For the second Sunday evening in succession I felt the tears roll down my cheeks. I was surprised to find myself so emotionally affected by a television program. Both times I had been watching 60 Minutes. The first time the copious tears rolled was as I watched the images of children injured in Iraq and the efforts of one American woman to get them new legs, to correct terrible facial scars, to bring healing to body and soul. Those kids, damaged and repaired, touched me at the heart of who I am.
The second set of visuals was entirely different. They were of older men and women, some with scraggly dirty beards; others with clean clothes and eyes that betrayed bewilderment and disorientation, aloneness. These persons, too, had been in Iraq and in Afghanistan. They were adults, veterans from the US military. The other thing they all had in common: they were homeless, living on the streets of America. I became deeply aware that I as a citizen had asked them to go to war for me and now I, as a citizen was playing a role in the homelessness, dispair, inadequate physical and mental health resources. And I wept.
It reminded me of years ago. I was at a Lutheran School Principals Conference in New York. Tough times for principals and some had had to let staff go. One principal recounted how he had let an ineffective teacher go. “It was rough”, he said. “She really needed that job but the kids were not learning”. Then he added words I have never forgotten “I am glad it still hurts”
So when I find myself crying because a fellow human being is hurt, or sick, or disfigured or homeless or lost, my heart aches a lot. In the midst of the flowing tears I hear a tiny voice whispering, “I am glad the tears still flow”; for if those tears ever stop then I have stopped being fully human.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Father's Day 2011
Like millions of other kids on this day, today I remember my father. Of course, my memories are biased. They should be as I hope every kid has a positive bias in recalling their father. I certainly hope my kids bring a very positive prejudice (free even from justly deserved negative judgments) to this special day. So here go a few of my very fond and strong memories of my DAD.
Faith: My father was a man of deep religious faith. He believed in grace. I recall that at dad’s funeral the pastor said that he had a problem preaching on the text which my father had requested. My father had selected a text which referred to himself as “a chief sinner.” The pastor said that no-one who knew my father would ever have used that designation-but for dad it was a take-off to point to grace, boundless love and unconditional acceptance. My father’s faith in God, in family, in kids, in the possibility of preferred future, continues to ground and inspire me. He even had faith that someday his beloved Chicago Cubs would actually win a World Series!
Trust: My dad trusted me. I recall that when I was still quite young I lied to him. Even in that undeserving situation he trusted me and took me at my word. Toward the end of his life I came to tell him that I had made a major decision regarding my future and I wondered how he would react. He said “Mel, I raised you in a way that I could trust your judgment.. I have always trusted your judgment-“do what seemeth right to thee”.
Worker: Dad worked hard-probably too hard. When I was young he taught grades 4 to 8, was the principal of a two room Lutheran school. He concurrently served as the congregation’s choir director, organist, youth director, brass band director, custodian, and congregation secretary...all the while raising nine children, and sufficient pigs, chickens cows and vegetables to provide food. During the hot Texas summer he took himself and his kids into the fields to pick cotton - always with the injunction “In the field by sun-up!”
Story teller: Dad told stories at home-especially when we kids pleaded with him to tell the stories of his childhood when wolves howled at night, horses suddenly stampeded, grandmother encountered chicken thieves, and his dad’s black farm hands shared their own dreams of greatness. In school he told the stories of the Bible in such a way that recalling them sustains me to this day. At the Texas rural weddings (after he played the organ for the ceremony) there would come a time after much beer and bar-b-que where Teacher Kieschnick was asked to tell his fantasy stories about the bride and groom. Then he closed the entertainment with the appropriate version of his solo about how fortunate to marry either a very large or a very petite spouse-always changing the words to fit the situation.
Teacher: For his entire career my Dad was often just called TEACHER Kieschnick. And that was certainly the most appropriate title. He taught all those years at the elementary school level. He taught the values of faith and trust and humor and integrity, but I also marvel at how much academic stuff he taught. In that little two-room school I, for one, learned proper grammar and to this day know how to diagram sentences and determine if a verb is transitive or intransitive. He taught us how to multiply and divide fractions, the names of the capitals of all the sates, the three branches of government, and regularly checked to make sure we knew the names of all the secretaries on the US president’s cabinet.
