty of Stanford University. Of course, his wife and children want to join him. No problem for John and the kids, but for Regina it has been a nightmare from which she has still not awakened.

For the past couple semesters John has been teaching at Hong Kong Polytechnic University and Regina has been living and doing academic work in Madrid. First she was told that if she wanted to come here and stay with her family she would need to get a visa (of course) and then apply for citizenship. Then she was told that to get the visa she would really need to have proof that she had a job. It was insufficient that her husband had been granted permanent tenure. So Stanford offered her a part-time position (she has her Ph.D. from Harvard) and so notified the authorities. The authorities said, “No, it must be full-time.” Stanford and Regina obliged. Next she was told that if the visa were granted she could not enter the country more than 10 days before she started teaching! She asked about entering on a “visa waiver” which permits any European citizen to be in the USA without a visa for up to 6 weeks. “No,” she was told. “You are NOT a tourist. And if you come in under a tourist visa and then apply for a visa as an employee you may not leave the country while the visa is processed. If you leave you will be denied re-entry into the USA." Regina’s mother lives in Madrid. (Note: a colleague who is a Department head here at Cal Sate San Diego told me that this is exactly what happened to a colleague of his last year when she returned for her mother’s funeral while her work visa was pending and now she has been denied entry or visa into the USA.)

Son John and Regina have followed all the rules, paid the $3,000.00 up front legal fees to an immigration attorney. John and kids moved to Stanford. Regina is in Madrid in regular contact with the USA Embassy. The Embassy promised her an interview for yesterday (August 17). However, the official told her ”This appointment time is not fixed. You need to call regularly to ensure the proper day; AND remember that every time you call the Embassy we will add 10 Euros to the cost of your visa and if you call by cell phone we will add 15 Euros”

Yesterday she met with the Embassy official. It went like this: “Is your name, in fact, Regina Llamas?” Answer, “Yes.” Next question, “Do you, in fact, have a PHD From Harvard?” Answer, “Yes.” “Do you, in fact, have a full-time job at Stanford University?” “Yes.” “What will you be teaching?” “One course in the History of Chinese Drama and a second on “Chinese Opera.”

Then came the answer: “Come back next week and we will issue you a visa.”

So now she can buy her ticket and hopefully the interviewing officer at Immigration will allow her in and this “potential threat to American security and financial viability” will finally be able to join her family and be teaching at the university.

Wedding Anniversary

Last Saturday my wife Jane and I observed our 61^st  Wedding Anniversary. We did not make a big deal of it, but we did note it with reflection, gratitude and anticipation. As a part of that reminiscence I took a long reflective walk, but first I stopped at the rose garden here, sat in the swing, looked at the names of some of the rose varieties like Honor, Aromatic Therapy, Tahiti Sunset - all of which are part of our decades of marriage. My mind wondered from Jane to the five kids who have helped sustain and enrich our marriage for all these years. So even at the risk of no one caring in the least I decided to write down just one admired characteristic of each of our 5 kids whom the two of us happily and blessedly call our greatest assets. Youngest to eldest:

JOHN:  John teaches me equanimity, patience, non-anxiousness. By this I mean he teaches me not to fret too much, not to get too excited, worried or upset. He teaches me that things will turn out okay, that issues can be resolved, that “life moves not backwards nor tarries with yesterday” but moves forward in its own good time and that is okay. He is doing that again in these weeks. Skip the details but note that he is professoring in Hong Kong, his wife and two kids live in Spain, both he and his wife have accepted teaching positions at Stanford U for this fall. But to get from here to there is fraught with challenges. Some of their household furniture is in Spain, some in Hong Kong. Their young kids have already gone to school in Taipei, Barcelona, Bristol and Madrid, had passed entrance exams at Hong Kong International and will next month go to an as yet unnamed schools in Palo Alto with school starting in less than a month. John's Spanish-citizen wife of 15 years, mother of his two American-citizen children, with a PhD from Harvard and a signed contract from Stanford is fighting, fighting to get an American visa. The failed USA immigration system will not let her come earlier than 10 days before her work starts, will not permit her to be a part-time employee, threatens to send her home from JFK in New York if she lands using her “visa waiver”. In the midst of this John rents a house, enrolls his kids, lines up teaching, ships household goods from 2 continents, continues to serve as a very stressful Department head at a university, pays the very expensive immigration attorney fees, meets major donors, moves apartments and stay sane, doesn’t scream, overuse alcohol, develop an ulcer, or need a therapist. John, thank you for teaching me serenity in the midst of any storm.

