Grief is the Proof Love Exists

Hello on the Month that we celebrate love,

Valentines Day is certainly a mixed bag, albeit something we spend billions of dollars on each year (this year the prediction is 29.1 billion or just shy of 200.00 per person – I did multiple searches including AI). And recently titles like SAD (Singles Awareness Day, which is the 15th), Galentine’s Day from Parks and Recreation, which is the 13th, and even a Palentines Day, also on the 14th to celebrate friendship provide some sense of the significance of how important relationships of any kind are to us as humans, and also a reality that our need to be loved and cared for is central to our humanity. The variety of ways we find ourselves using the term “love” and the breadth of how often it is injected into our language reveals two things, or so it seems. First, love is an essential human quality and something we need for our own well-being; and second, in spite of its profound importance to our humanity, we seldom know what to do with it or how to express it adequately.

Why might I argue such a thing you might ask? Well if we can say we love pizza as quickly as we love our grandmother, might there be an issue? If we can state our love for such a plethora of inanimate items as easily (or perhaps more quickly) as we express our love for someone we have committed our life to, what are we saying? I would argue that we really do not understand either the emotion or the word. Our cavalier usage of something that has such a wide scope of possibilities can cause us to question what love is at its very foundation. For me, I often tell those people for whom I have a deep sense of appreciation, those who have made a significant impact on my life, those who have been kind enough to reveal who they are and with I have reciprocated that vulnerability, that I love them. Is that a fair assessment of this incredible emotion? I do believe it is, but what does it really mean in terms of the idea of loving someone? The complexity of love has more than boggled me for a wide array of reasons. As a person twice divorced, I have found myself more than once asking what it meant to love that person to the degree that I was willing to commit my life to them. And when I (or we) failed both times, was my life that imperfect or was there something more? Certainly there were issues with my actions and my ability to maintain my love for them regardless of what happened.

Earlier today, I saw a post from a former student, whose child is celebrating a first birthday, and her (their) love for their child is unmistakable. The joy, the emotional tie, the reverence they show for their son shines through everything they post. There is what seems to be an unfailing care before self that illustrates the depth of love they have. It is something that gives me hope beyond most things I see in our current world. As someone who never had his own children (and I know I am told and even feel I have had a lot of surrogate children, who have richly blessed me), there is a wistfulness in what I see from those former students who have now become parents. There is a pureness and holiness in the love of a parent for their child I admire. It might be one of the two or three places I believe what I hope love is, demonstrates itself as possible.

The occasion of another Valentines Day as a single person, and there have been decades of them both as a young person and now as an older one, compelled me to ponder when and if I have really understood what it is to genuinely love someone in my life. If is such a significant element of our humanity, what makes it so difficult to find, to maintain, or experience? For me, too often, I believe my hope that I loved someone was an initial infatuation that continued beyond that head-turning, heart-pitterpat moment. For that to occur, there was something beyond the mere attractiveness of the other. For that to make some alteration in my life, I believe there was a sense of morals and values that were similar, compatible, and seeking the same thing. At yet, what I realize is there was too often, and perhaps still is, in spite of my realizing the absurdity of such a hope, that we could continue in life always in love first, regardless the difficulties.

As I consider those in my life, family, friends, and yes, students who were in my classes and have remained in my life, classmates, those I have dated, and yes, two people with whom I have taken wedding vows, when I am honest with myself to the point of finger pointing, if I can call it that, who and how many of them would I say I loved in the way I noted above, in a manner that is indisputable, immeasurable, as unconditional as humanly possible? Or in other words beyond what I perhaps realized myself capable of doing? And I do want to say that there are a number of people if something happened to them I would be devastated. But with whom there was a love that they changed my life, a connection that in spite of time or even physical existence, their influence in my life still exists? I think there are three or four people. And how is it I can say that or narrow it to so few. In terms of categories, one is a relative, one is a former spouse, and two are life-long friends.What is it that allows me to confess, if you will (perhaps appropriate to confess on this Ash Wednesday)? I think it is because I still grieve some aspect of that change that occurred (and some of the changes are easily determined and for one perhaps not as much).