Lover: Each of us nine kids is convinced that we were dad’s favorite child. Later this love was extended to in-laws and grandkids. One night there must have been near 20 of us in his small house. We were sleeping all over the place with our blankets and palates on the floor from wall to wall. I woke up during the night to see dad just walking by that mass of sleeping family and his heart was aglow. He loved us all and thought we were all great. He often spoke of and constantly demonstrated his great love for his wife-our mom. One of the saddest moments I remember of my dad was when in his old age once late at night he confessed to me that his one regret in life was that he never made enough money to give mom all that he would have liked. Of course, mom would join us and especially me in saying “Dad, you gave us riches way beyond your wildest imagination!”
Faith: My father was a man of deep religious faith. He believed in grace. I recall that at dad’s funeral the pastor said that he had a problem preaching on the text which my father had requested. My father had selected a text which referred to himself as “a chief sinner.” The pastor said that no-one who knew my father would ever have used that designation-but for dad it was a take-off to point to grace, boundless love and unconditional acceptance. My father’s faith in God, in family, in kids, in the possibility of preferred future, continues to ground and inspire me. He even had faith that someday his beloved Chicago Cubs would actually win a World Series!
Trust: My dad trusted me. I recall that when I was still quite young I lied to him. Even in that undeserving situation he trusted me and took me at my word. Toward the end of his life I came to tell him that I had made a major decision regarding my future and I wondered how he would react. He said “Mel, I raised you in a way that I could trust your judgment.. I have always trusted your judgment-“do what seemeth right to thee”.
Worker: Dad worked hard-probably too hard. When I was young he taught grades 4 to 8, was the principal of a two room Lutheran school. He concurrently served as the congregation’s choir director, organist, youth director, brass band director, custodian, and congregation secretary...all the while raising nine children, and sufficient pigs, chickens cows and vegetables to provide food. During the hot Texas summer he took himself and his kids into the fields to pick cotton - always with the injunction “In the field by sun-up!”
Story teller: Dad told stories at home-especially when we kids pleaded with him to tell the stories of his childhood when wolves howled at night, horses suddenly stampeded, grandmother encountered chicken thieves, and his dad’s black farm hands shared their own dreams of greatness. In school he told the stories of the Bible in such a way that recalling them sustains me to this day. At the Texas rural weddings (after he played the organ for the ceremony) there would come a time after much beer and bar-b-que where Teacher Kieschnick was asked to tell his fantasy stories about the bride and groom. Then he closed the entertainment with the appropriate version of his solo about how fortunate to marry either a very large or a very petite spouse-always changing the words to fit the situation.
Teacher: For his entire career my Dad was often just called TEACHER Kieschnick. And that was certainly the most appropriate title. He taught all those years at the elementary school level. He taught the values of faith and trust and humor and integrity, but I also marvel at how much academic stuff he taught. In that little two-room school I, for one, learned proper grammar and to this day know how to diagram sentences and determine if a verb is transitive or intransitive. He taught us how to multiply and divide fractions, the names of the capitals of all the sates, the three branches of government, and regularly checked to make sure we knew the names of all the secretaries on the US president’s cabinet.
Lover: Each of us nine kids is convinced that we were dad’s favorite child. Later this love was extended to in-laws and grandkids. One night there must have been near 20 of us in his small house. We were sleeping all over the place with our blankets and palates on the floor from wall to wall. I woke up during the night to see dad just walking by that mass of sleeping family and his heart was aglow. He loved us all and thought we were all great. He often spoke of and constantly demonstrated his great love for his wife-our mom. One of the saddest moments I remember of my dad was when in his old age once late at night he confessed to me that his one regret in life was that he never made enough money to give mom all that he would have liked. Of course, mom would join us and especially me in saying “Dad, you gave us riches way beyond your wildest imagination!”
Friday, June 10, 2011
Nobody Knows My Name
It was way back in the 1950’s that I became haunted by James Baldwin’s “Nobody Knows My Name”. Haunted is the right word. Personally, I saw in his writings a reflection of my own deeply ingrained racism. Professionally, I knew that as a Lutheran educator I needed to face up to the reality that the Brown vs. Board of Education decision would bring blacks also into the previously all white Lutheran schools. At an even deeper level I recall pondering what it would be like if, in fact, “Nobody Knows My Name” were true for me.