LIZ: Liz teaches me empathy, acceptance, genuineness. Never have I met a person who has better exemplified the virtue of weeping with those who weep and rejoicing with those who rejoice. When she chose to become a psychotherapist I knew she would be great, but I wondered if she could leave the care of her patients in her doctor’s office. She has convinced me that when she meets with a client she is totally there; by the time she reaches her home her focus can shift to the personal, to her family. I know that when appropriate her empathy moves her to concrete actions. At other times she continues to teach me that empathic acceptance presence is the rarest and truest form of love.

TIMOTHY: Tim continues to teach me that life is more than one’s work. To my regret I never learned that lesson in earlier years and so I doubly admire it in Tim. He has turned down some significant promotions at work because the work and time demanded of the position would have forces him to take away time from his family, from his love of music, from his deep appreciation of nature and camping and enjoying God’s creation. He is extremely gifted and has spent time in the corner, fully-windowed office of the major HM which he has served for well over 20 years. He does his work well, he is respected in his field, he earns his generous salary, but his work is not his life. He shows his commitment to his family and their values and to his passions. I am still trying to learn from my son, my teacher , Tim.

PEGGY:  Peggy teaches me to have very high values and to then conform my life and priorities to those values. When her 2 children were born she left full-time employment to take care of her children because she values the responsibilities and joys of motherhood. When she got interested in politics she provided free room in her home to candidate staff, studied their record, spoke openly and for publication about her opinions and values. When she decided that she preferred spending time caring for plants even in short spring, (New Hampshire springs and summers) she had her swimming pool filled in so she had time to get her hands into the soil producing growing green plants. When work demands get too heavy she sets aside the time to hike the mountains, enjoy the waterfalls and allow herself the tiredness that comes from walking under huge trees. When she sees her congregation struggle she volunteers to not only to serve as its vice-president but to lead it through a strategic planning process (because that is what she values and is good at). If integrity means congruence between values and actions I need look no further than to my daughter Peggy, a woman true to her magnificent values. 

DAVID: Dave teaches me to love and reach out to those whom others despise. When David graduated from high school he had an exceptional academic and activities record. His high school counselor called him into her office, told him not to go into the ministry of the church because (she said) he was so gifted that he could enroll in any college of his choice in any chosen profession. Dave said, “No I want to be a teaching minister in the church!” And that is what he became qualified for. Then it became clear that he was gay. And with that reality a career in the church was impossible, for none of the churches allowed openly gay people to serve as ministers. So he became a worker on the streets of a wealthy suburb ministering especially to kids who were at risk. During the AIDS epidemic David was the person whom dying AIDS patients called. He was constantly in the cities of our country holding the hands of dying people whose parents and friends had disowned them and who would have died alone had not Dave been there holding them and praying with them and just loving them. He became one of the founders of an organization called Lutherans Concerned which 30 years later played a role in persons of all sexual orientations being allowed ministerial status in most Lutheran churches. Just recently he has been spending time remodeling a “granny flat" at his home because he wants to make it available to persons who needs temporary housing because they have been rejected, either because of their sexual orientation, political beliefs (Think victims of torture from around the world) or otherwise rejected by their parents. Wherever there is rejection of the innocent, wherever there is someone who feels “nobody loves me’ that is where you will find Dave with arms outstretched, no judgment. I am still trying to be more like son Dave whose heart, and arms and even house are open to all.

Reunion II

Two days after attending the Doering reunion together with some 150 of my closest family members (See blog Family Reunion I) I headed out to Reunion II, the small one. This is just for my sibs and our families so there were only 90 of us. It was brilliantly hosted by my sister Mimi and her extended family with the special leadership of her granddaughter-in law Meredith. We headed to that Texas shrine city of San Antonio. We gathered in a hotel next to the San Antonio River, just blocks from the Alamo and within walking distance of La Vallita, The Pearl Brewery, the home of the San Antonio Spurs and more.
 

Dominant theme number 1: FOOD. It all started already on Thursday evening with a great outdoor feast in the backyard where does and their fawns eyed us from their oak tree shelters. Incredibly wonderful fried catfish, hush-puppies and more, all washed down with Shiner Bock beer. By the next afternoon the hospitality suite was loaded with cookies, cakes, cobblers, pies, chips, nuts, salsa, pastries, tacos, dips, cheeses, sausages, fresh fruit, beer, wine and every imaginable hard liquor and we did justice to it all.

Of course, the hospitality suite food had to be supplemented by sit down dinners; once at the German Mannerchor Halle with brats, once in the Romeo and Juliet Ballroom with churrasco steak, another at Jacala with enchiladas, tamales and frijoles negros, (Did I mention the catered breakfast tacos and the freshly baked cinnamon buns?) Oh, yes, there was a special luncheon at a fancy Italian restaurant, but that was “for the sisters only “, so maybe this male should not list it.)

