Reflections on a Blessed and Satisfying Life. No. 16 - High School Days: Sports

Sports was probably number one in my life as a high school student. As mentioned in previous blogs, I attended Concordia Academy in Austin Texas for my four high school years. This was an all-boarding school, boys only,which during my days there never reached an enrollment of 100.

With such few students it was pretty well assured that if one wanted play varsity sports one would make the team. The biggest team sport was basketball and I lettered all four years. I was short but reasonable fast.It was during these days in the mid-forties that the one hand jump shot came to be popular. I practiced it endlessly.

We had no gym and had only an outdoor dirt-covered court. All games were “away games:. The only indoor practice facility was a basement room we called “the boiler room”. Apparently at some point  there was a plan  to have central for the campius-but they never could afford a big e. So the 20X20X12 foot room became our gym. I spent hours there-often with my roommate Mike Mitschke who beat me about 9 times out of ten in our one on one games. We played other small schools, some church youth teams, but the biggest rivalry was with the Texas School for the Deaf.

George J Beto who later became head of the Texas prison system was our coach .However, the term “:coach” was not really applicable. He was more monitor, driver, and disciplinarian., I doubt that he ever  even[played basketball, had no real knowledge  of how to  put together either an ofensive or defensive plan. But he ran the show. My memory is that we lost more games than we won-and I enjoyed every minute of it.. One big thing about the basketball team: we actually had uniforms-the only team at the school with this distinction.

Dr. Beto was not only coach but also the dormitory supervisor and was in charge of our recreation time. So he umpired our every-day softball games.which were played after dinner and before our mandatory seven to nine p m study period which he also monitored. I plated short-stop mainly. Sometimes I also played the outfield. I was a pretty good hitter and I thought I had a strong arm. It was only after college and I was playing for a local ameateur team that I finally had a coach. I remember especially the coaching I then received that on a throw to the plate from the outfield it was very important to keep the arc of the throw low as that extra second saved would mean the difference between an out or a a score.

We also played six man flag football. For a few weeks one year we interrupted that. Somehow or other we heard of a group of guys (all of whom were black) who  also had a pick-up football team. Neither of us had uniforms or even helmets and yet we played “tackle football. We discovered the the  University of Texas did not lock the near-by Memorial Stadium after Saturday home games.  So on Sunday afternoon we battled it our right there on that hallowed turf. I also remember my nose getting terribly battered but Iwas not allowed to disclose this as “tackle football” was prohibited. To this day I still have a severely  separated septum in the middle of my nose.

Every spring we had a big Field Day in which we ran track events. Again I did them all-winning very little-if any.However, I did  do fairly well in throwing the discuss. My discuss throwing was always influ nced by an event that took placed in my freshman year. The senior who was throwing the discuss let it slip. It struck a by-stander right in the face and he had to be taken to the hospital for treatment. I made    sure I didn’t let loose of the discuss and I can assure you I never sent any record for how far I threw it.

The commaradery was great. The exercise helpful. The discipline enduring. The enjoyment wonderful. And I think it helped me keep an interest (and even a certain abimlity in sports which endure toi this day.

Closure and Moving On

It is now more than three months since our son David died. The literature says, “It’s time for closure and moving on.” That might be good advice. Yet something about those words does not ring true to me. I want to remember and I also want to move on, but I will move on aware that my life has a new reality. I have changed. I want to “move on” but as a changed person. That is what I am trying to do.

But first there are some elements to the closure that I want to always remember. I want to be grateful for the many letters, notes, cards, emails and memorial gifts that help me recall the best of David. So many stories of him reaching out to those looked down upon or ignored by others. The story from a Community Center he started when AIDS was a bad word not to be mentioned in polite company. This Center now serves some thousand clients  a day. The letter from Finland  informing me that more than 3000 copies of his “Home for Christmas” article had been distributed. The old newspaper clipping we discovered in which teen-agers and their parents wrote letters to the editor in affirmation of his work on the streets of Glen Ellyn, IL on behalf of young people who were losing  their way. A couple pastors even sent copies of sermons they preached built around recollections of David’s faith, positive attitude and advocacy for the persecuted. (and I try to forget that in the midst of this there were  and are others claiming the name Christian who call for the death and eternal damnation for people like David.)

So  I think of all this as I seek closure.

