Begin with One True Sentence

Hello as I wait for my seating,

It’s a Monday midsummer, and it’s a warm one. It reminds me of summer days when as a child I would lay on the bed in the front screened-in porch of my parent’s house and read a book. I was fortunate that the neighborhood Public Library was only about two blocks away (and they were short blocks). Often I walked down, checking out as many books as my little arms could carry, and I read vociferously. While I did not realize how much all that reading helped me, I think it provided me hours of solitude, as well as a degree of safety, and additionally, it contented my mother because she knew where I was. To be fair to her, I was not aware of the fear she had, concerned that my biological parents might show up and steal us. Inadvertently, at least in my awareness, all that reading did was teach me about language. As I often told my students, reading models writing, you intuitively begin to understand what sounds correct. Language, and I must thank a former linguistics colleague for impressing this upon me, is dynamic. It does change, and it evolves both in terms of written language, which is much more difficult for us to accept, as well as how we speak. An example of a subtle change in our written language is there is no longer a requirement to double-space after a period. The reason for the change is technological, but most people beyond 35 are not pleased with this change. Likewise, in our spoken language, my grandparents would have never inquired if I wanted to “do lunch.” The point of all of this is what makes something correct or right, standard or non-standard? Or by extension, what makes a sentence “a true sentence”? The concept of writing a true sentence comes from the well-known author, Ernest Hemingway. When asked about what helped him overcome writer’s block, his response was to begin with a sentence that is true.

Writing is not difficult, but writing well is. When I ponder various writing projects, assignments, from blogs to reading responses, from edited chapters to my dissertation, each of them were a chore. There are more times than I wish to admit when I have felt incapable. There was a period of time when I was finishing my dissertation that I had a total of 24 hours of sleep in 12 days, mostly 45 minute to an hour and 15 minute power nap. If I was going strong at 2:00 a.m,, I kept writing. If I was brain dead at 2:00 p.m., I would sleep. I was cloistered away in Lydia’s basement bedroom, and with the exception of bathroom breaks, I did not leave. Lydia graciously made me PB&J sandwiches. The idea of writing something truthful or honest has consequence for me and my outlook on daily life. I do believe that one of my greatest attributes is my ability to be genuine. I have learned that my life has been extraordinary, and the opportunities have been blessed with have allowed me to do things, go places, and live a full life because of incredible experiences. I have traveled extensively, met wonderful people around the world, and lived with possibilities I could have never imagined from the beginnings I had. However, none of that gives me anything that makes me better or more special than any other person. In fact, I believe it places enormous responsibility upon me in how I share that with others.

The opportunity to see life as continuous learning is something I continue to enjoy and something I feel obligated to do. I am humbled by the fact that Benjamin Franklin did not go to school beyond the age of ten, but learned on his own terms if you will, in his own manner or by his self-decided process. Thomas Jefferson, the well-known writer, was also a paleontologist, an architect and agriculturalist. He became President, and yes, also a slave owner, which is repugnant to me, managed six languages and was a linguist. I would imagine meeting him could be quite intimidating. Most research says he was reserved and polite, and yet highly political. He is one of those people of history I would love to meet. I’m honestly not sure how I became such an inquisitive person, an incessantly pondering individual, even as a young person. The difference between when I was small until today was what I did with those questions. As a small boy, I seldom asked because I knew my constant interrogatives would not please my mother. So I was left to my own thoughts, mulling over almost everything that occurred, and learning to observe and store away what intrigued me. Of course, being a somewhat typical teenager, the questioning occurred even when it was probably not prudent, but hormones got in the way of discipline, and my earlier suspicions proved incredibly accurate. So while the introspection continued, the e er-present reflective questions were either held inside or asked of others.

What I seemed to realize early on was that much of the world falls into a grey zone, and looking back, I now believe my mother saw most of the world dichotomously; it was either/or, and her precocious (and even more profoundly adopted) kid lived his life as a “but what if?” This was both not enjoyable for her as well as it was perceived as disrespectful. However, that contemplative, overly excogitative, or ruminative propensity of mine would eventually serve me well. I often assert that being educated requires three traits: thinking critically, analyzing thoroughly, and synthesizing intentionally. I think it was the learning to see the connections and being able to synthesize that would be the piece that served me the best in my education, and continues to serve me yet today.

So where does it all leave me as I am retired, but as questioning of life as ever? Much like when I was in my last years of teaching, and I found myself awake in the middle of the night, some of my more creative and intricate assignments would find their way into my brain. In fact, when I told my students that, they offered to purchase sleeping aids for me. And yet, I have been told that some of the same assignments were some of their most influential or memorable. What I believe happened in those moments were when I was able to think about what allowed a student to understand both who they were as well as why they were that person. It encouraged a sense of reflection that helped them perceive more accurately what they needed to do to succeed. To put it another way, it compelled them to work more diligently, while understanding and developing both their thinking and their skills. It allowed them to begin with their own one true sentence. It allowed both them and me to be more genuine and supportive of creating a culture where opinions were valued, thinking was encouraged, and a community was built. For some it began and ended with the semester, but for others, who had my classes for multiple semesters over multiple years, I worked constantly to help them claim their education. It was an article and address by Adrienne Rich. It became the foundation of my teaching philosophy. When you make something yourself, it becomes part of you. It is you, and in that you become genuine. It is how you begin to create that true sentence.

Thank you for reading as always.

Michael

Nostalgia: More Blessing or Curse?

Hello on a Friday afternoon,

The week back from my travels back to Sioux City and other previous places of residence or visiting has been busy, but quite productive. While I was born in Texas, I was away from the Lone Star state early as Kris, my younger sister, but only barely over a year younger was born in California. Furthermore, before I was back in Sioux City, living with grandparents before I was barely two (this was confirmed as I grew up by my grandmother’s elder sister, there was a brief time in Omaha. While I do have half siblings who still live in Texas, and I have visited there in my 20s and briefly resided there in my early 40s, I would no consider myself a Texan by any stretch of the imagination. Indeed, I am an Iowan. All my memories from barely two until I graduated from high school are located in that NW Iowa meat packing, once known as little Chicago, city located at the confluence of the Big Sioux, Floyd, and Missouri Rivers. In fact, many of the significant events in Sioux City are related to floods of those rivers or the celebration of living next to them, something we called the River Cade.

In the few years more than half century since I left that town of then 100K, the combined time I have lived there totals perhaps three years. And the majority of that was within about a 5 year period after I graduated and came home from the service. I did attend college and graduate schools mostly in the Midwest, so going home was available, but the last two times I spent any significant time in Sioux City was the summer of 1984, when I was on medical leave from seminary and the summer and early fall of 1999, when I was separated. I would not even come back for more than a visit to NW Iowa until the fall I retired (2024). To say the neighborhood I grew up in had changed is a profound understatement, though the two houses I lived in, located in that small far Western suburb look much the same.

