“Heads Up” is a voice I hear often from my wife. And, as usual, she is right. I have gotten into the habit of walking with my head and chin turned downward. Not a good idea. I have nearly bumped into people in the hallways of this retirement community. When I had my head down on my morning walk I narrowly escaped collision with a bicyclist only because she swerved to avoid me. My physical trainer adds her voice to the chorus, “Keep you head up ! It is good for your posture and your whole body.”
Then I recall my father’s advice to keep my head up, and he was referring not just to my physical safety and well-being, but to the very state of my soul. It all began when I was a youngster and watched the roosters in our barnyard. I noticed that when they drank their water they always pitched their heads back with each swallow. Now, my father was raised on the farm and he knew about the swallowing mechanisms of roosters. But he gave me a different explanation. He said, “Melvin, learn from those roosters. They know that every drink of water like everything else comes down from above. So with each mouthful they just tilt their heads back and in rooster language say ‘Thank you God’.”
So this afternoon I am recalling those Texas roosters and my father’s good instruction. I have been in a funk because of some things over which I have little control. I am tempted to put my head down and mope. Then I remember my wife, my trainer, my father and those roosters and I follow their good advice, “Heads Up !”
Friday, January 21, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Mental Illness
Within less than 24 hours of time the issue of mental illness stared me in the face and stirred my heart. I was in an ordinary meeting in the pastor’s office at my church. Suddenly a significant eruption of angry noise blared from the reception area. A very angry person was screaming, threatening bodily harm to humans and physical destruction of the property. It doesn’t really matter what the issue was but it seems that the person was looking for a different person than one to be found at our church offices. Pastor went out to assist. The ruckus continued and in spite of excellent intervention skills by pastor was escalating. Someone said: “Do you think we should call the police?” The Director of Family Life at our church replied, “That would solve our problem, but it surely would not help the mentally ill person.” How true.
When I arrived home I had a message on my answering machine. The caller had not identified herself, but said she was calling at the request of another. I, of course recognized the name. My mind made an assumption “This would be a call from the emergency room of a local hospital. The person leaving the message had probably attempted suicide.” Four times in the past I have been in that hospital ministering to the person whose name was in front of me. Each time this person had attempted suicide and each time had failed. Severe bi-polar disorder. When drugs are taken the disorder is somewhat controlled. When drug are not taken, deep suicidal depression often comes. I knew that if I went I would feel better, but would it really help the sick person?
Later in the day I watched some Tucson Memorial events. Concurrently I read the newspaper. It contained an article with the news that the sale of Glock pistols was up at a record high. I recalled Sandy’s comment: “That may help us, but it surely won’t help the mentally ill.”
That same day another person asked me, “Mel, have you really looked into the eyes of the person who allegedly shot those persons in Tucson? He reminds me of---. “ She was right. The person referenced often had that vacant look in the eye, which betrayed a hole in the heart. That person was very functional in some aspect of life, was able to be a university professor. Yet was not well mentally. Two of the children of this family are mentally ill. I don’t know why they suffer this, but I am assuming that it might be a combination of heredity, environment, and family interactions. I knew about this long ago. I was never able to help.
That evening I opened a book recently given me about service men and women with posttraumatic stress disorder. It contained the startling statistic that more Viet Nam veterans have committed suicide than the number who were killed in action. What will be the number during/post Iraq/Afghanistan?
So the thought comes back to me, How can I respond to Sandy’s remark that sometimes we protect ourselves when dealing with mentally ill, but how are we helping them? I felt disheartened until I did come up with a few things I can do: 1. I can support early intervention, especially in our school systems. I can insist that we provide public funding for children with special needs. 2. I can at least be there with people who are suffering, especially also those with whom it is sometimes difficult because of their mental state. I can give them my presence and my prayers. 3. I can promote parenting styles that are healthy and that tend to result in adults who have healthy coping mechaisms. 4. I can be a spokesperson/volunteer at my church and elsewhere for the ministry of reaching out in support of all veterans and especially those hurting from PTSD. 5. I can be an advocate for all who assist the mentally ill: mental professionals, special ed teachers, parents whose children show symptoms, congregations and other organizations which include the mentally ill in their outreach.