“Nobody Knows My Name” was not a personal reality for me. I was a fish in a very small pond where everybody knew everyone else’s name. In the small Lutheran community in Texas and the small German Lutheran community within that and the even smaller Missouri Synod community within that everybody knew my name. I was Melvin, the son teacher Kieschnick the most respected educator in that pond. I went to a very small Lutheran academy. Less than 50 students and everybody knew my name. It didn’t change when I went to Concordia Teachers College, a pond so small everybody knew everybody’s name, including mine. My circle stayed small; of course everyone in the Conference of Lutheran School principals of Northern California knew my name. Then I went to Hong Kong and within the small pond in which I swam everybody knew my name. I was the only American in most of those gatherings. And so it continued for another 40 years. In my small pond everybody knew my name. And that was “nice”.
The other day I was sitting at a lecture on anticipated changes in health care for seniors in America. I looked around. Nobody there knew my name. When I asked a question of the woman sitting next to me she glanced at my name badge and said, “I don’t think I know you.” When earlier this year I roamed corridors and exhibit hall at a national conference of Lutheran educators nobody knew my name. Even in my own congregation at clusters of those under 40 I am sure nobody knows my name. And I understand. I know I am now living in that huge pond named “retirement”.
All of this has led me to think about the millions in their world for whom “Nobody Knows My Name” is an entirely too common reality. They feel unnoticed, or neglected or just a cipher. What a tragedy.
Two reactions settle into my consciousness. 1. I will more often recall the words of the prophet who assured us that there is indeed One who “calls us by our name”. 2. I will work even harder to make sure I get the name of the persons with whom I have an interaction (no matter how casual) and call them by name. That way they will not be able to say, “Nobody Knows My Name.”
“Nobody Knows My Name” was not a personal reality for me. I was a fish in a very small pond where everybody knew everyone else’s name. In the small Lutheran community in Texas and the small German Lutheran community within that and the even smaller Missouri Synod community within that everybody knew my name. I was Melvin, the son teacher Kieschnick the most respected educator in that pond. I went to a very small Lutheran academy. Less than 50 students and everybody knew my name. It didn’t change when I went to Concordia Teachers College, a pond so small everybody knew everybody’s name, including mine. My circle stayed small; of course everyone in the Conference of Lutheran School principals of Northern California knew my name. Then I went to Hong Kong and within the small pond in which I swam everybody knew my name. I was the only American in most of those gatherings. And so it continued for another 40 years. In my small pond everybody knew my name. And that was “nice”.
The other day I was sitting at a lecture on anticipated changes in health care for seniors in America. I looked around. Nobody there knew my name. When I asked a question of the woman sitting next to me she glanced at my name badge and said, “I don’t think I know you.” When earlier this year I roamed corridors and exhibit hall at a national conference of Lutheran educators nobody knew my name. Even in my own congregation at clusters of those under 40 I am sure nobody knows my name. And I understand. I know I am now living in that huge pond named “retirement”.
All of this has led me to think about the millions in their world for whom “Nobody Knows My Name” is an entirely too common reality. They feel unnoticed, or neglected or just a cipher. What a tragedy.
Two reactions settle into my consciousness. 1. I will more often recall the words of the prophet who assured us that there is indeed One who “calls us by our name”. 2. I will work even harder to make sure I get the name of the persons with whom I have an interaction (no matter how casual) and call them by name. That way they will not be able to say, “Nobody Knows My Name.”
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Blood, Sweat & No Tears
As I sit and watch blood being drawn from the arms of people of various ages my mind wanders. This time I am only a spectator as I am there with my wife Jane who was making an autologous blood donation in preparation for her hip and knee replacement surgeries. I recall how now some 60 years ago I somewhat apprehensively donated my first pint. Then came the first gallon milestone. After that things got interesting because I was in Hong Kong with different protocols. Most of the Chinese colleagues were very poor, with barely adequate diets and quite understandably apprehensive about giving up any of their blood. Then our school accountant’s wife desperately needed blood. Of course, I donated. I was overwhelmed with the response. It almost took on some heroic proportion as the talk spread throughout the campus “Principal Kieschnick has donated blood. It went to a Chinese woman. And she is doing well!”