Yet, there is something that calls me back. Many of the visits back during the period of the late 1980s into the 21st century were helped by my wonderful cousins, who served as surrogate parents to me, Jim and Joanne Wiggs (because I was adopted by a couple old enough to be my grandparents, most of my cousins would have been a generation before me and my second cousins are more like cousins). The memories of holidays and events with some are still etched in my minds. Most of my cousins (some actual cousins and some second) were often at gatherings in South Sioux City, which is where most of my mother’s siblings lived (she was the youngest of 10). The cousins (all second) on my father’s side of the family (the Wiggs) were not in my life until after high school, but they began significant part of my life for many years. None of them live in Sioux City now, though a number are still in Iowa and Eastern Nebraska.

As I have been recently back in Sioux City, the memories and the sense of nostalgia for the past has so permeated my consciousness, I found myself thinking about (and emoting over) that place and the events surrounding most of my life. And by extension, wondering how memory and nostalgia work to connect us to our former self, or perhaps how they establish our identity and relationship to our past. The dual nature of consciousness, which is connected to memory, and the emotional power of those memories, which is more attuned to the idea of nostalgia is fascinating. As I have done lately, I have inquired of others, asking their opinion about the differences or overlap. One of my morning friends offered the what seems the best way to consider the connection between memory and nostalgia. He states memory is what we remember and nostalgia is what we wish we remembered, and then he followed it up by pondering if nostalgia had room for the negative in something. My own research contends the difference is much about the cognitive and the emotional, but I wonder if there is such a strict demarcation between the two. Certainly, we do prefer the “rose-colored glasses” version of our past, but is that a conscious decision or something we do from the depth of our being to protect ourselves? I do remember the difficult aspects of some of my upbringing to be sure, but when I returned to my neighborhood a little more than two weeks ago, I both recognized the changes, but that feeling of familiarity, of being back on the street I grew up on overshadowed any other feeling. When I went to see Chief War Eagle’s and Theophile Bruguier’s resting places, I had a much greater sense of admiration than I did as a child, but the memories of those people as a child influenced that emotion. Meeting with a group of people, some I’ve known since I was 5 years old, held profound importance, and while I certainly felt a multitude of things, the conversation with one person in particular was of incredible importance. We were not only in school together, but also church, and again, Riverside was a small area, tight-knit and supportive. Not perfect, as we somehow were painfully reminded, but that is an example of the other side of nostalgia. The emotional toll of our memories is a complex reality. What I have found most often in my own reminiscing with childhood friends is a sense of solace, noting that some of the more difficult aspects of childhood were there, and not merely perception. On the other hand, it has also helped me to understand them as well as move beyond them.

My trip back through most of my educational journey (and all of it to some extent when I had the opportunity to speak with one of my most influential mentors during my PhD) was also something of a mixed bag. Where I attended grade school, the building no longer exists. It is a block of houses. Dana College, where I received most of my undergraduate education, closed more than a decade ago. Luther Seminary, while still serving students is selling most of its physical facilities because of the change in both course delivery and a dwindling student body. My visit to the campus in the past month was both troubling and sad. However, breakfast with a treasured classmate at a former breakfast haunt brought back the fondest of memories and he brought pictures from our time as students that simply brought things somewhat full-circle. While I did not make it back to Houghton, I did consider that detour. And not surprisingly, when I look at the department’s website, there are very few names I recognize in terms of faculty (and few is literal in this case). And yet each place is nostalgic. The experiences, the people, the classes, and how I grew during those times are all something I revere, things I cherish.

I think perhaps that is the importance is nostalgia, it provides an emotional connection to something that would merely be a group of images in our memory. Without nostalgia, there would be little reason to ponder or reminisce. There were be no real connection to our past in a meaningful manner. This is not meant to ignore those moments, those memories that are more difficult. Because, as I was recently reminded, without the less than desirable moments, we can never adequately appreciate those times that bless us, connect us in a way that helps us understand not only who we are, as well as provide hope for what might still may be.

Thank you for reading and may you be blessed with a sense of nostalgia that brings a smile.

Michael

What’s the Difference between Bravery and Courage?

Hello on a post 4th weekend, the semiquincentennial 4th,

To say there had been a lot of energy and importance, excitement and pomp placed on this 4th would be a gargantuan understatement, but indeed though only 250 years, which is an incredibly short period of time in the history of human annals, it’s been an important spans for a multitude of reasons. As a Marine veteran, I have a profound sense of patriotism toward both the Corps and the country. Likewise, my extensive travel experience has helped me understand how important those countries with multi-millennium histories have been influential and important to what we are as well as how we understand ourselves. From my memories of saying the Pledge of Allegiance every morning in grade school to standing for the national anthem, from having the 12th and 22nd of February as holidays (for Lincoln’s and Washington’s birthdays) to Memorial Day and Veterans Day parades, the importance of and reverence toward the country were a basic element of growing up in the 1950s and 1960s. Much of my life I associated this sort of attention towards our country as a sort of patriotism, a respect for the heritage of those who stood up for what my elementary brain believed to be a desire for fairness, equality, and decency.

Some of those beliefs contributed to my enlistment in the Marine Corps, and even today, decades later, and with a much deeper appreciation for, as well as understanding about, the complexities of our American experiment, I find myself asking what compelled those early founders to take the incredible chance they did? And we most certainly have our perceptions of their choices, especially when we are celebrating this particular 4th. Likewise, I wonder if our present understanding of patriotism is the same? Are we compelled by the same desire today, the same perception, a similar discernment for what freedom offers, for a belief in a country that thrives upon goodness and equipoise. Currently, I participate in three different social groups, one is a group of older men, characters I have written about previously, who meet each morning at Burger King. They have taught me more about Bloomsburg than any other group of people or experiences could. A second group meets at the local public library and the gathering is titled Civil Conversations for Common Good. We meet weekly and discuss topics decided each week. The third group is a group of veterans (I am new to this group) is a group of mostly Vietnam veterans though there are a couple Korean and even a WWII veteran(s). What I understand is the group was begun by WWII veterans who wanted to teach school youth about service to the community. The reason I mention them is I have asked them what they believe the difference between bravery and courage is for them. Not surprisingly, the interchangeable nature of the words, seeing them perhaps more synonymous than is true was the standard.

While I instinctively knew there was something related, but also unique. Bravery is more instantaneous, spur of the moment with little consideration of consequence or danger. Perhaps an example is when someone tackles someone with a gun to stop that person. It is the military person who runs toward the enemy to protect an injured colleague, with no regard for their own safety. It is not an absence of fear, but it generally disregards it. Courage, on the other hand, is something that is intentionally considered. The reality of fear, the realization of a less than desirable consequence, or the understanding that the decision made is because of principle. Maya Angelou called courage the most important of all virtues. Courage is about goodness of purpose. It is intentional.

