Ageing Update

This I know: Nobody else really cares about my ageing. This I also know: anyone who reads this blog is in the same process as I. So here are a few of my personal reflections and I really would be pleased to hear how you are doing.

First the good news: My body is okay. As long as I do my exercises and drink my two glasses of red wine a day things go pretty well. I have not been able to get my Dr. to actually officially prescribe those two glasses of red wine a day so Medicare does not reimburse me for my now 3-Buck Chuck. My golf drives get shorter and shorter. The other day I had to use a 5 iron to reach a green only 130 yards away and I can’t blame age for my lousy putting. Fortunately there are some things that my brain still handles okay. I recently was able to give a brief 3-point speech without having to consult my manuscript.

With age my concepts of God and my vision of reality keep getting expanded more and more.

Yet ageing is obvious, especially when I sit down at this darn computer. I screw up all the time, get frustrated every time I try to use this machine which I cannot get along without and which drives me to distraction when I use it and it doesn’t stop me from writing run-on sentences.

I keep forgetting numbers. Can’t even remember a house number that I had memorized when I had left my home. I left behind (so far not retrieved) my annual calendar which had not only my appointments but also my phone contacts, prescriptions,and computer passwords!

My lack of alertness bothers me especially after someone honks at me when I made a right turn on red in front of him or her. (I KNOW THIS COULD GET SERIOUS!)

I notice now that occasionally people show deference to me because to them I obviously appear as “ an old man”. I also notice that others now seek my opinion or consultation much less frequently and when I give my suggestions they seem to be ignored more often.

So I wake up each morning especially grateful that my wife Jane is patient with me, that she is the one who insisted that we move to this retirement community, that we can still afford the monthly payments (even after working for the church virtually my whole life), that I have a family which supports me even though we just cancelled the planned visit of all six of my sisters, two sisters-in-law and one brother because within 48 hours one had unexpected cancer surgery and another had to accompany a spouse to the hospital for urgent blood vessel work.

So that’s the word for today. I will put it in my calendar that next November I will again give an update provided I remember and/or don’t lose my calendar…and am still among the living.

Survivors of Torture

 I spent most of yesterday in jail. It was in the US Detention Center near the Mexican border. Thank God I was not a detainee. I was there, however, on behalf of a particular class of detainees, survivors of torture in other countries who are seeking asylum in the USA. There are at least 2,000 of these every year. (Probably as many as 5000,000 refugees in America were tortured prior to their arrival in the USA). They arrive having escaped torture in their home country, but not yet having all the papers to legally stay in the USA. Unfortunately, they are placed in the same prison with all others who are held for illegal entry or are waiting to be sent back to their country of origin.

I went there because I am on the Board of Directors of a local organization called Survivors of Torture, International. Our mission is to identify legitimate asylum seekers who were tortured in their home country, had to flee for their lives and are seeking a new life in America.

I am getting to know these brothers and sisters personally. Just this week: A woman from a Middle Eastern country. Her teen-aged son foolishly wrote a less than friendly note about his country’s leader in one of his computer tweets. He was identified, told that he was “dead”: He made it home. Fortunately his mother had the resources to buy a ticket for her son and herself to the USA (leaving behind her husband and other children). Of course, when she landed in the USA she did not have a visa. She was sent to a prison detention center; she to one, her 14 year old son to another!

Another survivor: Her family was pro–USA, but the real offence her father committed was to send this daughter to school. The Taliban stopped her on her way home from school, told her to drop out. She went back to school. She was stopped again. The persons who stopped her found she had an English as a second language textbook with her. They came to the house, took away her father and killed him. She is a Survivor seeking asylum in the USA.

There are stories like this every day. Survivors of Torture, Inc. (started with the assistance of a Wheat Ridge Ministries grant some ten years ago) assists these brothers and sisters get legal status, helps them find doctors who assist with their physical and psychological trauma. Sad disclosure: I have yet to meet an adult female asylum seeker who was NOT raped!

My efforts are feeble in the light of the need. I raise funds for the organization. I met with and wrote the Warden at the Detention Center expressing my thanks to him for protecting me from people who want to hurt America but also asking him to treat humanly those who are here because they believe the invitation on the Statue of liberty, “Give me your tired, your homeless, your tempest -tossed, those yearning to be free”. And I am working for Congress to pass legislation separating asylum seekers from suspected criminals like the gentleman of whom I heard yesterday. He was in Afghanistan assisting a USA helicopter force. He was threatened. He fled. When he got here he was handcuffed, incarcerated, treated like a violent criminal. Tough calls: but I want to be sure that I am on the side of those who are truly Survivors of Torture.

Lutheran International and Urban Schools Symposium : Reflecting, Rejoicing and Regretting

I have just returned from a symposium to which I looked forward with much anticipation. My colleague Marlene Lund from the Center for Urban Education Ministries had helped pulled together a symposium of some 60 Lutheran educators from around the world. Her hope was that by combining leaders from international schools with those of urban Lutheran schools in the USA new learnings might emerge and new relationships might be formed. A part of that goal was well achieved, some of it not very well. Here is a sample of a few of my Reflections, Rejoicings and Regrets

I rejoiced to look at the cities/countries from which these Lutheran school leaders came: Hong Kong, Hanoi, New York, Australia, China, Ghana, Frankenmuth, Papau New Guinea. It continues to thrill me to image kids from each of these places having the opportunity to learn and grow and to have faith born and sustained in every one of those places. I regretted to see no-one from any South American or European country there.

I appreciated looking at titles of the participants: Executive Director of International Education, Science Teacher, Head of School, Evangelist. Board Member, Treasurer, Elementary Teacher. Of course, many of them could also have identified themselves as “parents”. It takes all kinds of expertise to make schools places of growth. I regretted seeing no title or position related to a denomination head or regional offices such as at a church-wide, synod or district. It again pointed to the quickening demise of denominational leadership in the USA.

I thought about the contrast between the small, very financially poor Lutheran school struggling in, for example, Ghana, and the relative wealth of international schools in places like Hong Kong and Shanghai. Yet as I spoke with heads of those schools of whatever country or size they all spoke of the on-going challenge of responding to parent’s concern or lack thereof.

It was wonderful to see the representation from Lutheran colleges and universities and their departments of international studies. (I reflected upon the fact that way back in 1968 I was asked to start up the first one of such in the LCMS but decided my educational career was headed in another direction.) I wondered what insights we would have learned had there been one there from the largest Lutheran University in the world – in Brazil. It has 32,000 students on campus out of a total of some 140,000 in their extended network.

I enjoyed looking at names like Gyamfi Kwadwo, Betty Lingenfelter, Philip Ohene-Abrefa, Moyo Tawango. And Tarirai Doreen. I regretted seeing no names of obvious Hispanic heritage. The highlight for me was the keynote address by Martin Schmidt. His theme was “Grace and Vocation”. He challenged all Lutheran schools to be places where students and staff experience grace, a God who cares about and loves all creation and vocation and the calling for each one of us to be of service and ministry in and to the world. He gave marvelous examples of how teachers at all levels can lead their students into this wonderful direction. I left this symposium just as more than 3000 teachers in Lutheran schools from all over were gathering for a three day convocation. I bowed my head in respect for them and in prayer that each of their students might indeed discover and live out Grace and Vocation.