The mentally ill. There are too many of them. I am resolved to do something that not only protects me, but also helps them.
When I arrived home I had a message on my answering machine. The caller had not identified herself, but said she was calling at the request of another. I, of course recognized the name. My mind made an assumption “This would be a call from the emergency room of a local hospital. The person leaving the message had probably attempted suicide.” Four times in the past I have been in that hospital ministering to the person whose name was in front of me. Each time this person had attempted suicide and each time had failed. Severe bi-polar disorder. When drugs are taken the disorder is somewhat controlled. When drug are not taken, deep suicidal depression often comes. I knew that if I went I would feel better, but would it really help the sick person?
Later in the day I watched some Tucson Memorial events. Concurrently I read the newspaper. It contained an article with the news that the sale of Glock pistols was up at a record high. I recalled Sandy’s comment: “That may help us, but it surely won’t help the mentally ill.”
That same day another person asked me, “Mel, have you really looked into the eyes of the person who allegedly shot those persons in Tucson? He reminds me of---. “ She was right. The person referenced often had that vacant look in the eye, which betrayed a hole in the heart. That person was very functional in some aspect of life, was able to be a university professor. Yet was not well mentally. Two of the children of this family are mentally ill. I don’t know why they suffer this, but I am assuming that it might be a combination of heredity, environment, and family interactions. I knew about this long ago. I was never able to help.
That evening I opened a book recently given me about service men and women with posttraumatic stress disorder. It contained the startling statistic that more Viet Nam veterans have committed suicide than the number who were killed in action. What will be the number during/post Iraq/Afghanistan?
So the thought comes back to me, How can I respond to Sandy’s remark that sometimes we protect ourselves when dealing with mentally ill, but how are we helping them? I felt disheartened until I did come up with a few things I can do: 1. I can support early intervention, especially in our school systems. I can insist that we provide public funding for children with special needs. 2. I can at least be there with people who are suffering, especially also those with whom it is sometimes difficult because of their mental state. I can give them my presence and my prayers. 3. I can promote parenting styles that are healthy and that tend to result in adults who have healthy coping mechaisms. 4. I can be a spokesperson/volunteer at my church and elsewhere for the ministry of reaching out in support of all veterans and especially those hurting from PTSD. 5. I can be an advocate for all who assist the mentally ill: mental professionals, special ed teachers, parents whose children show symptoms, congregations and other organizations which include the mentally ill in their outreach.
The mentally ill. There are too many of them. I am resolved to do something that not only protects me, but also helps them.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Christmas Memories: Childhood
My memories of Christmas in my childhood are all positive. This is amazing. I grew up during the Great Depression and my family had very limited financial resources. I am one of nine children and so there must have been illnesses. Early on I believed in Santa Claus and so some disappointment must have accompanied that. But all of those negatives have been erased.
The anticipation of Christmas still stirs my heart. On December 10 we were allowed to “hang stockings”. And we did. They were those long ugly woolen grey things we hated to wear. But always on December 10 (my birthday) there would be something in that stocking; maybe an orange or a pencil. It was great discovering them.
We had a German song we sang counting off the days. The literal translation of the title is “Tomorrow Something Will Happen”. The key line (which rhymed in German) was “Once more must we awake; then it will be Christmas Day”. We changed the words to, for example, “ten more days must we awake” and we counted down the days.
About two weeks before Christmas I had to leave my precious (and usually rusted and in poor state of repair) little tricycle out over night. During the night the birds would come and whisk away my trike. It was taken to Santa who happened to be my Uncle Walter who ran a blacksmith shop that doubled as Santa’s workroom where trikes got repairs and repainted, always in red!
I attended a Lutheran parochial school and we were responsible for the Christmas Eve Church Service. It was as far from today’s Disney-like productions one finds in many churches. It was utterly simple and maybe simplistic. No costumes, magi gifts or manger scenes. The teacher would ask a question e.g. “Which high feast are we celebrating in these days?” The answers were all assigned ahead of time. And the previously designated student would be called up to give the answer “The high festival of the birth of the Christ Child” and thus the Christmas Eve catechism went on for about 75 questions and answers. In between, some of the students would march to the front of the church and recite a little poem. This was followed by the entire classroom singing a traditional Christmas carol. (Throughout my eight years of elementary school this program was always conducted in German.)