This has caused me to ponder my own actions and wonder when I have been brave or might I have been courageous? One of the things I have learned about myself as I aged, and something I believe I am much more capable of is admitting my mistakes and faults. I think that is, in part, because I am both more attuned to my weaknesses as well as comfortable with them. Additionally, as noted in other posts, there are three things I cannot abide: dishonesty, disrespect, and abuse of power. Those points are important because those moments in my life are probably when I was most courageous. What I know about my own times of dishonesty when I was younger is they occurred when either I was afraid or embarrassed. In terms of disrespect, I was perhaps disrespectful when I was mistreated or abused. And there are probably 5 times I have stood up against what I believed to be abuse of power, which, for me, is also disrespectful. One of the most important things I have changed from earlier in life is how I manage anger. Anger, which was often the consequence of hurt, was not something I could regulate well for probably the first half of my life. I either stuffed it or exploded; neither served me well. Abuse has been part of my life and recently I spoke with a high school classmate about the consequences of that, for both my sister and me. It was a thoughtful and helpful conversation.

The times in my life where I believe I exhibited courage were when I stood up against power, understanding the results of my actions could be drastic, and while I was fearful, I felt compelled to speak out, regardless the outcome. Once I lost an ordination; once someone threatened to beat me with a hockey stick; and once it forced me to leave my home and look for a new job. Each of those instances caused dramatic changes, unspeakable hurt, not only for myself, but others, and it required incredible introspection and reconsideration. And yet even now, while some of the circumstances that led to those moments were due to my own failings, the decision to finally stand up for what I believed fair or right is not something I regret. I believe in each case I exhibited courage. I think there is only a couple times I have been brave, and what I believe now is bravery, while good at some level, can end up tremendously poor in terms of results. When I was in my first teaching position, where I was also the campus pastor, a person, who was not even a student, threatened to shoot me because I spoke to the young lady he was abusing, at the request of her parents. After he threatened me I backed him up against the wall, and long-story-short we had a chat. I impressed upon him that bringing a gun would not go well. Honestly, he could have mopped the floor with me, but I was not going to backdown from his threat. Fortunately, nothing happened. The other act of “bravery” occurred in the Marines. I was told by a chaplain it was patriotic. To this day, I believe it was self-preservation, and I do not equate that with bravery.

What I find now is I believe the world requires both, and while they might overlap, they are not the same. I believe brave people will always make a difference, but so will courageous people. Perhaps we need both and we always have.

Thanks as always for reading,

Michael

Grace, Virginia, Greenlawn, and Ridgelawn

Hello from the resting places of my heritage,

When I grew up, there were things my father did like clockwork, from the time we went to bed and the time he rose to Saturday afternoons or evenings to how we prepared for or celebrated holidays. He was a focused, but nonetheless seemed laid back; he was optimistic and always smiling though I now realize he was always concerned about the bigger picture of things; and he was pragmatic about everything he did or dealt with. And perhaps most importantly, at least to him, he was punctual. He epitomized the adage of you were not 15 minutes early, you were late. To offer some specifics about the above mentioned traits: he went to bed at 10:23 p.m., immediately at the conclusion of the late news, and he was asleep within two or three minutes (you knew this because you could hear him). Each morning he arose to his own internal alarm clock, even after retirement, though the time was now a bit later. On Saturday afternoons, weather-dependent, he washed both cars in our yard, vacuumed them, and had them presentable for church on Sunday. Dinner (supper) was promptly at 5:00, and after dinner, it was my responsibility to polish our Sunday church shoes, using the shining box I had built in wood shop class. Saturday evening and night was special because we were allowed to remain up until 10:00, watching Gunsmoke and enjoying our own bowl of buttered popcorn. The title of this post is about another yearly ritual my father believed necessary. Every year the weekend before Memorial Day, he loaded the car with buckets, brushes, hoses, weed shears, rakes, and towels. We went to both Graceland Park and Floyd Cemeteries to wash, polish, trim and rake around each grave of the extended family of his in Graceland and my mother’s immediate family in Floyd. The following weekend (immediately before that Monday), the graves were decorated with flowers. This was something done years as religiously going to church every Sunday morning. I never really thought about the fact there were other living relatives in the Sioux City area. It was somehow what the Harry Martin household did. I do believe my sister did continue this to some degree, and my living most of my adult life sans Sioux City, I was not as involved.

And yet, as I have come back over the years, visiting the graves, particularly in Graceland, has been a regular part of my return. Some of the graves have been there from the 1950s. On my mother’s side of the family, there are gravestones from the 1910s-20s. I am not sure when the Grandparents bought the plot, but they purchased 9 or 10 lots. Currently, along with my grandparents, an aunt, and a daughter of my adopted parents, the two siblings I grew up with and my adopted parents are all buried there. There is one lot remaining, and it is where I will someday be. However, that is not what is so incredible about Graceland. The Martin family plot is in the Ridgelawn section. Immediately across the street and a little to the left, in the Virginia section (perhaps 50 yards away), you will find the graves of my actual paternal grandfather, grandmother, and my maternal great-grandparents. This is where the connection between my adopted parents and my actual grandparents becomes both interesting (and for some confusing). My grandmother, Louise Lynam, about whom I have written often, describing her as my hero, was a Hannestad. Her father, who is also buried there is named Eilert Hannestad, born in 1871, and the mother of my adopted father, Harry Martin, whose name is Anne Hannestad Martin are buried within that 50 or so yards. She was born in 1876. Eilert and Anne are brother and sister. So this means that my adopting father was also a distant cousin. My sister and I were therefore, though adopted still in the family. From my actual grandparents’ and great-grandparents’ graves, if I walk to the left and up the small hill and across into the Grace section of the cemetery, you will find the graves of Evan and Martha Hannestad. Evan was born in 1869, and he is the brother of Anne and Eilert. Their graves are perhaps within 100 yards of the other plots (Martin and Lyman). This means siblings, while married into three different family units, would be buried with about a 100 yard radius. If you walk back toward the main entrance of the cemetery across the street to the Greenlawn section, about 75 yards or so, on the left side of this somewhat narrower section, you will find my adopted father’s eldest sister Gladys and her husband, Clare, whose family name was Swaby. He was born in 1896, and I believe Gladys was born around 1905 or so.