Legacy

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Legacy

What legacy will I leave when I die? No, I am not morbidly contemplating my last days. However, just this last week I had several little nudges that stirred me in the direction of contemplating my legacy.

The first was a radio interview regarding our recently sacked San Diego mayor, He admitted to grossly inappropriate (even illegal) behavior in sexually harassing women of all ages. When asked about the specifics of his guilty plea the attorney being interviewed stated “I think what the ex-mayor is sort of calculating is his legacy and very specifically: what will be in the first two lines of his obituary when it is published in the media upon his death.” Interesting. What will be in the first few lines of one’s obituary. Will it be very dependent upon whoever happens to write that obituary or will there be general agreement, “Yes, this is Mel’s legacy.”

I happened to mention this to my daughter Liz who is in private family therapy practice. She told me that she had just seen several clients in which there were significant challenges in mother-daughter relationships. She told me that she had asked the mothers to consider: “Many years from now when your daughters will be recalling your late life, what is it that you hope they will remember about you?’ That is another legacy question.

I have now been retired for 20 years. Tomorrow I go to an international education symposium on Lutheran education. There I will listen to the latest in the “Kieschnick Lecture Series” an endowed endeavor set up by my friends at the time of my retirement. Most of the people at that lecture will never have heard of Mel Kieschnick and I surely get that! The person delivering the lecture is much younger than I and we have spent little time together. But I have read his speech and is it good stuff. It is about his dreams and visions for international Lutheran schools.

That is good. And as I listen I will be reflecting upon my dreams and my nightmares; my successes and my failures, my satisfactions and my regrets. I will be driven again to my vision of a God who is loving and forgiving.  And I trust God’s verdict as to what my legacy shall be.

Childhood Memories: Regrets

(Note: This is the last of the series in my blog re Childhood Memories. These were written primarily for my grandchildren. Possibly some others may find them of interest.)

I was blessed to have a wonderful childhood. There was food and clothing, wonderful parents, good modeling, strong spiritual direction. My memories are overwhelmingly positive. When I asked myself, “What do I regret about my childhood?” I found the list to be very small. Here are just two little items on my lists of regrets.

I never learned to swim. Mother made a note in my Baby Book: “He always enjoyed his baths till he was eight months old when we took him into the Gulf of Mexico at Galveston. From then on until he was over a year he never liked his bath.” I learned to enjoy my bath but never flowing or deep water. Of course there was very little deep water in Central Texas. I certainly never had access to swimming pool. I do recall that when I was quite young, Teacher Meier of our Lutheran parochial school went swimming in the San Gabriel River, got caught in some quicksand and drowned! I decided to not get into any water deeper than about 6 inches. But then came high school. A group of us boys headed for Barton Springs in Austin. They all jumped in. I could not be chicken so I jumped in too, actually swam a ways and then panicked. Made it back to shore completely traumatized. I tried to hide my embarrassment. And I never learned to swim. I regret that and it led me to resolve that when my kids grew up in Hong Kong they would learn to swim. If I should ever find myself in deep water today (of whatever kind) I hope my kids will be there to rescue me.

I also never learned to dance. It was the teaching of my local congregation that “dancing is a sin”. It would have been cause of significant scandal if any of the Kieschnick Family was ever seen on a dance floor! Later, even though my beliefs about dancing changed I never learned. Jane, my wife has a wonderful sense of rhythm and she knew how to dance. I was clumsy, self-conscious and not fun anywhere near a dance floor. Now I really regret that. I would love even now at 85 to join my friends here at La Costa Glen (and elsewhere) and enjoy a waltz etc. but instead I just sit and watch and dream; but I do know that if I tried to learn now it would be a disaster all the way around. So I write about my regret and move on.

CHILDHOOD MEMORIES: POVERTY

(This series of ten blogs is personal and written primarily for the benefit of my grandchildren. Others may choose to skip them-or maybe even find them interesting.)

I grew up poor. I hasten to add that I was certainly not alone. Also I am deeply aware that there were and are millions who had/have much less than I. I recently checked on-line and found detailed records of the 1945 US Government census. That record showed that my father’s income for the previous year was listed at  $720.00 (although I seem to have the memory that while that was indeed the promised salary the local church he was serving was, in fact, unable to pay his total salary for that year).

I certainly never went hungry, but I remember things that I longed for. I wondered what it would be like to eat a complete candy bar. When Father went to Teachers Conference he would bring back a few candy bars (Baby Ruth, Butterfingers, or Milky Way). Mother would get out the kitchen knife and carefully cut the bar into 7 pieces and distribute them to my six siblings and me. Occasionally our neighborhood grocery store would display a box of seedless green grapes on the counter. My mouth salivated at the sight, but I could never possibly purchase any. Mother would on occasion make a banana pudding and I would stare at the banana and wonder what it would be like to have the luxury of eating a whole banana, all by myself. When at Christmastime the bag of goodies we got from our church was given us on Christmas Eve I spent a lot of time trying to decide as to when I wanted to chew that lone stick of gum that was enclosed. But I also knew that when dinner time came there would be meat and potatoes on the table and plenty of fresh milk

Mother insisted that we dress neatly and cleanly. She sewed much of the clothes, especially for my sisters and pants often had many patches. But they were clean and the white dress shirt my father wore as he taught each day was always starched and ironed. To this day I remember the really good-looking suit that was purchased for my confirmation ritual at church and that the suit cost $7.00 and was paid off over an agreed upon time period.

I went to one movie in the first 14 years of my life. Uncle Otto who wanted me to see Shirley Temple provided that. One of my most proud grade school projects was that somehow or other I collected enough Post Toasties box tops to send them in for a brand new 12-inch softball. I remember the day it arrived in the mail and how it was passed around at school and we learned to know what a new softball felt like. I never owned a storybook but my cousin Ben loaned me those small fat little Dick Tracy books. The 1927 Model A Ford we drove lasted us until Uncle Fred helped us get a new Chevy in l946.

One of the lessons my parents insisted upon was that we were not to ask for ”government relief” and I regret to say that we looked down disdainfully on those who were working in government sponsored relief programs like the WPA even though that government project provided us with our first in-the-ground cesspool outdoor privy.

Those early years of very limited money served me well. I learned to appreciate what I had, to enjoy the reality that the best things in life are free, that God always took care of me and that I was and am very richly blessed.

Childhood Memories: Faith Development

Note: This series of 10 blogs on Childhood Memories are intended primarily for my grandchildren; others may or may not find them to be of interest.)