Theme No 2: COMPETITION. I am pleased to note that the competition was NOT as to who made the most money, drove the biggest car or had the most square feet in their home. Instead there was the very competitive golf tournament at the historic Brackenridge Golf Course. Seven foursomes with players aged 11 to 84 went at it with the intensity of a Ryder Cup. Since I played worst of all I won’t even mention the usual winners. But then came the really serious Texas 42 Tournament (played with dominoes, in case some non-Texans happen to read this.) The Texas guys will trade an oil well for this title so imagine their chagrin when the two top winners were (of all things) two women and to add even deeper insult neither of them is currently living in Texas and one of them is an outlaw. The theologians among us wondered if this was a sign that we are living in end times.

Theme No. 3: CHANGES. My father and Mother Oscar and Lina Kieschnick are the ones who started all this. I can only imagine that they dreamed of a very homogeneous set of offspring, all German blooded, all Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod members. However, as they looked down on that crew assembled in San Antonio they would have noted and joyfully accepted the fact that the Kieschnick clan now includes persons whose ancestry is Spanish, Chinese, Bohemian, Korean, Israeli, Scotch, Jamaican, Irish, and more. And church/religious affiliation called for very broad ecumenical acceptance. One evening I just sat back at looked intently at the assembled crew and noted the obvious change: my siblings and I are getting holder. We range from 89 to 68. The skin on our arms and hands are typical of that Kieschnick rough, blotched unattractive texture, our ears and filled with haering aids, our memories are challenged, our eyes tired well before the 2:00am self-imposed curfew of generation 3.

Theme No. 4: VALUES. My Father was probably the most accepting person I have ever encountered; yet as he looks down on those who bear his name he would be the first to identify less than perfection. For he would note that his descendents sometimes gossip, become judgmental, eat or drink too much, use inappropriate language, sleep in on Sunday mornings, focus only on themselves. Yet I would hope that Mom and Dad would also sit quietly and observe and then affirm that their values are being passed on from generation to generation; values like faith in God; commitment to family, dedication to honest labor, love of country, enjoyment of good times, sacrifice for the common good, appreciation of nature, desire for new experiences, and strength to believe and act on our best impulses as even after a full Saturday night of partying Sunday morning found the family getting into their cars and driving to Mom and Dad’s old church where we outnumbered the count of regular members and gathered there around the altar for strength to carry on from generation to generation.

Next year in New Orleans!

Family Reunion I

For as long as I can remember, July has been Family Reunion time for me. So this year just as sure as July arrived my wife Jane and I headed to Walburg, Texas. There I had attended my first Doering Family Reunion some 82 years ago. I was just 2 years old at the time so my memories probably begin somewhat later. Yet the memories flood. We wend ourselves down to “Grandma Doering’s  Place’ on the San Gabriel River. Three things stand out: 1. “Watch out for the deep places in the water. There is quick sand down there. Teacher Winters died when he got sucked down by that.” 2. The fresh glistening and pure water coming our of that free flowing pipe comes directly from that hillside fresh water spring. It is always cool. That’s why we have those watermelons in the trough right where that water comes out.” 3. This is to remember all the Doerings, but don’t forget: it is also Uncle Carl’s birthday today and the 4^th of July “

When we gathered again on the 4^th this year it was at the Walburg Community Center just down the road from Walburg Mercantile that my grandfather Doering established as the first real store in the area ,way back in the19th Century. It is just 50 yards from the Bank his family started, and a mile from Zion Lutheran Church where five generations of Doerings have been baptized, married and buried.

This year’s ceremony for the 150 of us who gathered was simple. We began with an imaginary parade of all of our ancestors, trying to picture at what point we entered the parade and the circumstances of us being included. We imaged the ancient ship arriving in America from Germany, the trip across the uninhabited countryside. Of course, we prayed, we sang and we ate and even had a few beers! And when we finished eating it seems there was as much food left as when we had started.

We paused to remember those who had left us in the last year, the most recently born and married and even the relative who came the farthest, from Philadelphia. We recalled shared hard times and good times, dedication to family, God, country, hard work, Lutheran schools and the German language which used to unite us, but is now only a memory for most of us.

Of course, it was like any family reunion, yet it wasn’t; for this is where I remembered MY roots and those who sacrificed, loved, taught, encouraged and supported me all along the way and are a part of me yet!

My Wendish Heritage

(In the interest of full disclosure: If this posting were on Wikipedia it would be headed with the usual warning: “this article needs additional citations for verification”. It is not intended as a scholarly piece: just a bit of personal reflection.)

I seldom speak of my ethnic heritage. When I do, I usually get a blank stare. That is because I claim to be of Wendish heritage. “What in the world is that?” is the most common response. The Wends are an ethnic group primarily identified with living in the Lusatia region of Germany with principal emigrations to Texas and to Australia in the mid-nineteenth century. They are sometimes called Sorbs (not Serbs) and belong to the Slavic people, especially those living along the Germany-Czech border. Always a rather small minority their total population at any one time certainly never reached the half -million mark.