There was another surprise. Immediately after the blood was drawn the nurse asked me “”Now, do you want a shot of rum or or scotch?” I assume she was kidding me as I had always been told to avoid alcohol for 24 hours after donating. But she assured me it was okay, that it was the usual practice to make this offer to any foreigner who donated blood in Hong Kong. She went on: “We get most of our donations from British servicemen and the only way we get them to do it is to offer them a nice tot of rum after the donation!”
I no longer donate because the last time I did it took me an hour to fill that little plastic bag. But I do feel good about those several gallons I have given and wonder where (if anywhere) it still flows.
Later the same day I was relaxing at a bar with a delicious margarita. I observed a high school kid come in and fill out a summer work application form. He was all bright-eyed and ready to go to work. My guess is he would do almost anything offered him. I asked the bartender about the job prospect for a summer job. “Zilch!” he said. “We have a drawer full of apps from kids like him. Of course, we have no jobs but we hate to discourage young lads like that.” Today summer jobs for teens are almost nonexistent. That got me to reflecting on my summer jobs. One word said it all: SWEAT.
Most of my summer jobs were with construction companies and I was always at the very lowest end of worker competence. The tools most often given me were pick and shovel. I dug and trimmed and deepened foundation trenches. In San Antonio Texas! In the summer! In temperatures often above 100ยบ! My memories of my summer work are of being drenched in sweat. But I did work and I saved the money and I made it through college and I can still feel and smell the SWEAT.
BLOOD, SWEAT but NO TEARS. I had thought about tears because I had just paid more money for a complete set of tires than I had ever paid in my life and I was in the dumps over that. Then that margarita helped put things into perspective. I calculated that the 45,000-mile warranty on those tires will take me to age 87 so I had just bought my last set of tires and that is no reason for tears!
There was another surprise. Immediately after the blood was drawn the nurse asked me “”Now, do you want a shot of rum or or scotch?” I assume she was kidding me as I had always been told to avoid alcohol for 24 hours after donating. But she assured me it was okay, that it was the usual practice to make this offer to any foreigner who donated blood in Hong Kong. She went on: “We get most of our donations from British servicemen and the only way we get them to do it is to offer them a nice tot of rum after the donation!”
I no longer donate because the last time I did it took me an hour to fill that little plastic bag. But I do feel good about those several gallons I have given and wonder where (if anywhere) it still flows.
Later the same day I was relaxing at a bar with a delicious margarita. I observed a high school kid come in and fill out a summer work application form. He was all bright-eyed and ready to go to work. My guess is he would do almost anything offered him. I asked the bartender about the job prospect for a summer job. “Zilch!” he said. “We have a drawer full of apps from kids like him. Of course, we have no jobs but we hate to discourage young lads like that.” Today summer jobs for teens are almost nonexistent. That got me to reflecting on my summer jobs. One word said it all: SWEAT.
Most of my summer jobs were with construction companies and I was always at the very lowest end of worker competence. The tools most often given me were pick and shovel. I dug and trimmed and deepened foundation trenches. In San Antonio Texas! In the summer! In temperatures often above 100ยบ! My memories of my summer work are of being drenched in sweat. But I did work and I saved the money and I made it through college and I can still feel and smell the SWEAT.
BLOOD, SWEAT but NO TEARS. I had thought about tears because I had just paid more money for a complete set of tires than I had ever paid in my life and I was in the dumps over that. Then that margarita helped put things into perspective. I calculated that the 45,000-mile warranty on those tires will take me to age 87 so I had just bought my last set of tires and that is no reason for tears!
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Little Drops of Water
I reflect with amazement. Today a little ditty I leaned in my first years of Lutheran elementary school back in he 1930’s kept running through my mind. I wondered how his little tune got to Teacher Bleeke who taught us first graders, especially since almost any song we would have been taught would have been hymns – in German.
I first turned to a source never dreamed of even in science fiction back in those days: Google. I found a version of the poem attributed to one Mrs. J.A. Carney, written in 1845. Then my wife Jane, also a graduate of a Lutheran elementary school found in a book entitled “Select Songs for School and Home” published in 1922. The Preface of the book tells us that the songs in the book were written at the express command of the Lutheran Church to come up with an English song book to supplement the German “Liederperlen”. Then in the late 1930’s (I think) a new all English songbook called “The Music Reader” became a standard songbook for Lutheran schools and it, too, (if memory serves me correctly) included this little gem.