Seven days after my birth my parents rustled me off to Zion Lutheran Church, Walburg, Texas where I was baptized into the Christian church. My mother duly noted in my Baby Boo that I “behaved well” when Pr. John Sieck performed the ritual and that I was dressed in the same white and pink dress in which my sister Leona had been baptized just two years earlier.

My parents took seriously their responsibility of nurturing the faith development of me as an infant and young child. I was immediately immersed in the daily rituals of morning and evening prayers, table grace, Bible reading and hymns.  Every morning and evening we had the ritual of Dad reading a section from the Bible, a reflection upon that text, a prepared prayer, and the pronouncement of the Aaronitic blessing.

My life was always in the context of the local congregation at which my Father served as school principal, organist, choir director, youth minister, etc. etc. Every Sunday found us at church where I was well monitored by Mother. In those days we “went to church” a lot. Every Sunday, midweek Lenten services for 6 weeks, church festivals that did not fall on a Sunday such as Christmas, the Holy Week Events, Ascension and Reformation Day. Mixed in were funerals, weddings, anniversaries, mission festivals and concerts. It was pretty much total immersion. If my memory is correct this was all fine with me and I enjoyed the rituals, was proud to get dressed up but very much resented having to wear shoes as that interfered with my nearly year round seven days a week of going barefooted. 

At age six I enrolled at the two-room Zion Lutheran School. Of course we started the day with religion class. It was classic Lutheran indoctrination with heavy focus on doctrine and dogma, always quoting Luther and Scripture (often even in that sequence). There were four (4) basic elements to this instruction: 1) Bible Stories (we all remember the blue covered book with the title  “100 Bible Stories”); 2) Martin Luther’s catechism and Dr. Schwan’s Explanation of the same; 3. Memory work. We memorized hundreds of Bible verses and Martin Luther’s Small Catechism; and 4 . Hymn singing as we sang every day usually in German and often in three-part harmony. 

I recall that instruction with appreciation. I learned the fundamentals of the Christian faith. I was taught very clearly that God is a God of Grace, that God is for me, not against me. I learned the virtues and rewards of leading a pious life. I learned that in God’s eyes I was special and that God had a dream that I would lead a productive, ethical life, sharing my faith, values and gifts with the world.

In retrospect I also see some things in my religious training that I now reject. The Bible was presented as needing to be interpreted very literally. I was taught that only my branch of the Lutheran Church had “the Word of God in all its truth and purity”. I learned little about anyone not of my very specific faith and denominational tradition. It was a very narrow view of the work of God and my role in the larger parts of God’s scheme for all of creation. I also was not introduced to some of the worship practices which I now wish I had developed, specifically meditation, contemplation or silence.

When I reflect deeply on my early religious training I must do so with very deep feelings of gratitude and appreciation. The seeds that were sewn went deep. I trust that they continue to bear fruit that endures into eternity.

Childhood Memories: Health

 (Note: This series of 10 Blogs are written primarily for my grandchildren. Others may or may not find them of interest.)

 I was born in the rural “teacherage” (think parsonage) of Zion Lutheran Church, Walburg, Texas. Mother’s bed had been moved into the dining room, as that was the only room with a stove to provide heat in the central Texas December cold.  Dr. Wiedemeyer was there as always with his black bag and he was assisted by my Aunt Mattie Kurio. I weighed in at a healthy 10 pounds. After 11 days I was taken out of the house to the church for my baptism.

My health continued to be excellent. Of course during the first 10 years of my life I (together with all my sibs) had all the usual childhood diseases. I know that I had measles, mumps, whooping cough red eye, scarletina and chicken pox.

Living “out in the country” and always going barefoot I stepped on myriads of pieces of glass, pins, nails, splinters and bristles. We would dig them all out if necessary with assistance from sisters or Mother. If we couldn’t get them out we applied a generous dab of some very black gooey salve which allegedly has “drawing power.” Whenever we had a deep scratch. An itch that wouldn’t go away, or the beginning of something like athlete’s foot we applied a generous dose of kerosene and that usually took care of it.

I had an unnamed Aunt who always supplied us with a drink that was supposed to be very good at preventing nasty colds or cure them if they had arrived. It came in a 20-ounce bottle and was called “Alpenkrauter). She used it very generously and it sustained her health until she was well into her 90”s. It was only then that I really looked at the label and discovered that its alcohol proof was also something like 90!

Bee, wasps, ants and spider bites were simply facts of life. Mercurochrome seemed to fix most of that and if things got really bad we went to Iodine. Yet we were always told to be careful lest we get infected and we end up with “lock jaw.”

There were other homemade “wonder drugs”. For chest colds there was a mustard plaster. For sore throat a big slice of fatty bacon wrapped around the neck brought instant relief. Any pain in the abdomen area requited a whiskey rub. This was much preferred to detested castor oil. If a cough simply would not stop Dad would have to spring not only for a rare fresh lemon but also use some of our carefully limited whiskey. This was mixed with just a tiny bit of sugar and warm water. I don’t remember it ever failing!

But there was one major health issue which very nearly proved fatal. Somewhere between the ages of 5 and 7 I developed a terrible stomachache which could not be helped by any of the home remedies. Finally Dr. Wiedemeyer was called in. He said “You have got to get this boy to the hospital.” So Uncle Reinhold and Dad got into the Model A Ford and took me to King’s Daughter’s Hospital in Temple, Texas more than an hour away where Dr. Harland (a nephew of Mom) would take care of me. Ether put me under. It was a ruptured appendix. Peritonitis was all over my insides. Of course, there were no antibiotics. Three tubes were inserted to drain off the puss. I was on the critical list. Obviously, I survived. And I marvel at the tid-bits of memories I carry with me some 75 years later.  I remember the embarrassment of not being able to deliver a urine sample unless I was standing. I remember a wonderful plump nurse named Miss French. She told me I was beautiful and that she would wait until I was grown so that she could marry me (and I half believed her!). I remember Uncle Frank giving me a store-bought little 12-inch sailing boat. And I do remember the anxiety on the faces of my Mom and Dad and the relief and prayers of gratitude when I was retuned home. And Mother always insisted that the one side effect of my appendectomy was that it slowed down my running. She claimed I was very swift before and just barely normal after the surgery.

Childhood Memories: Fun and Games

(Note: This series of ten blogs are intended primarily for my children and grandchildren and so may be of limited interest to others.)

I had lots of fun and played many games as a child. It always amazes me that the games we played as children seem to be the same games that other kids my age played all around the country at the same time. We had no interaction with each other, often came from different ethnic backgrounds, certainly had no access to modern social media and yet we played many of the same games.

Like so many others in the late 1920’s or early 30’s, I played Hide and Seek, I Spy, Draw a Magic Circle, Sheep Pour Down (where did that title come from?), Kick the Can and Red Rover. I played very few, if any, board games. Of course, being a Texan I played lots of straight dominoes, and early on learned to play Shoot the Moon and Texas 42. Old Maid seems to have always been around. I sat by my father (often falling on the floor next to him at wedding receptions and other celebrations) when he played the card game Scot, but I never learned it.