Most sources trace their origin back to 6^th Century. But my personal experience points back to the first century and behind that lies a story. I had finished doing some training for Teacher Effectiveness Training in Switzerland. One of the workshop participants was a brilliant PhD who invited me to spend some time with him at his home in Brugg. While there, he invited me to take a long walk to a very small neighboring village named Windish. Of course that piqued my interest. As we neared the small village we passed some ancient ruins. He told me that this was site of a first century Roman arena. He explained that a very small ethnic tribe there called the Wends had become Christian. The Roman Emperor ordered then to stop worshipping any god other than the emperor. They disobeyed. The emperor sent wild animals to the arena where the Christians were killed. “In fact,” my guide told me, “just recently they discovered some more human remains right next to where we are standing. All of this seems to confirm the   ancient story”

I stood in awe of my earliest ancestors who died for their Christian faith.

Several years after this event I was again in Europe. This time I was a guest of the US Army, leading workshops for Chaplains and religious leaders at the beautiful American forces-controlled site at Bergstesgarten. My co-leader was a wonderful charismatic Father from the Roman Catholic Church.

In my Sunday sermon I told the congregation of how generation after generation of Wends and others preserved that certain heritage down to our generation thus applauding the work of Christian educators

Immediately after my service my Catholic brother who had concurrently been conducting the Catholic services came running. “I just heard the story of the first century Wends,” he told me. “Would you believe!” he exclaimed, “that in the 12th Century, the order of which I am a member was established and was set up “to convert the Wends who by that time had become a sun worshipping non Christian self-identified ethnic group!”

And to complete the story: years later I was again leading a workshop for clergy, this time in Melbourne Australia. After the first session one of the participants came you to me, “Hey, Mel”, he said, “I just learned that you are a Wend. The congregation I serve in Adelaide was started by immigrant Wends in 1845!”

I have drawn several conclusions about my ethnic heritage: My ancestors were often at war and whenever they fought they lost. They were always considered an underclass minority. They took their religion very seriously. They valued family ties. They learned to work hard. They loved to drink beer. Not bad. I am proud to be among their number.

Language

 This little blog is in response to a surprising request from my Granddaughter Christina. She had decided to study the Czech language which took her to St. Charles University in Prague - which took her to studying a small ethic group which is some places are called “the Sorbs”, but which I had always called the Wends. I was among their tribe. Christina wondered how the transitioning was made in the USA from speaking Wendish to German to English.

I made only that last transition. In my early years we spoke German almost exclusively in my home. Most importantly we went to German language church services. We prayed in German. I remember the old gentleman who insisted that God spoke German and he quoted the Genesis passage where God is specifically quoted as speaking in German as God said, “Adam vo bist du?”

I recall that at one point my sisters and I made a conscious, much talked about decision to begin to speak more English. We decided to begin by calling our father by the title of “daddy” having decided that the traditional “papa” was too German and old fashioned.

By that time (in the early 30”s) the Wends who had moved to Texas in the 1850”s had already pretty well made the transition from Wendish to German. That was very understandable. The Wends were already a minority in their native Germany. When they emigrated to America they settled among Germans who were a minority among English speaking settlers. So the transition was made early, although I recall my Father telling me that a Wendish newspaper was still being published while I was a young boy.

World realties also made a difference. In World War I days it was considered by some to be unpatriotic to speak German so English was introduced. However, it wasn’t until World War II that the real push for “English only” became pronounced. I recall a couple incidents from around that time. The first is my father listening on short wave radio to Adolph Hitler with his rants about ethic cleansing and the superiority of the German race. Even though Dad was proud of his ethic background he was alarmed at the prejudice, hatred and arrogance of Adolph Hitler. As a demonstration of where our loyalties deeply lay we spoke more English.

But the transition was also met with resistance, especially in the church. I recall that the Lutheran church had suggested a hymn to be sung each Sunday asking for God’s blessing on our country and guidance for our service people. The song was in English and it was decided to sing it at the close of each Sunday services (which were still conducted in German). The proposal met with strong opposition from a small minority who demonstrated their position by very obviously walking out of the church each Sunday just as that English language hymn began to be sung.

The loyalty of the sons of that congregation to the USA was never doubted. I recall my father  (who was principal of the Lutheran parochial school) writing letter after letter to military officers who asked for his verification of both the loyalty and the proficiency in German of the GIs and sailors. Dad always vouched for that and many of them played significant roles as translators from German to English for our military forces.

In my early elementary school years 1933 to 1941 religion was taught in German. We all learned to read German alongside English. When my grandparents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary I was selected to recite an eloquent dedicatory poem in German.

Meanwhile I never heard anyone speak Wendish unless we went to Serbin Texas where the Wends first settled and which maintained worship services in Wendish until very recently.