Interestingly, the words change from text to text reflecting what I believe to have been concern for doctrinal and theological orthodoxy. And on this sunny day of 2011 it all came back to me in a version clearly etched in my brain. I will go with what I think is the original:
Little drops of water
Little gains of sand
Make the mighty ocean
And the beauteous land.
Little deeds of kindness
Little words of love
Make our earth an Eden
Like the heavens above.
And the little moments
Humble though they be
Make the mighty ages
Of eternity.
And why are those words and the accompanying tune ringing in my ears all day today? Because today I was nourished by those little drops of water and was sustained by those little grains of sand. My wife has been ill. Email brought the little drops of water in the form of get well cards; Then the mail arrived: more drops. This afternoon I was at the drugstore when I noticed a man looking closely at me. When I looked back he said, “Wow! I just want to tell you I really like that shirt you are wearing.” I went to pick up our dinner and the hostess said, “ Mr. Kieschnick, that shirt really looks good on you.” Then another drop: A friend contacted to say that she will visit Jane while I am not home next Tuesday. Little drops of water. Son David stopped by saying, “I brought these chocolate covered strawberries. I thought you might enjoy them.”
So I resolved to swim in those little drops that make the mighty ocean, to savor the little moments, to drop a little water myself. And to share a grain of sand. In this moment I will revel in the mighty ages of eternity.
I first turned to a source never dreamed of even in science fiction back in those days: Google. I found a version of the poem attributed to one Mrs. J.A. Carney, written in 1845. Then my wife Jane, also a graduate of a Lutheran elementary school found in a book entitled “Select Songs for School and Home” published in 1922. The Preface of the book tells us that the songs in the book were written at the express command of the Lutheran Church to come up with an English song book to supplement the German “Liederperlen”. Then in the late 1930’s (I think) a new all English songbook called “The Music Reader” became a standard songbook for Lutheran schools and it, too, (if memory serves me correctly) included this little gem.
Interestingly, the words change from text to text reflecting what I believe to have been concern for doctrinal and theological orthodoxy. And on this sunny day of 2011 it all came back to me in a version clearly etched in my brain. I will go with what I think is the original:
Little drops of water
Little gains of sand
Make the mighty ocean
And the beauteous land.
Little deeds of kindness
Little words of love
Make our earth an Eden
Like the heavens above.
And the little moments
Humble though they be
Make the mighty ages
Of eternity.
And why are those words and the accompanying tune ringing in my ears all day today? Because today I was nourished by those little drops of water and was sustained by those little grains of sand. My wife has been ill. Email brought the little drops of water in the form of get well cards; Then the mail arrived: more drops. This afternoon I was at the drugstore when I noticed a man looking closely at me. When I looked back he said, “Wow! I just want to tell you I really like that shirt you are wearing.” I went to pick up our dinner and the hostess said, “ Mr. Kieschnick, that shirt really looks good on you.” Then another drop: A friend contacted to say that she will visit Jane while I am not home next Tuesday. Little drops of water. Son David stopped by saying, “I brought these chocolate covered strawberries. I thought you might enjoy them.”
So I resolved to swim in those little drops that make the mighty ocean, to savor the little moments, to drop a little water myself. And to share a grain of sand. In this moment I will revel in the mighty ages of eternity.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Mother’s Day 2011 Mental Images
Tomorrow is Mother’s Day 2011. Time for me to recall more images of my mother.
Mother as Writer: It seems very strange to write the phrase: “Mother as writer”. It was my Father who was the writer. It is I who was supposed to be the writer in our family. But this Mother’s Day I recall Mother as the writer: writer of letters. Mother never went beyond the 6th grade at that small Zion Lutheran School in Walburg Texas. Yet she learned to write as evidenced by the many letters she wrote me. They were always in a very clear handwriting. Even more impressive: I do not recall her ever making either a spelling or grammar mistake. They were simple, direct, descriptive, of few words but strong emotion. They not only brought news of the family but also messages of concern, affirmation and hope.. I was a missionary in Hong Kong at a time when church ruled allowed us to return home only after 5 years of uninterrupted service abroad. It was Mother who kept those images of home, of faith, or affirmation or connectiveness alive for me. She did it through her great skill a writer.