Softball was omnipresent as long as there were at least two of us. In school we always choose up sides, played at every recess and even competed against two near-by public schools (Walburg and Thrall), but not against the neighboring Catholic school. When the older kids in the church youth group (Walther League) played against other church groups I got to be “pig tail” which means I backed up the catchers as we had no backstop behind the catcher.

The holiday seasons, wedding receptions and birthday parties were much anticipated. At Easter we went out to the pasture and found the most beautiful wild flowers (especially Texas bluebonnets if they were already blooming) and decorated fancy Easter egg nests. On Easter morning these would be filled with Chocolate Easter eggs and a few single-color painted hard boiled eggs. We looked forward to weddings. The receptions were always in the country home of the bride. There was usually a lane that ran through a gated fence. At the entry little boys were allowed to “hold rope”. We stretched a rope across the lane and “demanded” a contribution from the arriving cars before we would lower the rope and let the car in. After all the guestsa had arrived the pennies and nickels (very, very rarely was there as much as a quarter) would be distributed. Of course the fewer boys (NEVER a girl) that participated the better the per boy yield. I was lucky. My father was always the wedding organist and was the local church school principal so I was usually permitted to be one of the rope bearers. Another good thing about those weddings was the wonderful Texas bar-b-que which was absolutely essential to the celebration. Then around midnight the chivaree players arrived. They banged on the plowshares, the kettledrums, the shovels and whatever else was around to make a din. Then they were served beer (homemade during Prohibition) with my dad singing a special humorous song for the bride, and then ending with a “midnight lunch”.

Rarely, but very special were the times when dad would finally give in to our perpetual pestering and tell us stories of “von alten” - old-times. Over and over we heard the yarns of the time he and his sister were afraid to complete their walk home from school because a pack of wolves got between them and home. Or the story of the afternoon riding of the calves and   his friend who got pitched off the calf right into the cow dung; Or the story of his grandmother who sat in her chicken coop in the dark all night with flashlight in one hand and a rifle in the other and confronted the “you bastard” who had been coming to steal her chickens!

So there was no television, no social media, no movies (for us), but I would not trade my childhood fun and games for any of the wonderful gadgets, theme parks or organized Little Leagues providing entertainment for my grandchildren today.

Childhood Memories: Zion Lutheran School

This is the third in a series on my Childhood Memories, written especially for my children and grandchildren.

My first eight years of schooling were at the two room parochial school named Zion Lutheran School of Walburg. As its name indicates, it was a parish school. As such it had three distinct aims: to teach the Christian Lutheran faith to the children who had been baptized as infants in Zion congregation, to help preserve the best of the Lutheran German heritage and thirdly to prepare its students for productive citizenship in the USA. And in my judgment it achieved all three goals in an outstanding way.

Teaching the faith was primary and the methods were traditional. Tell the Bible stories, ask the questions of the Catechism and get the correct centuries-old answers, and memorize the “proof texts, the hymns, prayer and Martin Luther’s Small Catechism. Up until my graduation in 1941 these were all learned and taught in German!

We were taught to read the old fashioned way-pure phonics. Io can still see the wall charts. I remember the primer and “I am   the gingerbread man; I am. I am." We had no library and no access to a public one. When I was in the seventh grade we (rejoice greatly) received a set of 38 condensed versions of children’s classic books. Mt only regret: I had read them all in the first two weeks after they arrived. But then we got a set of World Book Encyclopedia. As diligently as I read I never finished that!

Writing was just penmanship-no essays, books reports or creative writing Spelling was a separate class. But grammar was paramount. We diagramed sentences and I can still put it all down: subject, predicate, object, adjective, adverbs, subjunctive clauses, the whole bit.

History was as much Texas history as US history. At one point I tried to memorize the names of all 52 counties in Texas and their county seats-but, of course, that was all secondary to the Alamo and the San Jacinto Monument!

I don't remember any science course. Yet my father, Principal Kieschnick, wanted his students to have new learnings. I am sure that neither I nor any of my classmates had ever been to a zoo or an aquarium. Once he contracted with a gentleman who brought a mature elephant to our school. As the elephant walked around our playground we felt its trunk - and a few students even rode it. Another time a large preserved full-sized whale was brought to the school. We felt its skin and marveled a how whalebones could be shaped into useful objects. 

Two classrooms (grades 1-3 and 4-8.) Teachers Bleke and Kieschnick Outside of my piano//organ and one high school teacher of Spanish, I had not one single female teacher from grade one through grad school!

Discipline seemed strict and fair with spanking being an option utilized only “when very necessary.”…We drank water drawn from the school well and dispensed in little tin cups of each student. Lunch came in sacks-except for mine as I lived close enough to school to always go home for lunch. No school busses and in the early years some classmates rode to school on their horses or in buggies drawn by horses. There was a place for the horses to rest and be fed, just next to the outdoors hole-in-the –ground toilet for boys. In winter the boys got coals from an outside bin an h kept the pot-bellied stove stoked.

We had plenty of fun. Recesses time was generous. We chose up sides and played softball. At other times we “shot marbles” played “red rover" and “andy over.” Christmas was time for wonderful Christmas programs in church on Christmas Eve where we each received a brown paper bag with goodies-the one time in the year when I had a stick of gum and an orange just for myself, and some red and white Christmas candy! End of the year school picnics were time for the oompah band, softball games, ice cream scones, and a “program” with candidates for public office in the 1930’s assuring us they were against “child labor laws” which allegedly might prohibit parents from sending their own children into the fields to pick cotton!

My memories now are all positive. For its time the school was perfect for me. Today is a new day and I am glad my grandchildren have so much more than I had. And I look with dismay at the many in our country and in our world who would be so blessed to have the simple lessons and eternal values which were taught me at Zion Lutheran School in Walburg, Texas.

Childhood Memories: Work

This is the second in a series on my Childhood Memories, written especially for my children and grandchildren.

My parents taught me the value of work. Early on they taught me the Bible verse: “If any would not work, neither should he eat!” In summer we lived by Dad’s mantra “In the field by sunup!” And they practiced what they preached. Dad was principal of the school, taught grades four through eight, and was church organist and choir director. He taught a Sunday morning Bible class and was the adult counselor for the youth group named The Walther League. He also cleaned the church and saw to it that hymn numbers were posted for Sunday worship. Before and/or after school he raised nine kids. Beyond his family and the local congregation he served for many years as Chair of The Texas District Teachers Conference and organized the annual statewide conference.

Mom, of course, washed diapers continually, served three hot meals a day, did hundreds of loads of laundry (always carrying the hot water in buckets to the washing machine.) She used the hand-turned clothes wringer before hanging the laundry on the drying line, taking them down when dry. Dad always wore ironed shorts; the girls wore homemade dresses sewn by Mom (often made from the material of flour sacks et sim.) She cared for the sick, always saw to it that “the beds were made”, canned up to 800 quarts of home fruits and vegetables in one year. And still made time to hear our daily recitation of Bible verses and catechism lesson.