So what is important is there are four generations of my family within about a 200 yard area. The earliest born is 1866, and currently, the last buried, my sister, Kris, 14 months younger than me, was both the last born and buried ( 1956 and 2008). While I hope it is sometime before I am laid to rest there. If I live into the 2030s, that would be a 170 year span. That is significant, particularly when the earliest born (1866) is only a year after the Civil War. As I write this it is less than two hours before the 250th celebration of the country. I am looking at family graves that cover almost 70% of our nation’s existence in that space. I do have a cousin who has researched the Martins and she notes there are Martin ancestors back to the revolution, so it is likely (in IN and OH) there are graves that go back even farther. Certainly, the importance of a quarter millennium is of note, particularly when we ponder the profound role the United States has had, and while the celebration has been more politicized than I wish, I still feel an important level of patriotism as I imagine the Fourth of July tomorrow. What I will be doing is driving back to Pennsylvania, and I am sure there will be fireworks and other things I might observe if I am still driving after dark. I will drive a good amount of distance across the country, and its vastness will astound me once again. The significance of my family history and the reality that some of those graves I visited again recently belong to people who were born in another country (Norway). Some of the graves in Indiana or Ohio, places I’ve not gone to explore the heritage, were born in England or Ireland. It’s often easy to look at the granite or polished stones, markers, and larger family headstones and brush over the incredible history, the stories they offer, but last Saturday, a week ago as I write this, I walked slowly among the markers and pondered each of my relatives, those who lived in Sioux City before I did. And though a good majority of my life was experienced beyond the Northwest Iowa town I still claim as home, it is where my final resting place will be. I will be the last of my generation to be laid there; no other lots remain. And while my life has been blessed to travel and explore an incredible amount of the world, I will be blessed to be laid to rest at home. And Jennifer, I hope you find this both helpful and informative. I love you.

Thank you for reading,

Michael

When Decisions are Difficult . . .

Hello from Pennsylvania, the state that seems to hold on to me,

I have noted that moving into the era of retirement is not what I expected, but the multiple levels that this statement has rung true is beyond anything I could have ever imagined. It’s taken the better part of 18 months to feel like claiming I am retired feels acceptable. What a strange thing to say, to consider, to ponder. Retirement, we are taught is something to look forward to, to anticipate with a sense of happiness, sort of in the words of “well done good and faithful servant,” a phrase too often only offered after someone has passed from this life. It’s taken me a bit to get back to this post, and now as I write I am back in the Midwest, where the past few days have been a serious, and multifaceted trip through some various periods of my life.

This morning was an absolute joy when I shared breakfast with Karsten Nelson, one of my dear seminary classmates at the original Keys (a host of restaurants in the Twin Cities). While the restaurant has changed to some degree, something to be expected in 40 years, merely sitting in that space and looking at some photos he brought from our time there and sharing a meal and conversation was a great gift. Before I went to see him, I had driven across the cities to get to St. Paul, I stopped by 2481 Como Avenue. Anyone who took classes on sight at LNTS or now Luther, knows that address. What I witnessed and experienced there was somewhat shattering to me. The summer I experienced Summer Greek, living in Stub Hall, eating in the Commons in the Refectory in the Northwestern Building, and what the fall would bring when the normal academic year began as I resided in Bockman were so important to who I would become. Certainly the changes in the role of faith in our society have been extreme since I graduated from the seminary in the late 1980s. Likewise, having spent the last almost three decades in higher education, I am painfully aware of how delivery of class material has been transformed by technology, which was also affected by COVID. The days of meeting together in a space for class, sitting in a coffee shop between classes, eating together in a commons or refectory are something from the past.

While I think I was at least vaguely aware that higher education was a business, that realization did not go much beyond my paying my tuition and buying my textbooks. Needless to say, once I was on the other side of the blank stare, as a program director or sitting in departmental meetings or in front of my dean, my understanding of tuition-driven budgets, state appropriations, and the connection between “butts-in-seats” and what is possible changed drastically. Most of the debt I incurred through my academics occurred in seminary. My congregation did not have money to pay my tuition like some of my classmates had; I was newly married and my wife did not make a ton of money working in a pre-5 Daycare. She did get another more lucrative job later, but nothing that would take care of costs. So student loans were the order of the day.

When I attended LNTS it was the largest Lutheran seminary in the country. The fall I began seminary there were almost 850 students. Currently, there are barely over 400, and only 35% of them are on campus full-time (Luther Seminary Website). This means only about 140 students are on campus. The budget for an on-campus student is a little over 41,000 dollars a year. That is a significant amount, particularly when the typical starting salary package for a first year pastor is a little more than 50,000.00 a year. To say a person must have a serious sense of call is a bit of an understatement. If you crunch numbers, it is not difficult to see how some of the decisions in the past decade-plus have occurred. The selling of buildings, apartment complexes, to the most recent decision to close the Campus Center, which was built when I was a student, while stunning, is about financial reality.

And yet what are the non-monetary costs. One of the most important elements of faith is community. Bonhoeffer noted that “Christian community is like the Christian’s sanctification. It is a gift of God we cannot claim” (Life Together). From my summer Greek colleagues to my Formulation of Faith cohort, from the people I shared a hallway with in Bockman to those I played intramural sports with, the building of a community called into service of Christ and the church was personified by those I met daily. Those who returned from that third year of internship to complete our studies became integral to helping me understand my sense of call, from our preaching classes to our Constructive Theology class. I know from teaching post-COVID, zoom classes do not replicate the community formed when you are in class together, reflecting and responding, questioning and sharing insights about scripture, systematics, or dogma. In the day since I posted pictures of the campus, I have spoken to and corresponded with classmates who were there when I was and it seems our feelings are pretty consistent. It is a heartfelt and thorough sense of sadness and loss. I remember a sermon in chapel, given by the then President of the seminary, the Rev. Dr. Lloyd Svendsbye preached about how you have a funeral for a small rural congregation that is closing its doors. Having supplied at some small rural two- or three-point congregations, I remember clearly how they were profoundly faithful to their history, but perhaps keenly aware of their fragility as a community. Much of the decisions were based on two issues: an aging demographic and the reality of finances.

The truism about death and taxes seems apropos. Even the seminary must pay its share to Caesar, it’s the world in which the church lives, and in spite of some tax breaks it might have, the costs of infrastructure continue to rise. The unforgiving truth is cost is fatal. The taxes of this world seem to have put the seminary as I knew it on life support. Regardless how the sale of buildings, of land and other assets have put the seminary on stable ground at the moment, 2481 Como Avenue is not the place I remember. The generations of pastors who spent four years taking classes in Biblical Studies, Church History, Systematics and Pastoral Care, sitting at the feet of incredible Biblical scholars and devout pastors are no longer. I am not questioning the veracity of those called today, but I am sad they are not able to experience the community I did. And yet, as I used to tell my students in my Bible as Literature class, often God works in spite of us. And as my confessions professor noted, when we pray “Come Lord Jesus.” we can hope he comes today.

Thank you as always for reading, and bless those called.