And then comes another flood of memories; Family. Dave’s sibs have been incredible, both in supporting him in his last months and in dealing with all that comes after a death. They have divided the tasks. Peggy is CEO responsible for selling the house, car, etc.Tim is dealing with all those medical bills which will be coming in for another year. John deals with the finances associated with credit cards, insurance  proceeds et sim, Liz worked on all the Celebration of Life issues around caterer, tarps for the patio n etc.etc. And they are doing this all without any sibling (or parental ) acrimony.

Family extends also to my birth family, with special appreciation for the support also demonstrated by the attendance here for the last rituals. They came from Texas. They made their own arrangements for accommodations. They spoke lovingly and emotionally at the ceremonies. They took care of “the elderly” among the group.

All of this marvelous family harmony and support stands in strong contrast to what I have unfortunately seen in others who deal with these matters with great disagreements, arguments and even bitterness,

Anyone who has deatl with taking care of post-death arrangements knows there is pain involved in things like  conducting an estate sale, taking care of the cremains, disposing of personal items like clothes and favorite arr objects.

In the midst of this has been the care of 7 members of one Afghan family which just arrived in the USA escaping the Taliban who had already killed their father and elder brother. David had been providing housing and other assistance and now other sources of support need to be identified.

I realize that I am certainly not alone in all this. Thousands around the world do this every hour. I have the special advantage of a spouse who is with me all the way sharing not only the tasks  but also the emotions.

And now I move on, determined to live each day as fully as possible, to put people first, to have my house in order and to confidently trust the One who walks beside me every day, now and forever.

I Am Number One

 I really have never thought much about it. Yet I suppose that It would be nice to be recognized in some way as “being number one in the world!” I recently realized that I do deserve that honor. If there were a designation “Most sloppy person in the world” I think I would deserve to be at the top of the list.

Let me present my credentials: On Easter Sunday we had our usually wonderful dinner with the Paulovich’s. We had not yet finished eating when I looked down and saw the mess I’d made around my plate. There was evidence of every course. As I looked around the table I saw that every other of the 12 places was spotless. I don’t think Barbara would have had to wash the tablecloth – but Mel was there and that tablecloth needed laundering.

This morning I looked at the big stain on our bed sheet! No, you would never guess. It was chocolate ice cream. Honestly, I took only a couple little teaspoons, which I thought I had finished before reaching the bedroom. Wrong: I had left my mark.

It doesn’t matter if my dress shirt is white or colored. It is sure to have evidence of the fact that I had coffee during our church’s coffee hour and some of that coffee somehow gets embedded in my shirt.

Our living room is really quite neat and the carpet is in pretty good shape, with one exception: the area around my lounger. It is not just crumbs, peanut shells or salsa that show up but significant areas that can only be red wine spots and I don’t even fill my glass to the brim.

I need to make my amends to my mother. She tried so hard to have me be neat, to use my napkin, to lean over my table settings when I eat, to not over fill my fork or spoon. In spite of her bets efforts I continue to be worthy of the very title she wanted me to avoid: “Melvin you are a Slop Hans”.

So I have decided to not fight it, but to accept it and be grateful that there is at least one thing in the world to which I can claim to be NUMBER ONE!

Funerals, Burials, Celebrations of Life

 Rituals to remember the deceased have been a part of my life as long as I can remember. I grew up in a Lutheran “teacherage” where our home bordered the church cemetery. In elementary school we attended all the congregation funerals in the church next door to our parochial school. I accompanied my father as he tolled the church bells as the coffin was taken from church to cemetery. I watched gravediggers prepare the gravesite, and then fill it with dirt. Often I have been in the country home parlor with the corpse as it stayed there for the night prior to being taken to the church for funeral services.

I bargained in Chinese with street-side coffin makers over the size and price of a coffin in Kowloon. I renegotiated the price coolies were charging to carry a coffin up a hill. I stood with the weeping mother as only three of us were there when the son had been killed in a bicycle-truck crash. I have spoken at tens of funerals delivering the meditation or the eulogy. I have sung a solo at a funeral in Forest Lawn in Glendale, California. I accompanied a father to the beach when he took his son’s ashes out to the waves, and presided on a boat three miles off shore as ashes were reverently lowered into the ocean. I have written instructions for my own funeral.