It was tough to keep our focus on our assignments. Distractions were everywhere: We were wearing our new Christmas clothes, carefully sewn by our mother. To our left stood a massive cedar Christmas tree. In the early years an usher was positioned nearby with a wet rag on the end of a stick to douse any flames that might erupt dangerously from all the wax candles which lit the entire tree. And our eyes could simply not be diverted from glancing at what was piled under the tree. Under that big tree were arranged piles of plain brown grocery bags, one for each child! The bags held dreamed-for treasures: a fresh orange; several walnuts, some loose peppermint-like Christmas candies, and chewing gum (if it was a bit better year there might be a full package of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit gum in each bag. In leaner years there was only one stick.) We pondered for days as to just when we would chew that rare gum.
The Christmas Eve Service was always early enough to allow families to go home, open their gifts, enjoy them, and return for early worship services on Christmas Day. At my home everything was according to ritual. For days we had not been allowed into my dad’s study where Santa would decorate the tree and bring gifts. When it was time to enter we lined up outside the door, eventually all nine of us kids, always by age, from the youngest to the eldest. The tree was full of fake icicles, homemade decorations and lights. The gifts were opened in reverse birth order and for at least 3 consecutive years Santa had brought me my incomparable trike all decked out in new paint.
Christmas Eve celebration continued at my Grandmother’s house. I have no memory of any gifts being involved. I do remember the food, fresh pork sausage and ham, homemade candy and cookies everywhere, freshly made eggnog with gallons of whipping cream, in enormous punch bowls (duly spiked with bourbon.) To the side was a smaller bowl without the alcohol for some delicate women and little children - and to the best of my memory no one ever monitored who drank from which bowl.
Then came a Christmas tradition apparently unique to Texas, the fireworks. We shot firecrackers, and rockets, roman candles and sparklers. Once a group of cousins of mine got very brave. They “borrowed “ a couple of massive anvils from local blacksmith shops. Filled a cavity in one of them with powder extracted from other fireworks, placed a fuse appropriately, positioned one anvil on top of the other, lit the fuse and produced the loudest Christmas Eve blast ever acknowledged in all of Williamson County, Texas.
Finally home to bed so we could get up very shortly to head for Christmas Day Worship services - and for the special dinner to follow!
The anticipation of Christmas still stirs my heart. On December 10 we were allowed to “hang stockings”. And we did. They were those long ugly woolen grey things we hated to wear. But always on December 10 (my birthday) there would be something in that stocking; maybe an orange or a pencil. It was great discovering them.
We had a German song we sang counting off the days. The literal translation of the title is “Tomorrow Something Will Happen”. The key line (which rhymed in German) was “Once more must we awake; then it will be Christmas Day”. We changed the words to, for example, “ten more days must we awake” and we counted down the days.
About two weeks before Christmas I had to leave my precious (and usually rusted and in poor state of repair) little tricycle out over night. During the night the birds would come and whisk away my trike. It was taken to Santa who happened to be my Uncle Walter who ran a blacksmith shop that doubled as Santa’s workroom where trikes got repairs and repainted, always in red!
I attended a Lutheran parochial school and we were responsible for the Christmas Eve Church Service. It was as far from today’s Disney-like productions one finds in many churches. It was utterly simple and maybe simplistic. No costumes, magi gifts or manger scenes. The teacher would ask a question e.g. “Which high feast are we celebrating in these days?” The answers were all assigned ahead of time. And the previously designated student would be called up to give the answer “The high festival of the birth of the Christ Child” and thus the Christmas Eve catechism went on for about 75 questions and answers. In between, some of the students would march to the front of the church and recite a little poem. This was followed by the entire classroom singing a traditional Christmas carol. (Throughout my eight years of elementary school this program was always conducted in German.)