Michael

Che Guevara and Luigi Mangione

Good morning from the coffee klatch,

While driving to get blood work done this morning, I was listening to NPR, and the story airing was about Luigi Mangioni, the young man charged with the killing of Brian Young, the late CEO of United Healthcare. What an interesting story about the national response to this young man who is finally headed to trail for his alleged killing of a 50 year old. The reason I often listen to NPR, contrary to the morning group I was headed to meet, is not because of my more liberal leaning, but rather because they seem to find stories that go beyond merely the headlines and they also are more inquisitive in their approach. The morning group, a group where I am one of the younger members, is such an important part of my last almost decade here in Bloomsburg. The great majority of them were born here, more than half of them are veterans, and the great majority of them have political leanings that are different than me. And yet, it has taught me so much; I did write a blog about them a couple years ago and I am very blessed to be part of their community of men, gentlemen who know this area.

And yet that is somewhat a departure from where I was heading. Some might find the pairing of the socialist revolutionary from Argentina and the well-educated, upper class, man of Italian descent, who is on trail for the killing of Young together in the title as a stretch, but it is exactly what the NPR story did. And the reporting made the connection of the two both reasonable and thoughtful. What I find fascinating is how much the current atmosphere of healthcare in this country and the struggle against poverty in Latin America in post WWII can be seen as having profound parallels. I believe it is also connected to the theological roots in Liberation Theology. Hear me out.

Che Guevara was a brilliant person in his own right, and a medical student who was astounded by the abject poverty he experienced. Between his disdain for that poverty and his belief that American imperialism in Central America as well as CIA involvement resulted in much of the disengagement of indigenous peoples, likewise a meeting with both Fidel and Raúl Castro would inevitably lead to his integral role in the overthrow of Batista and his eventual elevation as the leader of guerrilla warfare movement in many third world nations. Between his writing and his actions, his position as the leader of anti colonialism and the quintessential voice against what he believe to be an imperialist capitalism that exploited the poor, he became a hero, and almost cultic. His image became synonymous with those who felt the inequity is capitalism needed to be challenged. There is, of course, those who argue his methods were also problematic, and after his capture by the CIA in Bolivia and his being summarily executed, his cult-like supporters added martyrdom to his accolades.

Luigi Mangioni, on the other hand, grew up in a privileged household and family, attending private schools, as well as doing well (as did Guevara student-wise) in both high school and college. He holds dual citizenship with his Italian heritage and did travel as a solo backpacker in Asia. He has a history of health issues, and he also had back surgery. His own posting reveals some significant concerns about the healthcare system in the country (most of my information comes from my own online research and has been verified.). While a number of theories or rationales for his actions have been posited, the inconsistencies from his statements against violence to the three words found on the shell casings are perhaps bereft of any possible explanation. What is perhaps more incredible is the response to the actions of Mangioni by not only Americans, but globally. Simply put, his alleged actions are tantamount to premeditated murder. The alleged killer walked up to Mr. Wilson, and shot him at almost point blank range. The words on the casings are the same words used in the health insurance field to supposedly work to avoid paying claims. That connection points to two very significant factors. First, the killer had to know who Brian Young was and what his position was. Second, the inscribing of the words on the casings points to premeditation.

While there is probably not a single person who reads this whose never been frustrated with their health insurance, and generally for good reason, the decision to shoot the CEO of your company is not something you would plan to do. Second, the growing frustration with our healthcare system, from scheduling appointments to paying copays, from coverage whether in system or out of system to getting prescriptions, as well as rising premiums or copays, from what a Medicare covers or doesn’t for those over 65, our system is a problem. And while he hear other countries also have issues, my own personal experiences overseas have been more than positive, and the cost’s unbelievably low. All of these issues (and let’s face it, when you genuinely need healthcare, there is a consequence to either not being able to afford it or not being able to obtain it. It is for those reasons in particular, or so it seems, that many (and I am saying 10s of thousands) see Mangioni as a hero, some comparing him to Robin Hood, versus a calculating cold-blooded murderer. Currently, there is a website that provides information about his legal defense, and literally thousands have donated. The site contains a message of thanks from Mr. Mangione himself. Street art, graffiti have appeared across the country and support the young man. There is a mural in Seattle. From hashtags to merchandise, the ways to support this vigilante killing demonstrate clearly the frustration that many Americans feel about healthcare.

The parallels between the 1960s socialist guerrilla hero and the 2020s wealthy, but probably disillusioned, computer programming, book reading Italian American seem quite distant, but the responses of the public are where the interesting parallels exist. Ché Guevara was handsome and brash and his 1960s photo became iconic. I remember seeing it on book covers, on wall posters, and T-shirts as I grow up. Likewise, Mr. Mangione is also quite handsome, and his face has also appeared much more easily in our social media saturated world. The Robin Hood-esque nature of the two points to something deeper in our human psyche, or so it seems. Often, regardless of how hard we work, and this is perhaps the case now more than ever, we feel the system is stacked against us – daily we hear how the rich get richer, the middle class get squeezed, and the poor are left to their lot. When push comes to shove, I doubt many people will condone the reality of Brian Young’s death. A 50-year-old person, married, with children, was gunned down walking down the street to a meeting. His family’s lives have been irrevocably changed. Likewise, the lives of the relatives of Luigi. Mangione are also irrevocably changed. The legal wranglings will continue and eventually he will stand trial. And that is what should happen. The brokenness of our health system, the seeming brutality with which decisions are made, and the cost, both financially and personally, is abhorrent. It is unconscionable, and yet fortunately, regardless the reasons, given or perceived, so is murder. Can something good come from this? I would like to believe so, but I’m not sure what.

Perhaps somewhere in the 60s we had some things figured out. Thanks for reading.

Michael

Chevelles, Harleys, and Bugs

Hello from the outside table at the local Starbucks,

It’s a great morning, starting out cool and pleasant, though now the humidity and heat are both on the rise, so it’s a typical June, nearly summer, day in Pennsylvania (btw, do you know that this is the only state where both the abbreviation of PA as well as the entire state is understood and acceptable?). It will probably blow up into a bit of a storm before the day is out, but the storms here are seldom like the storms I remember back in Iowa, storms that would roll in across the prairie. I’ve seen some of those storm clouds here but nothing like I remember as a child. Or like the summer I spent working wheat harvest from Texas to Montana. I remember a tornado coming across and diving out of a pick up truck into a ditch – that was more than close enough to a tornado.