Within that context my work was pretty simple. Of course, I milked the cows, gathered the eggs, and watered the hogs. We shucked an awful lot of corn, sometime made less tiresome when my sibs and I would have contests to see who could get 100 ears shucked first.

My memory is that I was forever pushing a lawnmower. Mom’s idea of the expanse of our lawn (our house abutted a major pasture) kept expanding. By the fifth grade I was busy mowing for my relatives. Uncle Walter wanted to be helpful. He was a very clever blacksmith so he rigged up an electric motor on top of the lawn mower blades. Big problem: Before I had cut even a tenth of his lawn I had run over the electric cord. I hastily repaired it with “black tape” only to run over and cut the extension cord at another place. My cousin Olga had what seemed to me to be an acre of front lawn, and try as I might I never cut the mowing path as straight as she liked and so had to recut the lawn in 100 degree heat.

It was obvious early on that this boy would never make it on the farm and this just got proven again when I was sent to pick cotton. My younger brother Harold and my elder sister Leona both out-picked me, and remember that we were paid by the pound picked, thirty-five cents for a hundred pounds. On a really good day if I picked from sun-up to sundown I might hit that 100 pounds and earn my 35 cents. My sibs could double that!

My most enjoyable little job may have been digging for worms that Uncle Otto used for bait when he went to the lake for perch. He would slip us a full nickel when we had a good pint-sized can full of wriggly worms waiting for him. What I remember most vividly is not the nickel but a near disaster. We moved a small water tank to get to the moist ground underneath. It was full of wriggly worms. I hoisted the heavy grubbing axe above my head to really get into the earth. Just then brother Harold spotted a worm in the middle of my target. He ran to grab it. Angels descended from above, averted the swing of my digging axe which would have shattered his skill. We got the worms and shared the nickel.

Childhood Memories: Food

(Note: This is one of a series of Blog Postings of personal boyhood memories-written especially with my grandchildren in mind. Others may not find them interesting.)

I grew up poor. However, I never ever went hungry. There was always plenty of good food, most of it homegrown, home-canned, home-cooked. If I ever complained to my mother about the food (which was usually if there were no cookies because we couldn’t afford the sugar) Mother always replied “Venn du hungrich bist, den schmeck auch jelly-brut gut:” (If you are hungry then also jelly bread tastes good.) And jelly on top of home baked bread was always available. 

I have no memory of ever eating a meal (or even a hamburger) in a restaurant until I was in high school.  We always had plenty of vegetables, almost all of which we grew ourselves in our large garden. Almost every meal featured potatoes. Potatoes were so common that we had a joke that if there were no potatoes on the table at a meal other than breakfast one was not required to say grace because without potatoes there could not be a real meal.

Our meat came from hogs, cattle, chicken, turkeys, an occasional sheep, goat or rabbit, which we raised ourselves. Our fried chicken was always fresh as Mother would catch a fryer or two, cut its head off with a hatchet, batter it in flour and fry it in lard. Friends by the name of Schwausch would come to assist with butchering the hogs. The hog’s throats were cut, bled, immersed in scalding water and the hair scaled off. Then the cuts were made, the intestines and stomach cleaned and stuffed with sausage. The ham and sausages were smoked in our own smoke house. One of my jobs was to keep plenty of tree bark smoking so the flavor would really penetrate the meat.  Most of the meat was cut off the bones to make sausage, but even those bones were salvaged, cooked and served with mustard on top and mashed potatoes with beet juice over them as the side dishes.

Fish were a rare treat. My father and Uncle Otto would catch over a hundred small perch, which we  deep-fried. (Always outside over a corn-cob fueled fire.) Once in a while an itinerant fisherman would stop by and at very low cost sell us a couple trout or more likely a big string of catfish. If my memory is correct the first time I saw shrimp was when I was about 20 years if age.

Vegetables were in abundance. The earliest crops each spring were those we did not can -  like radishes, onions, lettuce followed by mustard greens, spinach, turnips, sweet potatoes and carrots, Eaten fresh or canned by the multitudes were string beans (the plants growing up the slender bamboo poles along side them) peas, corn, cucumbers, tomatoes, okra, kohlrabi, and beets.

Of course there was plenty of fruit (either from our own trees or from neighbors and relatives) I still see my mother sitting on our back porch, peeling away enough for literally hundreds of fruit jars to be filled with peaches, cherries, pears, blackberries, apricots, figs, and pickles.

There was always plenty of fresh milk, butter, homemade bread and gravy. Desserts were for special occasions like Sunday or birthdays. I have not a single memory of wine ever being at the table, but dad did enjoy homebrewed beer, especially during prohibition. At Christmas time Dad (much to Mother’s disapproval) would buy a quart of Four Roses bourbon and we would have Christmas eggnog with all the fresh home-made whipped cream the cup could possibly hold. I do not remember ever having even one bottle of soda or cola in my home until I was in college.

Of course, this was all long before television, cell phones (we did not even have a line phone) or computers. There were no after school baseball games, dance lessons, or baby-sitting jobs. So it is that my memories of food enjoyed while growing up are all warm and fuzzy. They are filled with images of our large family gathered around the table (I am one of 9 kids) saying the table prayer (often in German), then passing around those wonderful dishes of fresh nutritious food,  enjoying every bite and trying our best to keep our mouths shut while we energetically chewed.

New Orleans

I love New Orleans. One big reason I love New Orleans is because I love food and New Orleans is loaded with good food. I can begin the day with some great beignets in the French Quarter. For lunch I can stop at almost any street corner and take my pick from among po-boys, jambalya, gumbo, crawfish etouffie, or just plain red beans and rice. Dinner offers anything my pocketbook can afford including two of my favorite restaurants, Brennens and Broussards.

Music and New Orleans are all part of one wonderful orchestra. Jazz was born there. The Blues still fill the streets. Sunday black churches have music that lifts the soul. For my funeral I would be very happy to have my body accompanied by a traditional street funeral band. And if my Memorial Service were on a Sunday it would be great to have all the mourners go the Quarter for a Gospel Brunch.

But good memories of New Orleans go deeper than food and music. For many years my late brother Harold lived in New Orleans. Harold always inspired me (and he lives in me today) with his commitment to hard work, his unflinching care for the black Lutheran schools of the South and especially for those who taught in them. And on top of that, at the end of every one of his long days he knew that his specially designed refrigerator was stocked with some good cold tap beer for him and any who cared to joined him

Honesty requires that I also share the things that really bother me about New Orleans. It has one of the highest poverty rates of any city in America. Racism is still rampant and blacks are still denied entrance to restaurants, homes on favorite streets and equal opportunity in the work place or in the courtroom.