It was tough to keep our focus on our assignments. Distractions were everywhere: We were wearing our new Christmas clothes, carefully sewn by our mother. To our left stood a massive cedar Christmas tree. In the early years an usher was positioned nearby with a wet rag on the end of a stick to douse any flames that might erupt dangerously from all the wax candles which lit the entire tree. And our eyes could simply not be diverted from glancing at what was piled under the tree. Under that big tree were arranged piles of plain brown grocery bags, one for each child! The bags held dreamed-for treasures: a fresh orange; several walnuts, some loose peppermint-like Christmas candies, and chewing gum (if it was a bit better year there might be a full package of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit gum in each bag. In leaner years there was only one stick.) We pondered for days as to just when we would chew that rare gum.
The Christmas Eve Service was always early enough to allow families to go home, open their gifts, enjoy them, and return for early worship services on Christmas Day. At my home everything was according to ritual. For days we had not been allowed into my dad’s study where Santa would decorate the tree and bring gifts. When it was time to enter we lined up outside the door, eventually all nine of us kids, always by age, from the youngest to the eldest. The tree was full of fake icicles, homemade decorations and lights. The gifts were opened in reverse birth order and for at least 3 consecutive years Santa had brought me my incomparable trike all decked out in new paint.
Christmas Eve celebration continued at my Grandmother’s house. I have no memory of any gifts being involved. I do remember the food, fresh pork sausage and ham, homemade candy and cookies everywhere, freshly made eggnog with gallons of whipping cream, in enormous punch bowls (duly spiked with bourbon.) To the side was a smaller bowl without the alcohol for some delicate women and little children - and to the best of my memory no one ever monitored who drank from which bowl.
Then came a Christmas tradition apparently unique to Texas, the fireworks. We shot firecrackers, and rockets, roman candles and sparklers. Once a group of cousins of mine got very brave. They “borrowed “ a couple of massive anvils from local blacksmith shops. Filled a cavity in one of them with powder extracted from other fireworks, placed a fuse appropriately, positioned one anvil on top of the other, lit the fuse and produced the loudest Christmas Eve blast ever acknowledged in all of Williamson County, Texas.
Finally home to bed so we could get up very shortly to head for Christmas Day Worship services - and for the special dinner to follow!
Memory Loss
I just had my 83rd birthday. I am grateful for overall good health. Of course, I notice a diminution of some skills: my golf drives are much shorter; my body strength is less, my libido diminished. But overall I think, and my Dr. confirms, that I am doing well. However, one aspect of ageing that is becoming more apparent is memory loss. I have decided to document and share my history. My goal is to (if I can remember) each year after my birthday post a blog on “Memory Loss”; so here goes.
The first evidence of my memory loss had to do with the inability to recall numbers. I found that I have great difficulty, for example, remembering house numbers. Another disturbing symptom: remembering specific places not having to do with numbers. Just this morning I went shopping with my wife and agreed that after an hour we would meet at a specific location in the mall. An hour later I was waiting for her at the wrong place. I experienced a different kind of embarrassment with my Christmas letter. In writing of my son’s health situation I wrote that our son had a routine “autopsy” when I meant “biopsy”. After that was called to my attention I made correction to the next batch of letters and then promptly forgot to make the change in the next batch. (This resulted in son David having to post a message on Facebook that his father’s announcement regarding his son’s death was premature.
It is interesting to reflect on areas where memory seems to have remained the same. Crossword puzzles are no more difficult than ten years ago-even when the clues require significant memory. I find I can still deliver a speech of 15 minutes or more without consulting my notes. Class lectures seem not to be affected. I am not finding it necessary to reread articles or sections of books.
So I am wondering what brain specialists would tell me. Are some synapses being disconnected? Do brain cells die or is plaque being formed? How much is it a matter of attention or focus? Consciousness and self-awareness are just a couple of the characteristics that define us as humans and so also, losing some bits of memory are defining who I am at this stage in my life. And how I cope with it will be a part of that continuing definition of self.
The first evidence of my memory loss had to do with the inability to recall numbers. I found that I have great difficulty, for example, remembering house numbers. Another disturbing symptom: remembering specific places not having to do with numbers. Just this morning I went shopping with my wife and agreed that after an hour we would meet at a specific location in the mall. An hour later I was waiting for her at the wrong place. I experienced a different kind of embarrassment with my Christmas letter. In writing of my son’s health situation I wrote that our son had a routine “autopsy” when I meant “biopsy”. After that was called to my attention I made correction to the next batch of letters and then promptly forgot to make the change in the next batch. (This resulted in son David having to post a message on Facebook that his father’s announcement regarding his son’s death was premature.