Now I have lost most of my German. I found that when I studied to speak Cantonese I would occasionally mix German with Cantonese. Now when I return to Germany it takes a few days to get reacquainted enough to converse in German. And I do not speak a single word of Wendish.

9/11 New Memories

I recently visited New York. It was important to me that I return to the site of the Twin Towers tragedy. My colleague Marlene Lund got us the passes. We went though the long and very  thorough inspections of multiple security checks. Then I entered the site looking directly at the two Reflecting Memorial Pools which are exactly in the same footprints of the original two towers.

In that solemn moment I first allowed myself to recall pleasant memories of the scene. I used to love to go to the top floor and dine at the Windows of the World Restaurant, or  sip a glass of red wine in the lounge, preferably with  family members from Texas on their first trip to the Big Apple. I recalled a very special luncheon arranged for New York principals of Lutheran schools, many of whom had never been able to afford a formal luncheon at the exclusive club on the 102 floor.  I loved going to the Twin Towers.

Things got more solemn for I also remembered that I had conducted a workshop for a famous bank on one of the top floors. I recalled my great fear that many who had taken my workshop would undoubtedly have perished on that fateful- day. I learned later that they a had all survived.

I became increasingly meditative and reflective as I looked at the names: nearly 3000 of them, all killed on that dark day. One of the first names to recall was that of Chaplain Mychal F. Judge, the fire chaplain killed by fallen debris even as he was ministering to the wounded. (The firefighters who carried his corpse to St. Paul’s Church that day were doing that when the tower collapsed and their lives were spared.

It got more personal. I had served as the Executive Director of The Lutheran Schools Association of New York and had been succeeded by Marlene Lund. Now she was finding the names of very specific persons. She told me the stories that flowed, together with her tears, as she recalled. We were identifying the names of some 60 victims who were either the parents or grandparents of children enrolled in Lutheran schools at the time of their untimely deaths. Marlene could recall the children and their parents, like the mother who was just back to work for less than a week before the tragedy, feeling she could go back to work knowing her child was safe ion the Lutheran preschool. There was another: he had graduated from the eighth grade of one of our schools. The names and the list went on and on. We walked in silence. We were left alone in our memories, our grief, our anger.

After marveling at the beautiful new structures now rising, feeling the energy as I looked at The Survivor Tree (a small tree that is surviving it all) I continued  my walk among the names of people of every ethnicity, economic level and faith of the world. I confronted my sadness, my anger and my resolve that I would do all I possibly could so that never  again would such a horrible tragedy and damnably evil act committed in the name of God be repeated.

My Favorite Teacher

 My favorite teacher was Hung Chiu Sing. “Hung” is an important name because it traces him back to his ancestor, the famous Master Confucius. Mr. Hung was to teach me Cantonese for I was working in Hong Kong establishing a Lutheran school system for thousands of Chinese students and teachers.

Mr. Hung was determined that I do that in the best possible tradition, characterized by great respect between teacher and student, using appropriate respectful terms of address, greetings, idioms, proverbs and sayings, all accompanied by appropriate body postures.

And teach he did! He came prepared with flash cards, anecdotes, history lessons and a marvelous mix of patience and determination. He drilled me, laughed with me, encouraged me. He stood beside me when I welcomed people into my home, making sure that I greeted them with just the right words.

He taught me much more than language. He conveyed his respect for tradition, stirred me with his love of his motherland, advised me especially how to speak with my staff for I was a very young American principal with a staff of older, highly educated and respected Chinese scholars.

How well he succeeded I leave for others to judge. When my Chinese friends are honest with me they shyly inform me that my wife, also a student of Mr. Hung, spoke Cantonese much more clearly than I.  Yet I revel in recalling my years in Hong Kong made so meaningful by Mr. Hung, the honorable descendent of Master Kung himself.










 

Holy Week Reflections II

I have just returned from Good Friday evening service. Our pastor made the interesting point that in a way we are recalling the burial of Christ, but there was really no funeral. Easter morning the grave was empty. No funeral. I must admit that my mind wandered when he referenced “funerals”. As I have noted in a previous blog, funerals have always been a part of my life.

My father was a teaching minister in a rural Texas community. We lived on the extended church property, which included the church, the parochial school, the parsonage and the “teacherage” for the principal of the school. This extended property also had space to raise cows, chickens and vegetables. 100 yards from my house was the site of the cemetery with its many graves. Whenever there was a death in the church community I could accompany my father to the church where he tolled the bell to announce the death to the community. The next day I would watch the gravediggers work hard to get through the hard soil to prepare the grave. Of course, we went to the home of the deceased and viewed the body displayed there in the parlor. After the church service my father again tolled the bell as the hearse carried the coffin to its near-by final resting place. The ritual there always included the “ashes to ashes” and then I would watch as the gravediggers refilled the grave and the funeral director rolled up and carried away the artificial grass he had brought to surround the grave during the graveside rituals.  I must have observed this ritual well over a hundred times before I was a teen.