The family member that still influences me to this day (and this is not to lessen other family members in any way) is my Grandmother. I have written about her so many times, and she is a constant thread in this blog. She is even more so a constant in my determining how I act, what I value, how I treat others, and what I believe is appropriate in our world. She, more than anyone, taught me what it is to love, what it is to be loved, which is as important, and how I wanted to try to model love to others. Too often, I believe I have fallen short of imagining that. I remember standing in Graceland Cemetery the day of her funeral, and I sobbed uncontrollably because the person who had imparted such immeasurable love to me was gone. I was not ready for that day (she was only 64), and in someways I have never recovered. I still grieve her. The second person I noted above was a spouse, and it was my second spouse. I often describe it in this manner. If she walked through the door where I was, even today and we have been divorces for 25 years, I would be a basket-case. I was not capable of being the husband she needed (and while I am not sure I could ever be), I made mistakes and some significant ones. And yet, if I ever loved someone in my adult life, she would be that person. And yet, through many years of counseling, I know that our marriage was not healthy from the beginning. And that is a mutual fault. And yet, I grieve that failure. It is important that I realize the depth of the love I had for her, but that also made me incredible fragile, and I was more broken than I knew. I know that the failure of that marriage has had life-long consequence for me. That too is part of the grieving.

The other two people are friends to this day, and for both of them, I am grateful, and will be so to the end of the days. The first friend taught be so much about how I could love, but also how I was unprepared and incapable of loving in a healthy manner. The reasons for that are legion, and yet, decades later, we have a friendship that is precious and genuine. That too is a profound gift. So the grieving is a different kind of grief if you will. It is a realization that love is profound and intense and it is life changing. Today, their insight into me in often beyond what I realize myself, but it is always provided in a sense of deep care and thoughtful love that humbles me. In spite of every different paths, in spite of profound statements, we have learned to respect both the wishes of those we loved and create something that gives me balance and hope. The second person has known me since I first came to the Martin house. We grew up together, and I think it is fair to say, there is a certain element of the infamous “what if?” for both of us. And yet, we went about our lives never matching our emotions to a parallel time that would work. Now we have an incredible friendship that continues to grow in appreciation for the other. While I have traveled and left our neighborhood, she has remained pretty local, that has changed our trajectory in life, and yet we find we have so much more in common than we ever realized as we continue to chat and interact. I know if anything were to happen to her I would grieve her loss almost as much as my grandmother’s. That says a lot. What I have always appreciated was her kindness and beauty; what I have learned as we have aged is how incredibly intelligent and insightful she is. Her questioning of things, much like my own, is unceasing. Her commitment to family is something unparalleled. The other thing I grieve is perhaps that we never found our time frames matching up. One might say that was for the best, and there can be no argument about what never happened.

What I realize is simply that is in the grieving of something I have come to realize that love is possible. I am not sure we understand the profundity of love when we are in it. It’s immensity becomes apparent when it is no longer there or perhaps when it did not happen.

Thanks as always for reading. If you love someone, let them know.

Michael

Tradition and Transformation: Fasnacht and Carnival

Hello on a Friday the 13th,

There is so much happening in our world presently it is difficult to find a moment to breathe, or at least that is how it seems. Is my looking at all of this my version of doomscrolling or is it something more? I would like to believe that I am doing more than simply scrolling through things. I am wondering if it is because I am retired, and while I have things I am working on, there is little doubt that I have spent more time reading content and watching things like Congressional hearings, which is not something I have done in the past. My focus on what is happening nationally and internationally has always been something I find fascinating, but I do not remember a time where I read it with such perturbation and dread as I currently am. Perhaps that is why I am wondering if it is nothing more than doomscrolling. And yet, I find myself wondering if that is exactly what those in power hope . . . if it creates such angst perhaps they will walk away believing it is no use. While, once again, I will admit to being somewhat of a political junkie, I have always been intrigued by the American experiment of democracy; I have been attracted to it much like two magnets of opposite polarity, wondering how individuals from the founding of our country up until present day choose to work toward being elected to state or national office.

I think for much of my lifetime we were lead to believe in the benevolence of those elected officials to do what is best for the American people who have elected them. There was generally a foundational sense that we had a goodness, a duty, to do what was best for each other, and for the other. There was a trust, or perhaps even a faith in the principle that hard work created opportunity and that was the essence of the American dream. Of course, that was something I readily accepted as a white middle class (even if it was lower middle class) kid from Iowa. I have often stated, “I did not always get what I wanted, but I always had what I needed.” As I aged, I realized the importance of that lesson. Seldom do things happen exactly as we hope, but if we can learn to be appreciative and content we would do a lot to help ourselves, both in the moment as well as in long term expectations.