While I’ve chatted more than once with others as well as have written my thoughts about memory, or what seems to jog our memory, there are two things which seem to do that for me more than anything else. The first is music, and the second, at least for me, relates to a vehicle, something I have owned in the past. My first car was a 1964 Impala, which I bought for $175. I managed to get both my first speeding ticket (I actually got two in the same day, which infuriated my mother), and I was involved in my first accident (again, I was involved in two on the same day – yes, true story) in that car. The Impala went through a lot. The first car that I really had an attachment to,an affinity for, however, was a car that I purchased when I got out of the service. It was a 1971 Chevelle SS with a 454, and it could pass anything but a gas station. It was a copper brown color (the picture above resembles it closely) with black stripes on the hood and trunk. It had 60 Series Raised white-letter tires, and Cragers. It had an eight track player and a 40 W power booster for the stereo. If I remember correctly, I had installed two6 x 9 coaxial speakers in the area behind the back seat, and had two additional boxes with more speakers. I thought I was pretty cool. I remember taking my father once to vote, and he stated without hesitation, “ I am not sure what is worse, the mufflers or the music!” He was not the only person who had a distinctive lack of appreciation for my Chevelle. Ruth, my pastor’s wife, once asked if I delighted in noise-polluting the neighborhood. There was no way my Chevelle would sneak into the driveway. The music I remember most significantly with that car were the albums (then on 8 Track) Masque by Kansas, Dreamweaver by Gary Wright, Frampton Comes Alive, by Peter Frampton, Hair of the Dog, by Nazareth or Dreamboat Annie by Heart to name a few. That car went through a lot with me, but I did love it. Over the years I’ve owned a 1970 El Camino, which was also quite hopped up, a 1983 Dodge Lancer (my first sort of grown-up car), a 1986 Fiero GT, which was quite the car, a 1993 Dodge Shadow ES, a 1995 Ford Mustang, a 2003 Grand Am GT, a couple of HHRs, and a 2013 BMW 328i. Perhaps the best driving car I’ve owned was a 2014 Chevrolet Malibu. One thing always hoped for, or installed, was a good sound system. When I reminisce about each vehicle, I remember what music went with that time. The move from 8 Tracks to cassettes, from CDs to now being connected to a subscription or my phone shows how differently or music connects the two elements for me.

What is it about a vehicle that creates such a bond? Why is it, for some, so much of our identity is connected to our wheels? And while I am willing to admit that men are probably more likely to do this than women, I do not believe it is totally gender specific. Some of the window stickers on the back of trucks or jeeps in particular will attest to this. Studies show unlike a house, which not everyone can afford, cars create an important connection to how we are perceived, in part, because they travel with us and are highly visible; they become a mobile billboard. Then there are things like vanity plates, something I have gotten for the first time ever with my last vehicle. Personalization creates an emotional bond between person and the machine. Additionally, there can be a social connection between the type of vehicle you have and others who drive a similar modes of transportation. It is a branding. I have experienced this particularly with the Beetles as well as the Harleys.

While I have owned motorcycles from the time I was in my teens, I did not get my first Harley until I was in my 40s. It was a present to myself for defending my dissertation. I’ve had a motorcycle license since I was 16 years old, much to my mother‘s displeasure. I’ve also had my obligatory motorcycle accident, which resulted in two skull fractures, serious facial lacerations, and a veritable hardware store in my left pinky finger. I’ve owned everything from a Sportster to a fully decked-out Street Glide, and a couple in between. More than one had a serious stereo system. And I’ve driven them completely across the United States. I’ve been to Sturgis twice and Laconia once. Anyone who has ridden the motorcycle understands the camaraderie with those on another two wheeler (or even three), from the recognition given when meeting someone on the road to the gear one wears. And of course, Harley has its own special sound, which is trademarked. Much like those who own Apple products or a bug, there is a social recognition that goes along with them. The branding has been successful to be sure.

My older brother had a 1969 Karmen Ghia, which my father hated. He went everywhere in that little yellow car, and he fit the anti-establishment vibe of that time incredibly well. I, of course, grew up in the Disney time of Herbie, the Love Bug, and found the little car created in Germany as “the people‘s car,” to be adorable, something I always wanted. My last two cars have been Beetles, and to say it is a love-hate relationship would be an understatement. I think I love them, but I believe they hate me. Both Beetles have endured more than one revision of their physical appearance (although not all due to my cause or can I be blamed), and the seeming jinx of the relationship between bug and Michael has some (former students, friends, and even relatives) telling me it’s time to change my vehicle or cease my love of the bug. My first bug had a Bose system with a subwoofer (stock to the car); it was quite incredible, and I loved tooling around in Bruce, as I named it. Experiences like breaking a cable in the mountain snows of Nevada (on a 9% grade) and losing my brakes was the first mishap. Getting taken out by an Amazon semi, again in the snow on the interstate was the second. Bruce recovered from both of those. My rear-ending someone with him was a different story. The second (and current) bug is a gun-metal blue customized “denim” convertible, the first convertible I’ve ever owned. It is beyond enjoyable, and while it is not as decked out in terms of extras as Bruce was, Bella (as this one is named) is still quite stylish. It too has had multiple experiences (again three of them) two of which were not my fault. Of course, the last, again just recently, is a different story, but Bella is back to looking good.

What I’ve realized is the profound degree both vehicles and music are both connected to and have characterized my life, both in terms of identity and attitude. The memories of both seem like a mirror into my soul. Enjoy those memories, relive those moments, and anticipate what is yet to come.

Reminisce and thank you for reading,

Michael

No Useless Friends nor Harmless Enemies

Hello from the first part of June, and it is warm;

We are so affected by weather. It influences not only our decisions and actions, but also our moods, our outlooks, and perhaps as importantly as anything, even how we react or respond to those around us. Most of my life I have lived where there are four seasons, although one might argue with some assuredness that what we understood typical weather for a season to be and what we are experiencing presently has probably been altered from our childhood memories. We are toward the end of Spring, but this current season has been anything but predictable or enjoyable. We had some very warm weather in early April, but the remainder was chilly, damp, and not what one would want to believe was blooming or life-giving. It seemed that trees and plants were a few weeks behind in their reappearance, and seldom was it the sort of weather where you wanted to go out and walk. I think people are still working on planting things.

Of course, winters are much different than I remember, and I grew up in NW Iowa, where I remember significant snow and cold. When I was in my first year of seminary in St. Paul, MN, I remember about a two week period when the temperature did not get above zero, and the wind chills were often -20 F or colder. When I was in graduate school in the Upper Peninsula, I learned what snow really was when I lived in the Keweenaw Peninsula, and living in Wisconsin, I saw wind chills and temperatures that were lower than anything I had ever experienced, even in Alaska. Summers seem somewhat typical, though they might be shorter than I remember, as well as a bit warmer. I sometimes wonder if they are really warmer or it is I have less tolerance, but we do regularly hear that months are the hottest on record. All of this, of course, is open to significant debate. And having lived where early summer can create 18-19 hours of light in the summer and a similar duration of darkness in the winter, I learned just how affected I am by that also.