All of that was a part of me as a month ago I was there for my son David’s rituals after his way too early death.  A couple months ago when I asked him his wishes, he said little other than “The rituals are for you the survivors-do whatever you want. “

And so it was that on Friday night just the immediate family gathered as we together recalled his life. I presided as we all participated. It was a simple ceremony filled with memories around the topics: prayers, songs, Bible verses, rituals, memories and promises. It was good.

On Saturday we had the Celebration of Life ritual. It was in the patio of David’s home. The atmosphere was intimate as we crowded under a canopied space. The tone was intimate, reflective, sad and celebratory. In four segments of about 15 minutes each we had beautiful music (both religious and popular) performed and sung by Dave’s incredibly gifted family members, remembrances by people from many parts of the country, with varied experiences of David. A common theme: Dave’s concern for those on the edge, his commitment to people who were hurting, his unfailing faithfulness, his deep spiritual roots, his incredible generosity and his multitude of talents. When we closed with the traditional Biblical benediction with its seven-fold Amen sung beautifully by some of Dave’s family members I knew we had done it right.

But that was not the end. Emails, telephone calls, letters and cards have been coming in commenting not only upon the ceremony but upon he legacy of David to which it all pointed. Two examples: A couple spoke with me and then wrote. They recalled that after the ceremony they sat and talked for over an hour about David and his example. “We have decided to be better people,” they reported. “We want to be more generous with our time and gifts. We want to make more of a difference like David did and they sent a generous memorial gift.

A second person read about these events. She lives in Colorado. She wrote, “ I want to be more like David. I have lately not used my experience as an immigration lawyer. Tell me how I can better reach out to those who have suffered from government sanctioned torture overseas and are seeking sanctuary in America.”

So in this Easter season I rejoice in the Resurrection and in all resurrections to which end of life ritual can so vividly point.

A Remembrance of My Son - David Kieschnick, Sept. 14, 1952-Feb. 14, 2015

David Kieschnick, Sept. 14, 1952 to Feb. 14, 2015

A Remembrance of My Son

The writer of Ecclesiastes had it right: “For everything there is a season and a time for every matter under heaven.”

A time to be born. It was a great time for David, our first, to be born. His was a much longed for arrival. While he was being delivered around 3:00 a.m. I was sound asleep in the waiting room. People chided me for my seeming lack of concern. But I reply that his Mother Jane and even David never were dependent on me. From his birth Dave was strong, self-reliant, capable, showing up on time. “Dad, I can handle it.”

A time to die. It’s hard to admit that 62 years of age is a time to die. For David it was. In a long personal conversation with me right after his oncologist told him, “Six months” Dave said, “Dad, I’m ready. I trust my God. I have no spouse or children dependent on me. I’ve accomplished my significant goals. I’ve made a difference. I’ve had a good life. “It’s a time to die.”

As that horrific cancer ate up first his jaw, then his cheeks and the descended into his throat and ascended into his brain sending excruciating pain along every cell along the way, the time came for hospice at home, massive pain killing drugs, always unbelievable support from his sibs and then final prayers and tearful goodbyes. It was a time to die.

A time to mourn and a time to dance. Of course, we mourn (with hope). Already I have moments of “Oh, I must talk to David about this.” Or “I’ve got to call Dave to see if he has time for us to have a beer together”. So I mourn.

And I recall the time to dance. David knew how to dance and have fun. His parties (especially hat parties – he kept 39 of those hats right inside his door), his love of food, his travels to the rivers of Europe with his sister, his singing, attending the theater for music and drama, his pottery and those who joined him there. Yes, David knew there was a time to dance.

A time to keep silent and a time to speak. Sometimes it was tough for David to keep silent, when honest disclosure would have brought more pain to him that he could bear.

But he also knew there was a time to speak. So he spoke for those outside the “norm”, the poor, the disenfranchised, the refugee, the alienated.

A time for war – and a time for peace. Yes, David fought his wars, for the cause of persons of all sexual orientation, for those who had trouble finding God in the “organized church”, against incompetence at work. And he fought his cancer with vegan and non-lactose diets, with chemo and radiation, with acupuncture and hyperbaric, with enhanced food supplements, with cancer support groups and writing seminars – and above all a desire to live and to make a difference.

And in the end, a time for peace. A time to rest from his wars, his pain, his weakened body and a time for peace with himself, with his family, with his God, with eternity.

“For everything there is a season and a time for every matter under heaven”.