While I have gone to some very enriching conferences and conventions in New Orleans my mind also often goes to one New Orleans gathering that for me was a disaster. A major Christian Church body adopted a formal resolution that stated that anyone who refused to teach that the world was created in exactly six days of 24 hours each was to “be considered a heretic and not be tolerated within the Church of God.”

But I will try to forget about that this weekend when I head to New Orleans to join the some 100 members of my 8 siblings and our families. We will remember Mom and Dad, honor the memory of brother Harold and enjoy the food, the music, the Gospel and the family. And it will be good!

Peshawar, Islamabad, Rawalpindi, Abbottabad, Pakistan

Prior to visiting these cities of Pakistan in the mid 1988’s I doubt if I had even heard of them. Now each of them is firmly etched in my memory. In 1983 (and then again in 1984) I spent time in Pakistan teaching Parent and Teacher Effectiveness Training. It was a great and extremely rewarding experience. My classes included Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, Zoroastrians and persons of no faith. At least one was one of multiple wives. One who attended all of my workshops later publicly immolated himself in protest of the government. To a person they treated me with respect and extended hospitality beyond my wildest imagination. On my second trip I was invited to the area near the Khyber Pass and bordering Afghanistan.

But first I stopped in Islamabad and even then was amazed at the build-up of troops all around that city extending into the area right next to Abbottabad of later Bin Laden fame. My host was one of the greatest living saints I ever met, Sister Sheila from Ireland. It was she who startled me when I knocked on her hotel room in Rawalpindi and stepped in . “STOP!” she shouted. I recoiled. Then she was immediately in my arms with words of apologies. “You see, Mel”, she said, “ If I as a woman was noticed inviting a single man into my hotel room I could be killed for it.” After my apology she recanted, “What the h.., Mel. Come in. It’s worth the risk.”

She took me to the Bishops’ residence. He kindly lent us his driver and beat-up old Ford to take us over the camel-crowded passes to Peshawar. There I was to present certificates to a class of teachers to whom she had taught the Model I first taught her. But then a problem arose. This was a big event and the Head of the Education Department was to distribute the certificates, but was unable to attend. He asked if his wife could make the presentation for him and deliver a short address. The problem was that she, as a woman, was not permitted to speak to an audience that was not all women. I agreed to step out of the room until she was finished. But Sister Shelia did some negotiating and I was permitted to attend.

After the presentation I was taken to a bazaar where some beautiful embroidery was bought for me. Then I bought a type of turban/hat from a street vendor. I had gone about a block when a gentleman ran up to me from behind. I finally figured out that he wanted to know how much I paid. When he found out the price he explained (as I finally got it through an interpreter) that he just wanted to make sure that as a foreigner I had not been taken advantage of for that would be anti-Islam; but since I had been charged a fair price I was sent on my way.

My way took me to the Pakistan-Afghanistan border. Once again I viewed the tragedy of hundreds of thousands of refugees fleeing from the Afghanistan-Russian fighting. They, like millions of others through the ages. Now again, especially on the Syria-Jordan border, people are fleeing for their lives. They live in hot, dirty, dusty, little tents, scrounging for food and water, trying to keep hope alive.

,On this pleasant California evening I sit and reflect on my brothers and sisters in places with names like Peshawar, Islamabad. Rawalpindi and Abbottabad and I feel like my life is so different and so blessed. At the same time  regardless of the name of the place in which we live we  all yearn for the same things: someone who loves us, people who respect us regardless of our gender, religion or nationality and a place where we can lie down and sleep in peace.

Tracy, CA

Tracy, California was one of the most important teachers in my life. I was sent there by the Lutheran Church when I completed my Teaching Minister Training in 1950. I had never heard of the place, really had no option other than to accept the assignment and   get there and go to work.

My job was typical of those days, teach grades 4-8 in the two room school, serve as the school’s principal, be the congregation’s youth director, instruct the Sunday School teachers, sing in the choir, play the organ for parts of the Sunday services (as able), teach an adult class each Sunday and in cases of emergency conduct the Sunday worship services, and in summer conduct a Vacation Bible School. It all sounded normal for the times. So I learned to love kids, work hard, know the community and get my Master’s Degree from the University of Pacific by writing my thesis  (usually beginning that work after 10:00 pm when the rest of the work was done.)

Tracy taught me frugality. My salary was $180.00 a month. The first year I could not afford to own a car. I lived in a bedroom of a most gracious family (Lydia and Arnold Zielske) who cooked my meals and did my laundry

I learned to appreciate being part of a small community. Tracy which today has a population of some 85 thousand had only 10,000 in 1950. My classroom kids did a joint project of studying the city. Because it was so closely knit some students interviewed the mayor or the recreation director, or the oldest merchant in town and even grape growers, catsup factory workers, and grape growers. When I walked down Main Street on Saturday mornings people greeted me by name. I played city-league basketball for D&W Billiards and softball for the local Shell Gasoline Station teams. 

The most important thing about Tracy though was that is where Jane and I established our first home after our marriage in 1951. We loved our $85.00 a month apartment. Jane played the organ for church services, taught art in my classroom and learned to can tomatoes, apricots, and Queen Anne cherries. It was in Tracy that our first son, David, was born. It was Jane who cashed our bi-weekly check, divided the money and placed it in designated envelopes beginning with our tithe marked “The Lord” right down to the 50 cents for postage each month.

We learned the value of friends, common people with uncommonly devoted hearts. The Hamlows, Paulsons, Childs, Erharts wrapped their arms around us, invited us over for meals, shared their beer and stayed in contact until one by one they passed away.

I now drive past Tracy as we bypass it on the freeways to the Bay Area. I now know no one there. But it still pulls at my heartstrings with its siren song of first love, first child, first full-time job, and first glimpses of the rewards of commitment to a calling and to people.

MACAU

Macau in the 50’s and early 60’s. That little note specifying the 50’s is critical. The current Macau bears virtually no resemblance to the old. Today’s Macau is the biggest gambling Mecca in the world. Its volume way exceeds Las Vegas. It has enough neon to shine half way up to Canton. That is nothing like the Macau that I visited probably 100 times 50 years ago, but have not set foot in now for some 20 years.

Macau was a Portuguese Colony. It was only30 miles from Hong Kong where I lived. But it was tricky to get there. We were not allowed to go through China. Borderlines in the South China Sea were carefully monitored and if the ferry I rode to get to Macau would stray it could become an international incident.

There was much to love about Macau. The view from the balcony of the Bella Vista Hotel was fabulous. The African chicken served at the Macau Posada was unrivaled. The hotel room in which I stayed did not have a bathroom or toilet, but the beer at the bar was always cold.

The ancient façade of the St. Paul Cathedral had survived a fire and a typhoon. The battered cross on top of it still stood and became the focus of a wonderful hymn written by the then governor of Hong Kong. The hymn: “In The Cross of Christ I Glory, Towering O’er the Wrecks of Time.”

I went to Macau because there were people there with lots of needs: spiritual, physical, psychological and educational, people in need of hope. The Lutheran Church did (and does) a good job there.