Recently, I was asked about my understanding of friendship, and how I might define the difference between a friend and an acquaintance. It caused me to pause, and the inquiry for a moment left me a bit incapable of answering in what I believed to be a thoughtful and decisive manner. And while I do not believe I answered their question in a particularly insightful way, it did cause me to think, and as you can see, still thinking. A number of ways to answer this come to mind, from the simple: what is the difference? to a more complicated (which is what my title implies) is the opposite of a real friend an enemy? In our highly polarized world, be it in our own neighborhoods to our country, or should we see that polarization as truly globalized? One of the things I’ve started to do is attending a group of individuals who meet on Wednesday mornings at the public library. We gather each week to discuss topics of mutual interest, but also topics that seem to create a difference of opinion, a question of cultural interpretation, and often something that has somehow moved from an area of generally accepted to something that now seems problematic. Our moderator begins each week with the following admonition: “Don’t be a jerk.” The significance of our weekly conversation is profound. People from across the spectrum are meeting weekly to ponder and discuss issues that are of relevance, be it about our democracy, about the tough questions that currently too often disintegrate into partisan rancor, but that does not happen. I believe many of us will admit the current social climate is not what we experienced in the past. How did we become a society that sees a difference of opinion as something to fight about? How did we come to the place that the people on the other side are the enemy, someone to be triumphed over or someone of less worth, someone who is equivalent to being the enemy? And that word enemy has been used toward anyone – the different generation, the different faith, the different socioeconomic background, the different ethnicity, the different language, even accent, different body types, different understanding of identity. Difference is an incredibly difficult concept for us to manage. We have simultaneously celebrated and loathed diversity (at times and in some places) and embraced and feared it. And fear is powerful. I often note this chronology as part of our humanity: anger (often our response to the other) creates fear, and fear creates anger.

The point of all of this is to ponder what we claim about or whom do we believe “can qualify” to be a friend? What action or attitude places someone in the category of being an enemy? Is it merely a difference of opinion? My title implies a number of possibilities. There is a value in friendship that is hard to quantify, perhaps even more difficult to describe. Friendship is developed and tested. It endures time and distance, and it offers consistency. I believe it is that steadiness, steadfastness, and in that cohesion we find its value; in value one finds both a hopefulness as well as a usefulness, meaning there is something that provides comfort, that sense of understanding that requires no reacquaintance even after a prolonged distance or time. On the other hand, if someone is truly your enemy, or we regard them as such, within our psyche we believe they are a danger to our wellbeing. When we truly have, we perceive, or label someone(s) or something as the enemy, we establish two things: first, we either intentionally or one the other hand, inadvertently, believe ourselves to be morally superior. And second we blame the other, the person, people, group with whom we disagree or we declare a particular situation to be problematic or wrong, again claiming we know better. There is no conversation or possibility or compromise. And while we claim by extension they or it is harmful, the true harmfulness is in our own unwillingness to think, ponder, or acknowledge there can be another possibility.

Yesterday would be a wedding anniversary were I still married. Thirty years, is a long time, and yet I did not manage that. There are so many things I could have and should have done differently. Taking accountability for my failings was not always something I could easily do. Learning to accept and be comfortable with my weaknesses is one of the more significant things I’ve learned to do. I continue to learn and accept those things. It makes my friends more precious and the reality of having enemies less likely.

Thank you as always for reading,

Michael

Why Respect Matters

Hello from the diner,

When I come to the diner today, I remember how this family establishment has become part of the collective memory of my time in Bloomsburg. There was a period where I was here most every morning and names like Dave, Doug, or Father Fennessy, seated at the left counter as you walked into the corner restaurant, were as constant as the days of the week. There were our own coffee cups (mine said “The Professor”) and four children, who were young and are now, for the most part, parents. I remember the first day one of them waited on guests versus only bussing. I remember the son looking at his father with the exasperated son-look, once upon a time. Now he is a carbon copy of him on the flattop. Memories of the youngest coming up to me at an area basketball game to say hello and bringing Easter baskets to all of them as they worked 7 days a week. Now I come on my own schedule, often sitting at the counter alone, other times with a former student. My exchange son loved coming to the diner, and his favorite food was scapple, that NEPA, Pennsylvania Dutch delicacy. What they (now three generations) bring to the community and their investment into Main Street can never be overstated. And yet while their lives have transformed generationally, they are now an important constant to the town and Husky Corner. They have and are enduring their own significant struggles like most do, but they soldier on, seldom slowing down and continuing to care about the people who enter the dinner daily. How? Why? I believe the answer, while multifaceted, is also rooted in the respect they have for themselves as business owners, but also in the decency they possess as simply good people. Over the years I have watched them help others, provide employment, and genuinely care about both their guests and the community at large, seldom asking for anything in return. They are a loving, entertaining, and giving family, not only for each other, but they have embraced the town as an extension of themselves. That is respect.

It’s is a value, an attribute, that I was taught as a child from the time I could walk or talk. My grandmother was one of the most polite and elegant people I have ever met. I remember her, even when angry, which was not often, she did not raise her voice; she did not swear, and I remember her way of saying she was upset was “I am so angry I could just spit!” Perhaps the most terrible thing we might say to another when we grew up was to tell them to shut up. I think I would have been in more trouble for that than if I had dropped the notorious F word, which of course, I did not know. When I was about 8 or so, she told me to always be a gentleman, another way of saying be respectful. I promised I would. Now today, when I have lived longer than she did, I realize the depth of that request and the promise I made to do so. Some of the other ways respect was just instilled in us included never addressing an adult by their first name, holding the door open for someone or giving up your seat for an elderly person; additionally, using manners, not interrupting, or waiting to be spoken to when in a group of adults was just accepted as givens. When I listen to the interactions between parents and offspring today, I am stunned. This is not to say I was in any shape or form always respectful in my home. In fact, when others would compliment me to my mother about my manners, she was more likely than not to look at them as if they had to be mistaken. I imagine it was similar for many in my generation. And yet, outside the house, I was very respectful. Of course, the Marine Corps instilled that in me beyond anything I could imagine. The other day I said ma’am to someone significantly younger than I am (and while I do know them, so that might have influenced their reaction), I do believe they were offended. Especially if I do not know someone, I am inclined to address them as ma’am. If I am walking down the street with a female, I will always attempt to walk closer to the street, and I might (often will) ask them to switch sides to manage that. Most certainly, I will try to treat everyone with respect as a general rule.