When I first met with Bishop Harold Weiss, the bishops of the synod to which I had been assigned, he asked me what I thought about receiving a call to a parish that referred to themselves as “a church of the red book.” What this referred to was a parish that had refused to adopt the LBW, a hymnal that was now a decade old. Additionally he asked how I would work with worship and my attitudes about prelation and liturgics. In all honesty, I was unsure what he asked, but a quick Rolodex of terms connected me to a prelate. So I suspected he was asking about how I understood worship. Perhaps both my work at seminary and my previous stint on a Lutheran Youth Encounter team prompted his question. Hoping I understood his question, I started with the idea that churches, specific congregations, had traditions they held to, often not even knowing why, but they held on to them tightly. I noted that if I came into a parish and turned things upside down, demonstrating no appreciation for their practices, they would have little appreciation for me. My answer was acceptable. I have revisited that exchange many times, examining the significance of tradition, of one’s history and how it establishes identity for them.

I believe in the significance of tradition and precedent for exactly those reasons; it provides a sense of identity, of predictability, and ultimately of safety. All of attributes are beneficial, but when does tradition become less than? That is something I struggle to answer, because of the dynamic nature of our society, be it in our own families, our litle corner of the world, or to the more expansive national identity or our place in the global community.

As I write today, it is now the day before Lent begins. Tradition and transformation are steeped in this day. While I did not grow up Roman Catholic, the significance of a Lenten discipline is something I have done since college. For many years, I would abstain from something during that 40 day discipline; however, at one point I transformed from giving something up to doing something for someone each day. The discipline is there, but the consequences are much more positive. The tradition remained, but my transition to doing something positive versus some sad withdrawal from something created a transformation that did not throw out the intent, or at least I hope not. As I consider my traditions, their transitions, and how I have been transformed, there is still a connecting thread. The prefix of trans, from the Latin refers to something that has moved across, exists beyond, and has passed through. There is a movement, and there is a direction, but I believe there is an underlying connection to the place before. Change is inevitable, and often occurs in such small increments, it is unrealized until something profound occurs. Much like the weathering of a building, we notice the changes, but we accept them as ordinary, as a given (like the proverbial death and taxes). What allows for transformation to be sometime positive? What allows the holding on or the connecting to tradition be something positive versus something impeding progress? These are complex questions and often fraught with emotion, furthering their complication. The require careful reflection, both self-examination as well as a willingness to be honest about our fears and fragilities. And being honest with ourselves is never easy. It requires a complete willingness to face of limitations, admit our mistakes, and a willingness to confess to the other. As I face the forty days of Lent, the penitential act of confession requires humility, but allows for reconciliation and forgiveness.

Lately, I have struggled with a number of things I believe break tradition, ignore precedent, and as evidenced by myself, created division, all of which are disconcerting. I have responded to the profound disunity less charitably than I do, and that has caused both others and myself pain. Even now I find a need to slow down and step back, taking the time to examine my understanding of tradition, of how our world changes, and where I fit in it all. Thank goodness for the season of Lent and its focus on spiritual renewal – something one can never do too often.

Thank you as always for reading,

Michael

Only Remembering or Telling What We Want

Hello from yet another February morning,

Whether or not it only seems I am looking back at life more frequently or it’s an actuality, I’m unsure, but turning 70 must have something to do with that particular action. And yet as I ponder my life and the events or experiences, the people and places that have left their imprint on me, what I find myself asking with a much greater sense of urgency is if I can consider myself a successful person, a good person, and person of whom my grandmother would be proud. The last of this list might seem a bit non sequitur, but it is still related, though from an opposite perspective. I have often referred to my Grandmother Louise as my hero, and, if anything, that is more true now than at any point in my life.

Both psychologists and sociologists assert that we remember things in a particular manner because we often could not emotionally manage the difficulty that some of our personal history would rain down upon us. There are moments or circumstances that our brain blocks for our inherent survival. While I am grateful that we have been wired as such, I still suspect how that works is unique to each of us.

Let me often one instance in from childhood I know was traumatic, and while I remember the event, and a sort of still-frame element of it. The most horrific instances are erased from memory. When I lived at my grandparent’s house, we had a fenced-in backyard. I was in the backyard, and a dog jumped the fence to come into the yard (it was not my little black cocker spaniel). Even now over 65 years later I can picture in my mind the dog walking up to me. It was a large dog, and at least part German Shepherd, and we were about the same height. I can vaguely remember staring at the dog face-to-face. What I have no recollection of is the dog biting the left side of my face. The dog actually bite me and there was significant damage from the front of the level of my ear to my jaw line. The reason I know that is there are still minimal scars. What I remember next is being in my grandfather’s arms being carried into the hospital. I remember being in the backseat of the car and going home after the care in the emergency room. I can recollect a conversation between my grandfather driving back home, speaking to whomever was also in the car. I am unsure if they had already had put the dog down, or it was in process to determine if it was rabid. That is all I remember. I do not remember being bit; I do not remember receiving stitches; and amazingly, I have never been afraid of dogs. In fact, I do not know if Penny, the black cocker spaniel was already a member of our little family or if she was brought afterwards to assist me in managing a possible fear of dogs.

