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”.

Son David At Peace

Our eldest son David about whom I have been posting blogs died peacefully, surrounded by family on Saturday morning, Feb. 14. He is at rest. See below for his bio:

DAVE KIESCHNICK OBITUARY

Childhood

David Allan Kieschnick was born on Sept. 14, 1952 in Tracy, California, the first born of Mel and Jane Kieschnick. He was baptized at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church in Tracy. After living briefly in Glendale California, he moved to Hong Kong with his parents at the age of four.

In Hong Kong he lived a happy ten years exploring neighborhoods where few foreign children ever roamed. Soon after settling in Kowloon, Hong Kong he was enrolled in a Chinese-only kindergarten. Following kindergarten, Dave attended Kowloon Junior and King George V schools where he learned the Queen’s English, Latin, and a unique combination of British/American/Chinese culture (“Three cheers—and one for the tiger!”). On his thirteenth birthday his family (by then he had two sisters and two brothers) returned to the United States, where he graduated from Huron High School in Ann Arbor, Michigan with a National Merit Finalist honor and then from Concordia Teachers College, Chicago, where he served as student body president at the height of the turbulent 60’s.

Career

In the early 70’s Dave served as Director of Christian Education for Hyde Park Lutheran Church,  a radical church community operating out of “The Mansion,” (which is now the Chicago home of the Obama family.) He also worked on the streets of Glen Ellen, Illinois, helping troubled teens. Then Dave surprised us all when he made a dramatic career shift to become Director of Training for Evans Furs of Chicago, where he immersed himself in the finer points of high fashion. After Evans, Dave founded “Off-Site, Inc.,” his own HR and computer consulting agency. Finally, in 2007 Dave moved to San Diego to be near his aging parents, continuing to support small businesses with his unique combination of technical expertise and a rare ability to translate between techies and regular people.

LGBTQ Advocacy & Support

Dave had a lifelong passion for social justice, and continually gave voice to the disenfranchised.  An early leader and fearless advocate in the gay rights movement, he helped pave the way for a generation of youth able to grow up fully embracing who they were. Dave courageously came out of the closet, frequently standing in front of audiences as the first out-of-the-closet gay man they had ever met.

aDave was a founder of Lutherans Concerned-Chicago, the leading advocacy and support group for the LGBTQ community in the Lutheran church. At a time when the only places for LGBTQ people to find each other were bars and bathhouses, Dave helped create safe places for people to meet, worship, socialize, and support each other. Dave was President of the founding Board of Directors of Gay Horizons (now the “Center on Halstead”), the Midwest's largest LGBTQ social service agency.  Dave wrote and spoke extensively about grace and inclusion and was a leader of the Maywood House Church which met for worship and fellowship for more than 30 years.

At the height of the AIDS crisis in the U.S., Dave traveled to many parts of the country, providing comfort to many who would otherwise have died alone.  He sponsored and supported persons seeking political asylum from Communist China, provided sanctuary for Afghan refugees, and challenged Americans to live up to the ideals on which our country was founded.

Lifestyle

A consummate host and gourmet cook, Dave relished good wine and fine cuisine, and celebrated life with finesse and style. He sure knew how to throw a party! Dave made many, many people feel welcome who didn’t feel welcome anywhere else.  He loved to travel internationally, was fascinated by history and culture, and seemingly remembered everything he ever read or learned.

Dave loved music, theater and film. He had an eye for beauty whether in fine art, a relic from some exotic place, the colors of an insect’s wings, or a discarded treasure scavenged from a Chicago alley. He didn’t just appreciate art; he made it. Dave was a storyteller extraordinaire and an eloquent writer. He was a gifted potter who combined his aesthetic sensibilities with great personal discipline to create many beautiful things.

Dave was a courageous voice for the oppressed, adamantly refusing to accept injustice. And most of all, Dave was a man with a huge, compassionate heart who gave shelter to wounded and weary hearts. Even now, he continues to give us all strength for the journey.

Family

While in Chicago Dave lived in a committed relationship with Doug Wilmore for more than 30 years. He was at the center of a large and extended LGBTQ family, many of whom had no other family. He was a loving and devoted son, a great brother and uncle, and a steadfast friend.

David died February 14, 2015 at his home in San Diego at the age of 62. He is survived by his parents, Mel and Jane Kieschnick, and by his siblings: Peggy Kieschnick (Phil Hatcher), Tim Kieschnick (Wendy Fiering), Elizabeth Kieschnick (Jim Flanders), John Kieschnick (Regina Llamas) and his nephews and nieces: Christina Hatcher (Ariel O’Sharenko), John Hatcher, Anza Fiering, Jon Flanders, Ryan Flanders, Maria Flanders, Antonio Kieschnick, Clara Kieschnick and a community of friends both here and around the world. 

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WAITING FOR DEATH

This is a tough blog to write. Reading it may be more than some would like. I get that.

I sit here beside my 62-year old eldest son, David, hoping and praying that each breath may be his last, finally bringing him eternal peace.

It all began about 4 years ago. His dentist suggested doing a biopsy of a nodule in his cheek. It was malignant. A major portion of his lower jaw was removed, followed by hypobaric treatment, radiation and chemotherapy. After that he was well enough to go back to work, to cruise Europe with sister Peggy and to provide a sanctuary in his granny flat for a refugee from Afghanistan.

After months of good and not so good experiences with several medical systems he attempted all options: vegan, non-protein and non-lactose diets, higher, healthier doses of supplements, more radiation more chemo and acupuncture. The final verdict: “There is nothing more medically that can be done.” He and we decided to manage the pain, no more liquids and no more nourishment. Stay at home under hospice care and await death.

So now for some 2 weeks that’s what we do. He is home. His siblings, his friends from here, from Chicago and elsewhere sit with him briefly. We had our family farewell with David himself concluding the session by him saying, “It’s time for us to say The Lord’s Prayer together.”

So I sit by his side. His eyes stare blindly into space. The bandage hides the entire right side of his face which, when I looked at it last, brought back terrible memories of seeing those same features in people whom I saw in Hong Kong dying of leprosy.

As I sit I hum hymns and folk songs. I tell him softly of his youthful escapades with snails, of his wandering the streets of Hong Kong enjoying the wah mueys he bought from street vendors. I recall him at age 12 caring for 3 younger siblings on a transpacific flight while I was attending his mother in a coma up in first class. I recall how his high school friends ridiculed his strict English school politeness – which his teacher admired. I recall for him briefly the challenge of his being a college student body president in the early 70’s.

I come to tears as I recall my initial prejudice and ignorance when he first invited me for a just-the-two-of-us weekend retreat during which he disclosed that he was gay. I remember with gratitude how he bore evangelical witness to the Church, how he repeatedly visited those dying of AIDS for whom he was the only family and friend.

I smile as I recall good family times, especially at Christmas, or at his wonderful vacation home, our trips together or more recently just the two of us sharing a beer at a neighborhood bar. And I remember our shared anger at the prejudice, ignorance, and rejection shown him and gays around the country and world.

Then I force my mind to the father-son bonds which are inseparable. I contemplate all the mysteries of the life to come. And then I stroke his arms once more and whisper loud enough for him to hear in the depths of his soul, “Come sweet sleep. Come sweet peace.”