The first Sunday I was there I was told that children had to bring last Sunday’s leaflet with them to be admitted to class this Sunday. There was no space for new students. I am not so naïve as to not know that one of the factors causing this very large attendance was that a limited amount of relief food and clothing was made available at the church.

We wanted property to build a Lutheran Center and eventually received a title from the Government for a wonderful plot of land. However, when we finally got a decent translation of the deed which we had signed, we learned that in fact, the holder of the deed was listed as ‘Chinese merchant Titus Lee”, the same person who was our evangelist there. It was explained that no government official (fearing censure from the Catholic Bishop) would ever sign a deed, which showed a Lutheran Church as a property owner so the “merchant” phrase was used. We were assured that later the property could be transferred property to the church. That never happened. (See addendum below.)

Many refugees from Mao were desperate and wanted to get to Hong Kong. I recall one gentleman who lived with his family in a most primitive hut with no water, light, or furniture. He pleaded with me to help him get a visa. The he told me, “I am desperate.” With that he pulled out a packet, which I immediately recognized as street heroin. “If I don’t get my family to Hong Kong soon we will all be existing on this”, he told me. Maybe that had something to do with the fact that I noticed that on some of my subsequent trips I as always followed. As soon as I boarded my rented pedicab at the ferry station I noticed that I was being followed. This happened throughout two subsequent visits. Then it stopped. I don’t know that there was a connection but I do know that all of this coincided with the murder of a gentleman on our church steps as he was leaving Christian instruction one night.

Some of the immigrants, through sheer force of Chinese determination and effort managed to survive in Macau and find jobs besides making fireworks in their homes. But most wanted to get to Hong Kong. One of the families that I was able to assist in getting there were a great blessing to many. One of he sons became head of Lutheran Social Services of Hong Kong, a massive center of assistance to thousands. His sister is now a famous Hong Kong surgeon.

Macau is now, of course, famous for its gambling and extravagant hotels. But I am grateful for the people whom I was able to meet, who found their chances for a much better life than at the crap tables.

[Addendum]: Years after I left Hong I received a call from a Lutheran Church official in America. He informed me that the Macau church building, school and the land on which they had been situated had been sold. It appeared that the person who had been named as owner of the building as indicated above, had sold the property, taken the money and disappeared in America. Fortunately, church officials did eventually go to Macau, deal with he new buyer and were able to secure for the church a repayment to the church in what I believe was a total of US$1 million.)

San Antonio, Texas

I love San Antonio and always jump at any excuse to go there. I love its diversity. While the population is predominately Hispanic the city bursts with the energies of a variety of people. The military bases like Lackland, Ft. Sam Houston and Randolph Air Force Base constantly bring in persons not only from across the USA but from our allies abroad, While there are massive areas of low-income and not a few very poor people, the city has its share of the wealthy, many living in beautiful estates. Together they reflect the military, the health industry, the higher education world, all within an ever-prevailing aura of the Old West with plenty of cowboy boots and large Stetson hats abounding.

One of the words that always pops up when I reflect upon my time in San Antonio is sweat. Yes, that stuff that flowed out of my body during the summers of my college years. I worked in construction at the very lowest level. In weather, which was consistently over 100 degrees, I was the one (back before sophisticated  Bob Cats) digging foundation trenches with pick and shovel. My hands were seared with the iron of the foundation steel. My back blistered as I laid the roofing panels. The good news: I was in the best shape of anyone who reported for fall football practice in September after surviving an unforgettable orgy of fresh tamales and Lone Star beer when we finally had the topping out celebration of the building at which I was working.

I also did my share of philosophical and mental sweating. After a couple   years of teachers college I took off a year to teach in a 2 room Lutheran school. I had 42 in grades one to four. I hope by this time they have forgiven my inadequacies and plain old mistakes. Believe me I tried! The mental stress was at its highest 20 years later when the ambulance met us at the airport upon our arrival from Hong Kong. My wife Jane was in a virtual coma and it was at San Antonio’s Baptist Hospital that she was properly diagnosed and treated for a brain aneurysm. Family and friends provided unbelievable support to me and our children.

Of course, San Antonio is a city of romance. The historic Alamo hastens the blood flow of any true Texan. The San Antonio River and the River Walk stir up romantic feelings in even the most jaded. And for me San Antonio is the place where my now wife of some 62 years was first introduced to my mom, dad and family.

San Antonio evokes s feelings of sadness and absence. It was in San Antonio that I saw my mother slowly lose her formerly unquenchable energy. And it was at a bedside in San Antonio that Jane and I joined my father in a harmonious rendering of “Abide With Me” shortly before he left us to be forever with our Lord.

I wish I could conclude this little reflection by just sitting at a comfortable table on the River Walk savoring a margarita and some chips but that will have to await my very earliest convenience

New York

NEW YORK! I love New York. Actually I love all five boroughs of that wonderful city, but my favorite is The City, Manhattan, The Big Apple. From the first time I visited in the late 1940’s through the 8 years I lived just up the railway in Eastchester (while I served as Head of The Lutheran Schools Association Of New York) I jump at every opportunity to get my New York fix!

I love the people; and, of course, one is enmeshed in them the minute one steps onto almost any Manhattan Street, but it seems to be at its most frenzied pace around Times Square. What a thrill it is to be caught up in the swell of people from all corners of the earth, speaking every conceivable dialect all wearing all styles of dress, all sharing one common characteristic: they are in a hurry! Each person with their own agenda and a fierce determination to meet that agenda.

It was always a special treat when I got to Times Square with my long-time friend Howie Capell and he chose to drive his car. We would pull into Times Square. He’d spot a cop. get out of the car and wave to the cop with a” Hi “. Immediately the officer would be at our side, direct us to the nearest parking space (most likely marked No Parking) and wave us into the spot. If none of those was available the cop would personally walk alongside our car to the nearest public garage. He would signal the attendant and order, “Take care of my friend.” The valet would park our car at the entrance and there was never a fee. (These cops all know of how well Howie represented their fallen colleagues in the lawsuits following 9/11.)

Another way to experience Times Square and Manhattan Streets, The Empire State Building and Rockefeller Center etc. etc was with my nearly 90 year old Mother who was determined to “do NY.” She was in her wheel chair. Every time we got to a curb or an elevator or a rest room which she needed to use, someone was at her side asking how they could help and then doing it squared! My Mother declared, ”New York is the friendliest city in the world and I am from Texas where we know about hospitality.”

 I, of course, love to eat. In NY the picks were literally beyond imagination: Chinese food in Chinatown, Little Italy, street vendors with their pretzels, hot dogs, etc. very expensive famous eateries, delicatessens and bars ranging from the one with a view at the top of the Marriott to the neighborhood pubs around Union Square.