It is interesting to reflect on areas where memory seems to have remained the same. Crossword puzzles are no more difficult than ten years ago-even when the clues require significant memory. I find I can still deliver a speech of 15 minutes or more without consulting my notes. Class lectures seem not to be affected. I am not finding it necessary to reread articles or sections of books.
So I am wondering what brain specialists would tell me. Are some synapses being disconnected? Do brain cells die or is plaque being formed? How much is it a matter of attention or focus? Consciousness and self-awareness are just a couple of the characteristics that define us as humans and so also, losing some bits of memory are defining who I am at this stage in my life. And how I cope with it will be a part of that continuing definition of self.
Monday, December 6, 2010
DMV
I wonder if there is any state in which the DMV (Dept of Motor Vehicles) is considered a paragon of efficiency and courtesy. The DMV in California is famous for the effort required to utilize its services, which are essential for anyone desiring to operate a motor vehicle in this state. I just had my once every five years opportunity to enjoy this service.
The truth is: it wasn’t too bad. I was told that it really doesn’t save much time to get an advance appointment. So I just showed up, navigated the system and in less than 2 hours was on my way home set for five more years, pondering if at age 88 (five years from now) I will be around to get another five year extension.
While waiting for my number to be called I decided to take a good look at my fellow seekers. Here is what I saw: The room was full of people of all ages. Just to my left an infant only a few weeks old was nursing at its very young mother’s breast. The mother was completely unselfconscious and was obviously just doing what comes naturally with no attempt at what someone else might call modesty. . The mother had simply pulled down her blouse, fully exposing herself and invited the child to get nourished.
At the other end of the age spectrum I watched with some trepidation as a gentleman (obviously older than I) tried with difficulty to navigate the system. His solicitous wife told him when his number was called, stood next to him as he gave personal info, wrote out the payment check, escorted him to the photo department, literally ed him by the arm to the written examination section, stepped back when asked to do so by an attendant and then waited while he (apparently) met all necessary requirements to drive the streets and freeways of this state for another five years. I tried not to shiver in anticipation.
I tried to assess the percentages of the various ethnic languages, skin color, native country groups. Didn’t find many who shared my Germanic background, but saw many of Hispanic origin, surprisingly few blacks, only one who seemed Arabic, Chinese, Indian, and either Korean or Japanese.
I soon observed that people do not dress up to go to the DMV. I saw not even one woman in a dress. The one gentleman wearing a tie seemed to be a supervising employee. Footwear ranged from heavy-duty work boots to flip flops, to furry high-tops, to sandals to high-heeled shoes that seemed very fancy under well-worn jeans.
Activities to take up time while waiting for one’s number to be called were as varied as the clothes. Some were obviously doing school homework. One read a mystery. Dozens were on cell phones, pods, blackberries et sim. One gentleman was engaged in conversation loud enough for us all to hear whether we were interested or not. I got interested and learned that he was disappointed that a bit of the tattoo ink which seemed to cover all available body parts was beginning to fade in places. He was a committed lover of women with no intention for matrimony. This was a pretty good day to be at the DMV as the surf wasn’t very high this morning anyway.
Meanwhile my sub-conscious was creating its own scenarios. Maybe my mind really was slipping and I would fail the written test, forgetting those numbers for unacceptable alcohol blood levels, or how may days in which to report a change of address, sale of car, or to report an accident when the driver of the other car isn’t around…and how many feet does it take for a car to stop if it is traveling 55 miles an hour. Then I wondered if my new glasses would really enable me to read Line 4. Naturally it all went as smooth as the gentlest skid on ice. The first representative used to deliver the newspaper to where I now live, the photographer had personal comments, and the test giver recommended I post my 100% test results on my refrigerator. And I was on my way home with all due and proper permission to navigate the lanes, streets and freeways of California for another five years with the full permission of the California DMV.