Later I served in Glendale CA near the massive Forest Lawn Cemetery. Everything there related to death has been sanitized. The grounds are meticulously manicured. The area around the graves is made to “look natural”: There are only discrete grave markers, not distinctive headstones. The organists and solo singers and even the presiding ministers are all professionals who preside at countless funerals. Any covering of the grave is done when the bereaved are nowhere around and they  “come back later” when all is neatly in place.

From there I went to Hong Kong. I learned to go to the street side shops and negotiate hard for the price of a made-to-order wooden casket. Then I negotiated with the coffin bearers to take the deceased to the gravesite. Once we stopped in the middle of the burial area when the bearers just set the coffin down in protest because the gravesite was farther up the hill than they had anticipated. They proceeded only after I had renegotiated the price and paid them their extra fee. I can assure you there was no artificial grass around.

And now I live in Southern California and among those with whom I interact there is almost never a funeral and certainly no open-casket viewing”. The accepted ritual is that there is a Memorial Service at which there is often present the urn containing the ashes of the deceased.  Or, as has been my recent experience, we board a boat and proceed to an appropriate site in the Pacific for an appropriate scattering of ashes into the sea.

 In due time during the service this evening my mind came back to the point, which the pastor made. We affirm that the death of Jesus was very real and the resurrection equally true, so that in the final reckoning it won’t really be that important what the details of our funerals looked like.

Holy Week Reflections I

This week I join millions of Christians in observing what is known as Holy Week, the week before Easter. It is the week Christians pause to recall especially the suffering and crucifixion of Jesus. It focuses on the events in the life of Christ from his triumphal entry into Jerusalem on Sunday, through the agony of scourging and finally crucifixion on Friday. As I write this, I reflect specifically on Maundy Thursday. That strange and uncommon word “Maundy” is based on the Latin verb for  ‘mandate ‘ and recalls Jesus’ new  “mandate” the commandment that we love others as He loved us.  

In the Lutheran tradition in which I was raised Maundy Thursday was the time we young people received our First Communion. It was a big event. In addition to all its spiritual meaning it was for us a rite of passage. It marked our moving from childhood into adolescence. It meant that we were now officially allowed to become members of the church youth group called Junior Walther League. It also meant that for the first time we could participate in the youth sponsored Easter egg hunt, an interesting event enjoyed at that time by all of us who were 13 years of age up into the 20’s. On top of that confirmation meant gifts from our godparents whom we always called baptismal sponsors. Seventy years later I still have that now well-worn King James version of the Bible with its leather cover being twice replaced by craftsmen in Hong Kong!

Since that first time the dozen or so of us nervous teenagers first knelt around that altar in rural Texas I have received Communion (or celebrated the Eucharist or the Mass or The Lord’s Supper) in many places around the world, in magnificent cathedrals, around a cross on a hill overlooking China, in the Garden of Gethsemane, at a memorable New Year’s Eve in Karachi, with US Air Force chaplains and with people in their hospital deathbeds. All of these brought me great blessings at that time and memories which sustain me to this day.

However, as I reflect I also do so with a tinge of regret. When I was first taught about this holy ritual I was taught that very few were eligible to receive it. Only those who possessed the Word in ALL its truth and purity, only those who shared adherence to rather narrowly defined doctrinal principals were deemed appropriate to share this table. This Maundy Thursday I am grateful for the many people and all the meaningful events which have helped me to come ro what I believe to be closer to Christ’s original vision, a vision encompassing a vast array of many tongues, backgrounds, insights and religious labels whom Jesus must have envisioned when He said, “ Eat this bread, drink this wine, all of you. Do this to remember me.”

Attention

The noted French mystic Simone Weil wrote, “Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.” Recently that struck me dramatically. In the first instance it was actually I who acted generously even though it didn’t seem like much at the time. It was casual enough. I spoke with a person who had been sitting alone at the complimentary breakfast counter of the chain motel at which we both stayed while we attended a conference. All I really did was listen as she responded to my “How are things going?”. It turned out that she was anxiously awaiting word as to whether or not her application for a PhD scholarship at Harvard had been accepted. It was easy to empathize with her. She was honest about her emotions. I too have spent time waiting for responses to proposals. Basically I just attended because I did care.

A couple weeks later she sent me an email. She didn’t get the scholarship. Yet she focused on how important it was to her to have had those minutes together with me. She felt someone had paid attention, had listened, and it was appreciated.

What happened in that little exchange and what doesn’t happen in a million situations similar to that every day is simply the matter of attention. It is difficult to be in a room or situation where absolutely no one pays attention to you. It is disconcerting (to say the least) to be at a dinner with a couple, to ask them about their lives etc., to listen empathically to that and to then never hear in response anything close to “And how about you?”