Certainly, parts of that day were effectively blocked to minimize the trauma of my being bitten. I can think of a couple other such events, where especially difficult moments have been blurred at the very least to completely erased to protect us. On the other hand, I believe, as humans, we have a propensity to revise, redact (an important term currently), or more amazingly, reconstruct events we would rather not remember or accept any responsibility for. Again, the rationale for such refashioning can be hard to pin down, but I believe it is often a way to manage guilt or shame for that event. When we look back at events or incidences, those which created some major shift in our understanding, or even when we ponder some behavior, either of our own or the other, something that influenced or affected us fundamentally over time, we remember and recount it in a way that most suits us either emotionally or otherwise. That is normal, and it is an act of preservation. And yet, such things always have consequence, both individually and collectively.

When I consider relationships, even within my family, and perhaps especially in my family, how I perceive those events that shaped me, I know my recollection as well as my understanding of them have become my truth about them. Moreover, the farther away they become, the further that truth becomes a sort of dogma, the gospel about it. That is simple except when someone, that others who perhaps lived through that time with you, offers their perspective on the same situation. Over the holidays I learned this first hand, and it caught me a bit off guard. It was disconcerting, and it has left me a bit discombobulated. It was not the overall conversation, although there is some struggle there, it was a simple, straightforward statement. It continues to ring in my ears, and has almost dragooned me into examining both who I am and how I interact with others. While that might sound a bit hyperbolic, I am not sure it is.

It has turned me a bit on a proverbial ear, and compelled me to look at my connection to and with the person I have most struggled my entire life. How did they become the person they were, and while I can still say being there was better than the alternative, and what does it mean to truly let go? In spite of the progress made on so many fronts, why is it one sentence can yank me back into those feelings so easily, so completely? Is it because I still feel in some manner more accountable, even if I was the child? Is it because my attempt to forgive is more frail or incomplete than I wished it to be? Certainly, we all wish some things could have been different; surely, all of us imagine the what if of things. As I struggle to make sense of my past, as I struggle to make sense of the present, there are moments I find myself wondering just how it all fits, and what part matters? This moment, as well as those in the past, together create a continuum. Much like a jigsaw puzzle, it is sometimes easy to focus on a particular piece, trying to determine where it fits, obsessing on figuring out its importance to the larger puzzle. We attempt to put it into multiple places, and yet it does not fall into place, so we set it aside. Later, returning to the puzzle, and looking at the larger picture, we return to that singular piece. All of the sudden, we see where it goes and we put it into place easily. Perhaps all of our past and our hard work to figure it out just needs time, a new perspective. Maybe what I heard was not as terrible as I heard it.

Thanks for reading,

Michael

A Scar that Never Fades

Good early morning,

Into the post-Super Bowl, pre-Valentine’s Day, middle of the week-Winter Olympics mashup of February. It’s the 10th of February, and a day for me that remains as clearly etched into my memory as November 22, 1963, the 28th of January 1986, 911, or even March 4, 2020 (I actually noted in conversation earlier today once a generation there something that is culturally altering occurs.). I was a struggling student at Iowa State University, in part because I was in a major that certainly did not fit my academic strengths, and I had little to no idea how to be a dedicated student. But that evening I returned to Sioux City for the first time since Christmas break. It was a Thursday evening, and I would visit the hospital ICU, where my older brother had been a patient since falling off a ladder approximately a month before, where he was working as an electrician helping build a Burger King.

While he was still conscious albeit groggy when they got to him on the floor at the construction site that day, by the time he got to the hospital after being transported by ambulance, he suffered a massive brain hemorrhage and lapsed into a coma. He was only a couple months past his 26th birthday, and the father to three pre-school aged children and the husband to a wife who was only a quarter-century years old. Everyone in the family, except me, had been home to stand vigil in support of each other, as they watched his epic battle to live. As we were at the end of the academic quarter, and I could catch a ride back from Ames to Sioux City, I had decided to come back. When I arrived at the hospital that evening, what I saw stunned me. My brother, who was about 6 feet tall and slender, was in a somewhat fetal position in his bed, his head indented where they had removed a significant piece of his skull, and his body mass to a reduced, emaciated 89 pounds. His breathing was labored and he was unresponsive. I had never seen someone in such a dire condition, and the fact that it was my own brother was heartbreaking.