The truth is: it wasn’t too bad. I was told that it really doesn’t save much time to get an advance appointment. So I just showed up, navigated the system and in less than 2 hours was on my way home set for five more years, pondering if at age 88 (five years from now) I will be around to get another five year extension.
While waiting for my number to be called I decided to take a good look at my fellow seekers. Here is what I saw: The room was full of people of all ages. Just to my left an infant only a few weeks old was nursing at its very young mother’s breast. The mother was completely unselfconscious and was obviously just doing what comes naturally with no attempt at what someone else might call modesty. . The mother had simply pulled down her blouse, fully exposing herself and invited the child to get nourished.
At the other end of the age spectrum I watched with some trepidation as a gentleman (obviously older than I) tried with difficulty to navigate the system. His solicitous wife told him when his number was called, stood next to him as he gave personal info, wrote out the payment check, escorted him to the photo department, literally ed him by the arm to the written examination section, stepped back when asked to do so by an attendant and then waited while he (apparently) met all necessary requirements to drive the streets and freeways of this state for another five years. I tried not to shiver in anticipation.
I tried to assess the percentages of the various ethnic languages, skin color, native country groups. Didn’t find many who shared my Germanic background, but saw many of Hispanic origin, surprisingly few blacks, only one who seemed Arabic, Chinese, Indian, and either Korean or Japanese.
I soon observed that people do not dress up to go to the DMV. I saw not even one woman in a dress. The one gentleman wearing a tie seemed to be a supervising employee. Footwear ranged from heavy-duty work boots to flip flops, to furry high-tops, to sandals to high-heeled shoes that seemed very fancy under well-worn jeans.
Activities to take up time while waiting for one’s number to be called were as varied as the clothes. Some were obviously doing school homework. One read a mystery. Dozens were on cell phones, pods, blackberries et sim. One gentleman was engaged in conversation loud enough for us all to hear whether we were interested or not. I got interested and learned that he was disappointed that a bit of the tattoo ink which seemed to cover all available body parts was beginning to fade in places. He was a committed lover of women with no intention for matrimony. This was a pretty good day to be at the DMV as the surf wasn’t very high this morning anyway.
Meanwhile my sub-conscious was creating its own scenarios. Maybe my mind really was slipping and I would fail the written test, forgetting those numbers for unacceptable alcohol blood levels, or how may days in which to report a change of address, sale of car, or to report an accident when the driver of the other car isn’t around…and how many feet does it take for a car to stop if it is traveling 55 miles an hour. Then I wondered if my new glasses would really enable me to read Line 4. Naturally it all went as smooth as the gentlest skid on ice. The first representative used to deliver the newspaper to where I now live, the photographer had personal comments, and the test giver recommended I post my 100% test results on my refrigerator. And I was on my way home with all due and proper permission to navigate the lanes, streets and freeways of California for another five years with the full permission of the California DMV.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Spare the Rod
One need not be a Bible scholar to complete the above sentence by adding the words: “and spoil the child.” Further, my experience is that almost 100% of the people who quote this verse believe it advocates parents spanking their children. I used to believe that too. But not anymore.
My parents believed in spanking. I am sure my dad spanked me; yet I cannot recall any specific time that he did so. I do recall my mom spanking me (and at the same time three or four of my siblings). We were under strict instructions from her to have the dishes washed and the kitchen cleaned by the time she returned from using the “outhouse”. We had done neither, but were having a great water fight. She spanked us all (and a couple of us twice) when we just kept being silly.
The other spanking was dramatic. When I “misbehaved” in a front pew in church, mother picked me up. She carried me near the church wall where my shoes banged on each wainscot board as we exited. The spanking outside and my loud yelping were heard by all.
Earlier this week I asked my now 57-year old son if he remembered me spanking him. He remembered in some detail. I know I also spanked our number 2 son – and I am sure that I never spanked any of our other 3 children. In my first year of teaching, in frustration I spanked an energetic second grader. I now deeply regret that. I suspect he had attention deficit disorder. I didn’t help – and now I wonder if and how Billy Joe recalls with bitterness his second grade teacher.