I admire Bill Gates and Warren Buffet and their incredibly wonderful generosity. It touches millions. And I contemplate on how millions of others could be blessed if every day every person just decided to perform their own single act of that rarest and purest form of charity, to just pay attention to another person.

Foot Washing & Stacking Chairs

Christians around the world are preparing to observe what is known as Holy Week, the week of recalling Jesus ‘ crucifixion. Together with many other Christians I have this week been reflecting upon another ritual of this week:  Jesus washing his disciples’ feet. In remembering that event I recall an experience of some 50 years ago that still sticks in my mind. It involves the simple act of stacking chairs.

I was principal of Concordia Lutheran School in Hong Kong. At the end of the high school assembly we were getting ready to repeat that assembly for the primary grades. This required a bit of chair rearrangement. So I began doing that. Immediately my two assistant principals (both respected Chinese scholars) ran up to me. “Principal Kieschnick, don’t you move those chairs! That is not a job for a principa,. We will call the janitor who’ll immediately take care of it.!”

Now this was a new experience for me. One of the jobs I always felt went with being principal was  doing the little stuff like moving chairs. Now I was told to not do that. I had been in that Chinese society long enough to stop and reflect. My two colleagues were speaking out of a long tradition. They felt that moving chairs was below the dignity of a school principal. If he did that the entire office of the principal would lose some respect. I had to take that point of view seriously. After all, if the office of principal was lowered in the eyes of the students that would also affect their view of his assistants.

Yet my mind had other thoughts. “I do not find this demeaning. The elementary school kids are about to arrive, I have a few minutes, I can get the chairs set up and be ready to go almost by the time the custodian would get here.” And I must admit I also had a slight feeling of  being called to “wash feet”-that is to humble one’s self.

About that time the janitor arrived and set up the chairs. But those conflicting impulses still prevail. Respect the traditions of those among whom you serve. On the other hand don’t let tradition n keep you from doing what your more sanctified impulse is urging you to do.

What would you have done?

Barefoot

It may have been a case of  neglect, laziness or maybe even memory loss. But a while ago I found myself busy at my computer, sitting here in my bare feet. It felt so very good. My mind pondered, “Why is it feeling so good to sit here in my bare feet?” I got theoretical. Maybe it’s because that’s how we first entered this world and we humans have an innate urge to get back to nature. Maybe it was just because it felt good to have one’s feet not restricted in any way. And any kind of freedom feels good. Maybe it was an act of asserting myself and I was saying to myself “ If I feel like going barefoot today, I will just do that, regardless of what anyone else may think or say.’

Upon deeper reflection on this earth-shaking question I came to another conclusion. And it’s one I will stick with. It felt good to be barefooted because it brought back all kinds of memories of my youth. I grew up in Texas. Part of that Texas rural and family freedom meant we did not have to wear shoes. We went barefooted at home, when we played, when we went to school, when we “went to town”. Only going to church on Sunday demanded shoes. Even then I didn’t like it and always had my shoes off even before we sat down for Sunday dinner.

Going barefooted did have its down-sides. One is that we were constantly stepping on stickers, burrs, glass, screws, nails and even needles. When I broke my ankle playing college football the x-ray technicians were more concerned about that needle embedded in my heel than with my ankle. I remember how that diagnosis frightened my mom who feared it would migrate to my heart and prove fatal. The Drs. assured us it was firmly embedded in tissue. A few years later after playing basketball with my pupils at St. Paul’s school in Tracy, CA I was again at the x--ray lab. So again the question: “What is the world is that needle doing in your heel?” I explained it was just another reminder of those wonderful days of going barefoot in my youth.

Going barefoot in the cotton fields of a Texas summer also proved a bit of a challenge. When the temperature hit the near hundreds the unshod soles of one’s feet got really challenged. I remember how I tried to find the shade of the cotton plants to protect them but it never got so bad that I wanted to wear shoes. One result is that tremendous calluses were formed on the bottom of my feet, a remnant of which stays with me to this day.

Of course, I could get even more philosophical and reflect upon poor kids whose feet are cold in winter because they have no shoes, or poor children who face bites and diseases because of their bare feet. But sitting here at my computer in my bare feet I will just revel in the moment and let my mind have the joy of remembering the marvelous carefree, barefooted days of my youth!

Supreme Court-and Lutheran Teaching Ministers

It must be the first time that a matter relating to a Lutheran teaching minister was heard by the US Supreme Court. The case was heard and last month the court issued its much publicized decision. This decision has implications for all in that esoteric category of commissioned ministers. Within Lutheranism in the USA only the LCMS and the Wisconsin Evangelical Lutheran Synod choose that or a similar category of professional church workers.