My father was called Teacher Kieschnick all his life. His three sons all went into the “teaching ministry”. Yet, one of my strong images of Mother is that of Mother as Teacher. I am not now thinking of her as a teacher of her own children but as teacher of other children-in the church Sunday School. She had plenty of reason not to be a Sunday School teacher. She had her own 9 children to care for. She herself never attended a single day of Sunday School in her life because as she grew up her congregation had no such institution. Yet, today, I recall her, in her sixties - with her classroom Sunday School pamphlets, materials for a flannel graph presentation and star- filled attendance charts on her way to teach Sunday School. She always said, almost differentially, “Well I can only teach the very little ones”. The very little ones were the ones to whom my Mother brought messages of love, forgiveness, faith and hope. She was indeed a ”teacher sent from God.”
Mother as Spouse. I doubt if Mother could relate to today’s appropriate emphasis upon each person having an identity other than “spouse of”. In her lifetime that is simply the primary l way i n which she perceived herself. She was in her own eyes always “the wife of Teacher Kieschnick”. That meant that her husband was considered Minister of the Church and more. He was the congregation school principal, organist, choir director, spiritual leader, consultant on all matters of faith and Christian life - and Mother was "his wife “.
Mother would never even think that someone might seek her advice. If someone asked her opinion on matter of faith or church life, or raising children or proper etiquette, or societal affairs I am sure she would have referred the questioner to her husband. When she selected clothes for her children, when she was approving or distressed over the behavior of her kids, when she heard others make comments `on her children it seems to me that she immediately placed herself into a role Teacher’s Wife. In retrospect I regret that. She had great personal strength of character. She was an incredibly strong woman of purpose ,of pain tolerance, of insight into relationships. She did not need to “find her self esteem” in relation to her role in society - yet I do believe that that is what she did. In the process she humbly accepted: her place ”. It was a role she humbly accepted –and I wish to this day that she could have moved beyond that, to have seen herself as one with a strong self image, a vital role player in the life of others, a teacher and a leader. For truly that is who she was.
So on this Mother’s Day I recall and honor my mother; a writer, a teacher, a leader.
Mother as Writer: It seems very strange to write the phrase: “Mother as writer”. It was my Father who was the writer. It is I who was supposed to be the writer in our family. But this Mother’s Day I recall Mother as the writer: writer of letters. Mother never went beyond the 6th grade at that small Zion Lutheran School in Walburg Texas. Yet she learned to write as evidenced by the many letters she wrote me. They were always in a very clear handwriting. Even more impressive: I do not recall her ever making either a spelling or grammar mistake. They were simple, direct, descriptive, of few words but strong emotion. They not only brought news of the family but also messages of concern, affirmation and hope.. I was a missionary in Hong Kong at a time when church ruled allowed us to return home only after 5 years of uninterrupted service abroad. It was Mother who kept those images of home, of faith, or affirmation or connectiveness alive for me. She did it through her great skill a writer.
My father was called Teacher Kieschnick all his life. His three sons all went into the “teaching ministry”. Yet, one of my strong images of Mother is that of Mother as Teacher. I am not now thinking of her as a teacher of her own children but as teacher of other children-in the church Sunday School. She had plenty of reason not to be a Sunday School teacher. She had her own 9 children to care for. She herself never attended a single day of Sunday School in her life because as she grew up her congregation had no such institution. Yet, today, I recall her, in her sixties - with her classroom Sunday School pamphlets, materials for a flannel graph presentation and star- filled attendance charts on her way to teach Sunday School. She always said, almost differentially, “Well I can only teach the very little ones”. The very little ones were the ones to whom my Mother brought messages of love, forgiveness, faith and hope. She was indeed a ”teacher sent from God.”
Mother as Spouse. I doubt if Mother could relate to today’s appropriate emphasis upon each person having an identity other than “spouse of”. In her lifetime that is simply the primary l way i n which she perceived herself. She was in her own eyes always “the wife of Teacher Kieschnick”. That meant that her husband was considered Minister of the Church and more. He was the congregation school principal, organist, choir director, spiritual leader, consultant on all matters of faith and Christian life - and Mother was "his wife “.