I now believe that parents spank out of ignorance of better parenting patterns. And I question whether that Bible verse about sparing the rod even talks about spanking. In the 70’s and 80’s I was the Director of the internationally acclaimed Parent Effectiveness Training (P.E.T.) which gave parents alternatives to corporal punishment. P.E.T. was so broadly understood that James Dobson of Focus on the Family fame devoted an entire chapter in one of his books warning against P.E.T. and especially the P.E.T. idea that parents did not have to spank and yet could still raise responsible children.
My memory is (but I could not find a record of it) that I debated him on this topic at a public forum. I do recall conducting a word study on the Biblical use of the term rod. I noticed that Psalm 23 asserts, “Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” More and more I saw “the rod” as an instrument for pointing the way; as a guide to green pastures and gently flowing streams. I saw my role as a father to be that of guide, model, teacher, and pointer. So now I try to never spare the rod inappropriately. I make very sure never to use it to hit anyone, especially a precious young child. My children share this conviction of mine and none of my eight grandchildren is spoiled.
My parents believed in spanking. I am sure my dad spanked me; yet I cannot recall any specific time that he did so. I do recall my mom spanking me (and at the same time three or four of my siblings). We were under strict instructions from her to have the dishes washed and the kitchen cleaned by the time she returned from using the “outhouse”. We had done neither, but were having a great water fight. She spanked us all (and a couple of us twice) when we just kept being silly.
The other spanking was dramatic. When I “misbehaved” in a front pew in church, mother picked me up. She carried me near the church wall where my shoes banged on each wainscot board as we exited. The spanking outside and my loud yelping were heard by all.
Earlier this week I asked my now 57-year old son if he remembered me spanking him. He remembered in some detail. I know I also spanked our number 2 son – and I am sure that I never spanked any of our other 3 children. In my first year of teaching, in frustration I spanked an energetic second grader. I now deeply regret that. I suspect he had attention deficit disorder. I didn’t help – and now I wonder if and how Billy Joe recalls with bitterness his second grade teacher.
I now believe that parents spank out of ignorance of better parenting patterns. And I question whether that Bible verse about sparing the rod even talks about spanking. In the 70’s and 80’s I was the Director of the internationally acclaimed Parent Effectiveness Training (P.E.T.) which gave parents alternatives to corporal punishment. P.E.T. was so broadly understood that James Dobson of Focus on the Family fame devoted an entire chapter in one of his books warning against P.E.T. and especially the P.E.T. idea that parents did not have to spank and yet could still raise responsible children.
My memory is (but I could not find a record of it) that I debated him on this topic at a public forum. I do recall conducting a word study on the Biblical use of the term rod. I noticed that Psalm 23 asserts, “Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” More and more I saw “the rod” as an instrument for pointing the way; as a guide to green pastures and gently flowing streams. I saw my role as a father to be that of guide, model, teacher, and pointer. So now I try to never spare the rod inappropriately. I make very sure never to use it to hit anyone, especially a precious young child. My children share this conviction of mine and none of my eight grandchildren is spoiled.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Speaking Fees
I enjoyed (Is that the right word?) reading the latest report compiled by NEWWEEK on (among other things) the speaking fees earned by those it labeled “pundits and politicos”. Among its listings: Rudy Guiliani – more than $8million a year, Glen Beck - $3 million, Bill Clinton - $200,000 a year, Sarah Palin - $100,000 per speech. The article chose to not even guess at the appropriate figures for Rush Limbough or Sean Hannity.
All of this got me to reflecting. “Hey, I’ve given lots of speeches. How did I do?” I must admit that in all the courses I ever took at school to become a “duly certified teaching minister” of the church, the topic of appropriate speaking fees never once got a minute of attention.
I now regret that in my early years as I invited guest speakers (or spoke at one myself) at graduations, conferences, parent-teacher assemblies, I never once recall paying anyone a speaking fee.
That changed a bit in the early 60’s. I was home on leave from Hong Kong where I served as an education missionary. I was expected to and happily did travel all over the country giving talks, especially slide lecture presentations on the Lutheran Church’s work there in Hong Kong. It was expected that the hosts would provide room and board – and anything above that went to support our work. That was a joy. I used the generated gifts and fees to support school tuition for poor students in Hong Kong. Those investments paid very rich blessings for those students, the church, and the world.