Most of the secular press correctly focused on the “ministerial exception “ aspect of the ruling. That exception said that churches are exempt from certain work related anti-discrimination laws when dealing with officially rostered ministers of religion

My joy comes from another place; namely, that the Court reaffirmed that Commissioned Teachers are, in fact, ministers of religion in the eyes, not only of the church, but also of the state.

That is great for those who teach in Lutheran schools. Without in any way taking away from the ministry of lay teachers it does affirm the particular role in which “called teachers” see themselves and their calling. Even the US Supreme Court said that they are doing ministry in all their teaching and not just when teaching a formal religion class. That is what veteran Lutheran teachers have always affirmed and hopefully demonstrated.

It came home to me at another more personal level. I am officially listed by my denomination, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, as an Associate in Ministry. However, in the ELCA I am considered a layperson. Just to dig up ancient inner-church conflict: when former LCMS teachers first were rostered with the ELCA they were given temporary minister of religion status. Subsequent church action decided to not do that. Only ordained clergy had the right to be classified and recognized by the church or by the US government ministers of religion.

So here’s a “hats off to the LCMS leadership for its role in its advocacy before the Court and here’s to all my colleagues who humbly (and proudly) claim their status of minister of religion. May they be blessed in their vital work of ministering in a Lutheran school!

Organ Recital, Memories and Ageing

It was my late friend Les Bayer who first introduced me to the most common “organ recital” of our time. This happens when people of my age get together. Immediately the talk goes to hips, lungs, kidneys, liver and other organs. This happened again last night when the residents of my building at this Retirement Community had a shared dinner.

Then came the speeches. It was great. Each floor rep had to make a speech. This proved to be a challenge for those of us used to just doing organ recitals. Even with extensive notes and much coaching from spouses and friends it seems that names were forgotten, dates confused and joke punch lines suddenly forgotten. It was great fun. And lots of empathy.

And it also made me get reflective. I remember my father-in-law. He was in his 90”s and had always been extremely patient and even tempered. But now I suddenly found him angry and combative. It took me a while to catch on. He was struggling with Alzheimer’s. Facts, data, numbers and names which used to come to him immediately were now suddenly outside the realm of his recollection. This frustrated him. Made him angry. He exploded. I understood.

It, as always, gets personal. Within the last week I sent two emails which contained a wrong date, an incorrect starting time, the wrong day of the week and the misappropriation of the author of a prayer. I refuse to get on the organ recital bench. But I did have to have a couple expletives deleted. And then I smiled and was grateful that at least I could still play a full 18 holes of golf and count correctly the number of strokes.

USA Health Care: The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

Health care in the USA can be fantastic. My wife Jane just had her knee replaced. This followed having previously replaced both her hips and her other knee. Things went very well. She has the marvel of whole new knee all meshed into her existing anatomy. In six months she will be able to walk anywhere. The doctor was skillful. The drugs worked. The staff was helpful. It was GOOD!

And it was Bad. When we met with the Orthopedic Surgeon Fellow who was to assist with the surgery he explained that he was unable to find any record of Jane’s previous knee surgery (even though it was at his hospital by his partner!). When checking drugs to which Jane is allergic we found that the list we had provided over and over was incomplete. When we tried to contact the anesthesiologist we were told that who that would be would not be known until an hour or so before the surgery. After surgery we again (for the tenth time) gave the list of drugs to which she has violent reactions. The prohibited drugs were still on the list. But we finally got that right and she was sent to Skilled Nursing away from the hospital.

Guess what: Those killer drugs that gave extreme nausea were exactly the ones prescribed for heavy use. When we told the doctor that we had learned exactly what drugs worked, (including exact dosage) that too got messed up. Then the doctor was unavailable (via phone, text, email or tweet, etc. etc.) for 4 days to correct it. Jane’s nausea returned. Then when she was ready to come home the pharmacist was unable to provide the 25 mg. dosage (which had been 2 pills of 10 mg. each plus 1 pill of 5 mg. and would not prescribe 5 pills of 5mg each. And so the story goes on. It was BAD!

Finally it got a little UGLY. I asked the pharmacist how I could ensure that there would be no time lapse when her current prescription is used up and a refill kicks in. The message was clear “You handle this. Just remember that it takes us 5 days to get that filled if your order comes in on a weekend! And we will refill the order only if it comes in on more than 3 days before the current prescription runs out.

All of this is more than anyone wants to read about. But here is a message all need to know. “If you or a loved one is sick the critical factor for good care: Be an advocate. Speak up. Keep records. Be assertive. Insist on talking to the proper doctors. Pity those poor people who have no advocates or who are unable to speak up for themselves.

 If that can all the handled then indeed medical care in the USA will end up moving through the bad and the ugly and can actually be VERY GOOD!