Mother would never even think that someone might seek her advice. If someone asked her opinion on matter of faith or church life, or raising children or proper etiquette, or societal affairs I am sure she would have referred the questioner to her husband. When she selected clothes for her children, when she was approving or distressed over the behavior of her kids, when she heard others make comments `on her children it seems to me that she immediately placed herself into a role Teacher’s Wife. In retrospect I regret that. She had great personal strength of character. She was an incredibly strong woman of purpose ,of pain tolerance, of insight into relationships. She did not need to “find her self esteem” in relation to her role in society - yet I do believe that that is what she did. In the process she humbly accepted: her place ”. It was a role she humbly accepted –and I wish to this day that she could have moved beyond that, to have seen herself as one with a strong self image, a vital role player in the life of others, a teacher and a leader. For truly that is who she was.
So on this Mother’s Day I recall and honor my mother; a writer, a teacher, a leader.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Anger
My pastor took a well-deserved week of vacation the week after Easter and asked me to fill in for him while he was gone. As soon as I arrived at the church office on Monday morning a gentleman was waiting for me. He wanted my help. His brother had just called that he was being denied help at the local Vets Hospital. The gentlemen wanted my assistance for his deeply in need brother.
The story: This Afghanistan War vet was having terrible headaches. He could not keep food down. He was disorientated. He could not get assistance at the Vet Hospital. “Go to the local emergency room!” he was told by the admissions staff. There was very little that I could do for him, but the good news is that the vet was finally admitted.
After those processes were completed and his record pulled up more of the story emerged. He had indeed needed treatment for a brain injury. A doctor had made a previous recommendation for treatment, but then “the system somehow lost the diagnosis and he had never been treated.”
I get angry when I continue to hear stories about our vets who do not get appropriate treatment, especially for post traumatic stress syndrome. The soldier in this case was next to his best friend when that friend took a bullet and was killed. He filed a report and was immediately sent back on duty. No one ever offered him any counseling. Now he is finding it very difficult to cope and even more difficult to get assistance for his own wounds, physical and psychological.
This afternoon I called on the eldest member of our congregation, one of the most gentle of men that I have ever met. But he was agitated. He had just learned of one of his friends (also an Afghanistan vet) who had given up on getting medical treatment due him as a vet. He’d had to finally secure his own private health insurance in an effort to get the assistance he needs and deserves.
That’s why I am angry. We ask our young military people to make incredible sacrifices for us and then, when they need our assistance to get back to some kind of a normal life, we fail them.
This brings me to Wheat Ridge Ministries, which provides resources particularly to churches who want to support returning service personnel. Especially helpful are the recommendations in the book “Welcome Them Home Help Them Heal”. If more individuals and organizations will follow the great processes outlined in this booklet it will do much more than reduce my anger. It will give those who need and deserve our support both assistance and healing.
The story: This Afghanistan War vet was having terrible headaches. He could not keep food down. He was disorientated. He could not get assistance at the Vet Hospital. “Go to the local emergency room!” he was told by the admissions staff. There was very little that I could do for him, but the good news is that the vet was finally admitted.
After those processes were completed and his record pulled up more of the story emerged. He had indeed needed treatment for a brain injury. A doctor had made a previous recommendation for treatment, but then “the system somehow lost the diagnosis and he had never been treated.”
I get angry when I continue to hear stories about our vets who do not get appropriate treatment, especially for post traumatic stress syndrome. The soldier in this case was next to his best friend when that friend took a bullet and was killed. He filed a report and was immediately sent back on duty. No one ever offered him any counseling. Now he is finding it very difficult to cope and even more difficult to get assistance for his own wounds, physical and psychological.
This afternoon I called on the eldest member of our congregation, one of the most gentle of men that I have ever met. But he was agitated. He had just learned of one of his friends (also an Afghanistan vet) who had given up on getting medical treatment due him as a vet. He’d had to finally secure his own private health insurance in an effort to get the assistance he needs and deserves.
That’s why I am angry. We ask our young military people to make incredible sacrifices for us and then, when they need our assistance to get back to some kind of a normal life, we fail them.
This brings me to Wheat Ridge Ministries, which provides resources particularly to churches who want to support returning service personnel. Especially helpful are the recommendations in the book “Welcome Them Home Help Them Heal”. If more individuals and organizations will follow the great processes outlined in this booklet it will do much more than reduce my anger. It will give those who need and deserve our support both assistance and healing.
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