ENTERTAINMENT ON AND OFF THE STREET 24-7

Theaters, Carnegie Hall, The Met at Lincoln Center, The Blue Note for Jazz. Every conceivable Museum beckons. Madison Square Gardens awaits but you have to slip across the border into the Bronx to get to Yankee Stadium

Naturally I find the churches to be important to me, I never miss a chance to drop into St. Patrick’s on Fifth Avenue for a few moments of silence.  St. Peter’s Lutheran sits inside the Citicorp Building and the reredos behind its altar is a massive window framing the city it is called to serve. If one is around on Christmas Eve the thing to do is go to St. Luke’s Lutheran in the theater district. Just before midnight singers come from many of the shows, concerts, clubs in the areas (professionals all) and gather to sing in incredible harmonies the ancient Christmas carols.

I try to end my New York visit with the most meaningful worship of all. I go the site of the new World Trade Center. I stand silently for a long time at the Memorial Fountain. I let me fingers trace the names of the 9/11 victims; I image especially those who were numbered among the 60 who left behind a child or grandchild enrolled in a Lutheran School. I remember and I pray that the Lord of all cities would stop especially all killing done I n God’s name and send flocks of special angels to the big cities of the world, beginning with The Big Apple.

Selma, Alabama

My first visit to Selma AL was in 1962-three years before that city gained everlasting fame as the site of the Bloody Sunday racial confrontation at the Edmund Pettus Bridge, one of the sparks that ignited the entire civil rights movement in America. I was there to visit Concordia College-an institution of The Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod. The Board for Lutheran Higher Education knew that I was putting together a school system in Hong Kong and they wondered what lessons that experience might bring to the development of black schools in the South of the USA.

Concordia Selma had been established already in 1922. While it was called “college” my memory is that it served only students in grades 8-12 with a few in the first two years of college.

I spent the day visiting classes, meeting withy students and eating lunch and diner together in the dormitory dining room. At the end of the day I was in overwhelm. I was deeply disturbed and saddened at the very low academic level of the students-in spite of the extraordinary commitments of their teachers. Then I was very upset by the amount and quality of the food. I knew that the students in “my” schools in Hong Kong had much higher academic achievement-and even though they were poor refugees their daily meals were so much better than my new friends at this school

 As mentioned above this was not due to a lack of commitment of the teachers-nor even of the desire to learn of the students. It is just that the elementary school education was of such inferior quality that good high school/college work was exceedingly difficult.

I walked through the town. Even then I noted that well over half of the population was poor black. Now the percentage of the Selma population, which is black, has reached 80%

The President of the College was Walter Ellwanger a most remarkable man. He was deeply committed to racial equality; his family had helped found the Lutheran Human Relations Association, the first formal group in the Lutheran church advocating for our black brother and sisters. Dr. Ellwanger and his wife spent almost 20 years at this school and he did it all: taught, managed the dorms, raised the money, maintained discipline and even directed the choir. I will never forget that choir practice. Even though this was an all-black school the songs all seemed to be English translations from old German tunes and chorales. The choir was good, but somehow or other their mood just wasn’t right. And then at 9:30 pm Dr. Ellwanger announced, “And now, as always, we will close with the Negro National Anthem.” And with that the choir plunged into “Lift Every Voice and Sung.” The music got louder, the harmony deeper, the spirit moving, and the emotion transforming. I hear it and feel it to this day

I also remember my experience after that late choir practice. I went to the home of the President, a distinguished old southern mini-mansion. I was assigned an upstairs bedroom. There I finished readying the novel, which had been engrossing me: “To Kill A Mocking Bird”

The next day I met with the legendary Rosa Young who must have been in her eighties. Here was a woman with an unmatched devotion to black children in the south. She knew that the public schools were not available to many of them. The quality of their black schools was a shame. She started a whole group of 18 or more church-related black schools in Lutheran congregations and there, using all black teachers, she provided basic literacy for kids for whom this was otherwise unavailable.

(Side note: I visited one such school outside Mobile. I noticed that some children did not even have their own desk-and were sitting on the floor using a church pew for the writing surface. Fifty years later a distinguished educator Dr Vernon Gandt   delivered a talk at a national convention of educators. After his lecture we spoke. I learned that he was one of those students who used that church pew as his desk- and went on from there to a distinguished career after earning his doctorate.

Today Concordia in Selma is a fully accredited university of excellent reputation and even awarding doctorates in education.

Now and in the last decades many of the products of that Concordia in Selma have provided lay and professional leadership for the church and they are one of the reasons that that branch of the Lutheran church has more black among its membership and leadership that any other Lutheran group. Persistence, education and overcoming adversity continue to reap rich rewards!

Beirut, Lebanon

My memories of my time in Beirut, Lebanon are all positive and strong with an undertow of emotions calling me to return. The year was 1968 and I was on my way to chair a conference on Lutheran Education around the world. The Conference was to be held in Hong Kong and on my way there I visited educational institutions in Europe and Asia, with Beirut being a highlight.

One of the things that made it so memorable was my guide. He was an Arab who was native, had converted to Christianity and was very insightful into the history and the special dynamic of that centuries-old domain called Lebanon.

He gave me a wonderful tour of the city of Beirut: the harbor overlooking the tranquil Mediterranean is breath taking. The drive through the countryside down to the historic Tyre and Sidon plunges one into Biblical history. The well preserved as well as the abandoned fortresses of the Crusades pointed to a darker time of humanity’s inability to live peacefully among people of different faiths. Unfortunately we did not have enough time to visit the majestic Cedars of Lebanon.

My host explained some of the unique features of life in Lebanon. Then, as now, representation in the governments is on a rationed basis. Seats and offices are divided up in the same proportion as the faiths represented-, presently Christianity, Islam and Judaism. When I was there Christianity actually was entitled to a small majority of positions. Now Islam is dominant, just about equally divided between Sunni and Shiites.

After returning from Tyre and Sidon we spent several hours on the beautiful campus of The American University. Originally established by Christian missionaries it continues to be a seat of higher learning for people of all faiths. The tree-lined campus is home to many professors from America and some of them graciously hosted me for stimulating conversations.

The highlight of the visit came when it was time to eat. We sat in a gorgeous restaurant at the very edge of the sea. We were eating the meal long ordained as the official repast of the country: mezze. There must be a minimum of 30 dishes. They just kept arriving. There were items that looked like tapas from Spain and anti-pasta from Italy, multicolored dishes of vegetables, fruit, meat, tealeaves, sea creatures and plants. Delicious, every one of them and all washed down by arak, the anise flavored liquor of the region.

Tragically, the history of Beirut and Lebanon has seen painful and dark days since I was last there. War with Israel. The worst disaster for US Marines since WW II as 285 were killed in an attack by a suicide bomber (which resulted in President Reagan ordering all US troops out of Lebanon in 1983). Recently the militant Islamic group Hezbollah has established a strong presence. And now Lebanon is caught up in the Syrian revolution and coping with sectarian violence and an avalanche of refugees.

My heart goes out to the people of Beirut. Even as I reflect upon their current struggles I have wonderful memories of a warm people who love their country and are models of hospitality that I would do well to emulate.