In the last couple weeks, it’s become apparent there is a small group of kids (midteens) who want to be the resident little thugs in town, riding their bikes and generally showing little or no mind to what they do or little regard for the consequences of their actions. I was walking down the sidewalk and two of them were standing by a house. The larger of the two had a nerf-type gun in his hand that appeared to have a clip of sorts with bullets. I acknowledged them and kept walking. When I was about 15 yards beyond them, he fired a shot and hit me square in the neck on the backside of my head. While it did not hurt, I will admit it startled me. I turned around and looked at them and he muttered out he was trying to hit the truck close by me. I just shook my head and turned around to continue on my way. At that point, I heard him say, “Dickhead!” I turned around again and took a step toward them and they disappeared down the alleyway. A few seconds later, he came riding by on his bike (on the opposite or the street), and I motioned and asked him to come to me, which he did. We had a conversation about the reality of the situation. I explained that he did not know me or what kind of a person I was, further explaining that he might do that to someone who might go after him. He was actually attentive and polite. I did tell him at the end of the conversation it was a good shot. The very next day I heard a ruckus outside my window in the library parking lot. As I looked out the window, this same boy and another were rolling on the concrete punching the bejeebers out of each other. A woman librarian was trying to break it up and they almost knocked her to the ground. I went to the parking lot and by the time I got there, three police cars had arrived. While the young man I now saw two days straight was waiting, I chatted with him again. I found out he is 16, and I explained that he is at a point he could be charged as an adult if the prosecutor saw fit. Long story short, the police were going to each boys house, and they sent them home because they knew where they lived. Not a good thing when you are still in your midterms. While speaking to two of the librarians what I heard about some home lives was dreadful.

The point of all of this gets back to the title of this post. Everywhere we look, regardless the station someone holds, our country is experiencing a disregard for common decency, for decorum or respect in ways I do not remember seeing in my lifetime. From the teenager on the street in small town America to those we have chosen to represent us, I hear language and observe actions that my parents, my grandparents would never tolerate. Seldom is there a day where we are not confronted by something that seems to further erode the standards we were raised with, born to believe necessary. I have no solution on some grand scale to be sure, but perhaps we need to step back and imagine something better. What would that better look like? What would we hope to experience in a better world? Respect for the other perhaps begins with respect for ourselves. Just a thought. Why is it important? If you find what you see happening a cause for concern, you have answered the question. Aretha said it specifically in her well-known tune, but thinking about it is a start.

Thanks as always for reading,

Michael

“The Road Not Taken”

Hello on the first of June,

As noted by my father regularly, time will begin to seemingly pass by more rapidly. Of the many wise things, truthful things he said, this one might be the more accurate. At least, that seems to be the case as I consider how we got to the first of June, and it seems like only a few weeks ago it was mid-March, and I was watching the tournaments. In barely three weeks, we will have entered yet another season, the proverbial days will begin to shorten, and as the Spring has gone, I not sure we even had one. When I ponder the concept of time, there is always a rather dichotomous perception, simultaneously flying by when I look at the breadth of past time as well as the immediate plodding along when we anticipate something yet to occur.

And yet the flying by aspect seems to be more my sense of things, the daily routine as I go about what I either must or decide to accomplish. The reality of retirement has been an evolving process, something I can truly say I was less prepared for, something more unpredictable, than I might have ever anticipated. While I have noted more than a few times, I am quite sure I never really had any sense of what I would do “when I grew up,” I do believe my life took me down paths, roads never imagined. We often work toward something, and yet have little control over anything beyond ourselves. How often do we follow some pathway, roadway, because it seems appropriate, less difficult or contentious? How often do we proceed because something is expected of us, possibly even demanded? But more importantly, even significantly, as a consequence we fail to experience, let alone even realize, the alternative road?

When I reminisce, reflecting on 70 years, what I recognize clearly is how specific decisions placed me firmly on a particular path, and more often than I realized at the time I had little idea where it might lead nor its outcome – that path, be it a somewhat reasonable or perhaps a misguided esplanade, would, however, change life’s trajectory. Certainly, looking back, some of the more consequential choices led me down somewhere profoundly different. A choice to return to Dana my senior year, to pursue seminary postgrad rather than law school, can easily be shown to take a very different direction, but it also led to dating someone, who would become my first wife, something that had tremendous consequences. Choosing to move from Lehighton to the Upper Peninsula following a first call not only to old change my geographic location, it would lead to a change of vocation. And applying for a position as someone ABD would create an encounter with a small statured Austrian, as well as lead me back to Pennsylvania, where to night I attended a dinner for an amazing young woman who is graduating from high school, the same young woman whose parents were my most influential colleagues, a relationship that began in Wisconsin, and about 17 years ago I watch her take her first steps.

Only God knows what might have happened might my decisions been something different. I had a conversation with a former student about just how deterministic he believes life to be. Every interaction I had in the last 24 hours can be traced back to something that was decided some 27 years ago if I choose to pull that thread, seeing how it might all unravel. What if the significant time I spent my first couple years back in Bloomsburg would have prompted a different choice? What if I had not asked a young woman if she were available to clean my apartment and eventually my house? What if I had not gone to Poland a second year and encouraged a young man he needed to get up and get on a bus? Is it all preordained or do we have some input into it all? And even farther back, what if I had not asked someone if they were a seminary student when they walked into a gas station, where I had a part-time job as a cashier?

Currently, even what now seem less consequential choices because of retirement are not any less important. One of the breakfast bunch told me I never listen to his advice, and I told him that I might heed his advice more than he believed to be the case. The invitation of someone to attend a Wednesday morning group at our public library had introduced me to yet another incredible group of people, moving my social group more into the community versus the academy. The poem by Robert Frost is well-known, and the relationship I have to that poem is an interesting one. An intern pastor at my little home congregation in NW Iowa was Ruth Frost. She was both a talented artist (and she taught members how to create stained glass, which still adorn the sanctuary there), and a prolific writer in her town right. While they are not related, I believe his poem and her life have profound parallels. She was and is a gifted preacher and counselor, and the ministry she engaged in during that year in my home congregation was effective and life-changing for many, including my father.

To say my father was a traditionalist would be a bit of an understatement, and I remember him referred to this woman intern as a “girl.” He struggled to see a female in a role headed toward being clergy. Even then I was aware of the importance of inclusivity before it was as much of a buzz, if I can characterize that time as such. I think the reality of Ruth would have more consequence for my father than he knew as his own daughter would share her own sexual presence not all that many years later. I have never really pondered that too carefully until writing this blog. I think, looking back, perhaps the Rev. Frost did more to open eyes, though she did not openly explain herself in that time, perhaps for both my father and my sister, each from their own view and experience. It is something I need to ponder a bit more intentionally. What I see most clearly, both in its context from then to now, is the complexity of how choices made, yes, roads taken or not, simultaneously allow us options and eliminate them. Perhaps that is merely stating the obvious, but even what seems obvious is never as simple as we hope it to be. If the past week has done anything, it has reminded me there are no givens, no guarantees, there is life, and the path is seldom clearly marked, and more importantly, it can be treacherous, traumatic, and unpredictable. In the end, it is a road nonetheless, and we are always dependent on the love of another.

Thank you as always for reading,

Michael