Two other minor incidents around missionary speaking fees do now cause me to smile. One night a very gracious “little old woman” announced to me that she was grateful for my work and presentation and wanted to give me a personal token of appreciation. Before I had a chance to protest she slipped it to me: a nice package of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit gum.
On another occasion the pastor of the group I was addressing asked me to make an appeal for the Mission Fund of our denomination as the congregation had fallen behind in its pledge. I did my best and protested when a woman insisted she give me her gift personally and directly. She insisted and pressed into my hand a crisp one-dollar bill!
Years later, in the late 60’s and 70’s, I worked for a district/synod of the church. It was official policy that we were allowed to receive (as extra personal income) any honorarium or speaking fees offered us. That resulted in a couple of incidents my colleagues Ron and Don and I recall to this day. Ron received as an honorarium a watermelon, which he brought home on his lap as he flew home. Don hit the jackpot the day his “fee” came in the form of 2 heads of freshly picked cabbages.
That makes it understandable why I once telephoned a church officer to report that a mistake must have been made in my honorarium. I couldn’t believe I was being paid $75 for just one morning of preaching and speaking.
Believe me, I report all of this above without anger, bitterness or resentment. The Church has treated me well. Organizations have since given me more than generous speaking fees and individual friends continue to be more giving and supporting than I deserve.
So, go ahead, Rudy, Rush, Glen, Sarah, Bill and all the rest. Enjoy the fees and what you can do with them. As for me, I’ll just smile and remember that when I once received a crisp one-dollar bill, I thoroughly enjoyed the 6-pak of beer I was able to purchase with that very special speaking fee.
All of this got me to reflecting. “Hey, I’ve given lots of speeches. How did I do?” I must admit that in all the courses I ever took at school to become a “duly certified teaching minister” of the church, the topic of appropriate speaking fees never once got a minute of attention.
I now regret that in my early years as I invited guest speakers (or spoke at one myself) at graduations, conferences, parent-teacher assemblies, I never once recall paying anyone a speaking fee.
That changed a bit in the early 60’s. I was home on leave from Hong Kong where I served as an education missionary. I was expected to and happily did travel all over the country giving talks, especially slide lecture presentations on the Lutheran Church’s work there in Hong Kong. It was expected that the hosts would provide room and board – and anything above that went to support our work. That was a joy. I used the generated gifts and fees to support school tuition for poor students in Hong Kong. Those investments paid very rich blessings for those students, the church, and the world.
Two other minor incidents around missionary speaking fees do now cause me to smile. One night a very gracious “little old woman” announced to me that she was grateful for my work and presentation and wanted to give me a personal token of appreciation. Before I had a chance to protest she slipped it to me: a nice package of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit gum.
On another occasion the pastor of the group I was addressing asked me to make an appeal for the Mission Fund of our denomination as the congregation had fallen behind in its pledge. I did my best and protested when a woman insisted she give me her gift personally and directly. She insisted and pressed into my hand a crisp one-dollar bill!
Years later, in the late 60’s and 70’s, I worked for a district/synod of the church. It was official policy that we were allowed to receive (as extra personal income) any honorarium or speaking fees offered us. That resulted in a couple of incidents my colleagues Ron and Don and I recall to this day. Ron received as an honorarium a watermelon, which he brought home on his lap as he flew home. Don hit the jackpot the day his “fee” came in the form of 2 heads of freshly picked cabbages.
That makes it understandable why I once telephoned a church officer to report that a mistake must have been made in my honorarium. I couldn’t believe I was being paid $75 for just one morning of preaching and speaking.
Believe me, I report all of this above without anger, bitterness or resentment. The Church has treated me well. Organizations have since given me more than generous speaking fees and individual friends continue to be more giving and supporting than I deserve.
So, go ahead, Rudy, Rush, Glen, Sarah, Bill and all the rest. Enjoy the fees and what you can do with them. As for me, I’ll just smile and remember that when I once received a crisp one-dollar bill, I thoroughly enjoyed the 6-pak of beer I was able to purchase with that very special speaking fee.
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