I was there at the hospital with my mother and my sister-in-law; my father was not there that evening as he decided to stay home because of a cold. As I walked into his room, I reached out and held his warm hand. His body wracked with fever, and I spoke to him softly. I stood on one side of the bed as my sister-in-law stood on the other. I remember trying to hold it together as I told him I was there. I was there to see him and I wanted him to know I loved him. We had not been there very long when he began to have a seizure. It was a significant grand mal seizure, and as his alarms went off, his nurses ushered us out of the room. We returned to the family waiting room, and I used the phone to call my father, informing him he should come to the hospital. The three of us waited silently, attempting to make small talk, but as I remember failing miserably. I do not remember how long it was before his doctor came into the room to speak with us. He talked about the gallant battle my brother was fighting to stay alive and that the complications, from the spinal meningitis to seizures, from the brain trauma and his now emaciated state, made things exponentially difficult. He had been in the room for about 10 minutes, when his nurse opened the door and came in. She looked at the doctor and simply shook her head and departed. The doctor turned and looked at the three of us and said softly, “ I’m sorry; we lost him.” I heard a whimper from my sister-in-law, and I turned and looked out the window, speaking the only word that came to mind. “Fuck!” I said to no one, as the tears began to streamed on my face. My father arrived within a half hour, but my brother was already gone. I remember my father, looking at all of us, and saying in his typically wise and stayed manner, “It is better this way.” And then his body shook as he began to cry. It was the first time I ever saw him cry. That it’s almost as overwhelming to me as the fact that my brother had just passed away.

Much of the next two days were quite a blur, and what I know now is that your body goes on autopilot merely trying to manage continued existence. Carolyn‘s father flew in from New Jersey, and on that next day, that Friday, I went to their house on South Martha Street. My grandmother, my hero, was also there, and I helped her manage the three kids while Carolyn, her father and my father made arrangements for my brother’s services and burial. It was hard to fathom the two people in their mid 20s were separated now by death rather than anything else. I remember standing on the back porch of their house that day and sobbing into my grandmother’s shoulder. I was so lost in my own life at that time that I’m not sure I processed just how tragic everything was. The same grandmother who I’ve been my hero and comforter on that day, would herself pass away, only seven months later. That year, 1977 might be the lowest point of my life – even now, almost 50 years later I am realizing how consequential those two deaths were; and I know even more clearly now how much was lost, both for me individually, and for our family collectively.

There are many things we say about death and its power over us as humans. I think the most incredible power it has and its finality in our current lives. All things we hope we might’ve said we might’ve done her now too late. For those who believe that there is something beyond, I remember the incredibly profound imagery and reality at the committal service when the body is committed back to the ground. The liturgy states (as you stand with the casket or urn before it is lowered or placed), “ This is the gate to eternal life.” What an immeasurable irony that it is in death we might find life. And yet for those left behind, life does continue, but the change is forever. The loss never disappears; certainly time can minimize the constant pain that initially seems insurmountable. And the scars from the emotional separation can reappear when least expected. For me now 50 years later, I still wonder a moments what would’ve happened had my brother lived? He was not a perfect person, as is no one, and he had many struggles. He was just profoundly human. My sister-in-law and I have talked more about him in the past year, then all the other years combined. Those conversations have been very important in helping me see and comprehend things that have been always there, but never answered. In some ways, it has healed the scar, or made it more understandable, more acceptable. Each year has February rolls around, I will revisit that night when I was the last to get home to see him. In my piety, I will always believe he waited to say goodbye. He continues to live in my memories and I know he would be amazed by his children. I hope he would be proud of how far I’ve come when I was always the younger brother who was more of a pain to him than most anything. I will always remember how talented he was and how wonderful a trombonist he was. This song will always remind me of him and the band.

Thanks for reading as always,

The Little Brother, Michael

From Kent State to South Minneapolis

Me at 16

Hello as January turns to February,

As a history major, as a person who studied philosophy at all levels in higher education, as a person with both a background immersed in the liberal arts and theology, I find daily life as simultaneously predictable and no, something fascinating and yet that often creates apprehension. As my trips around the sun multiply, the reality of patterns, of our human limitation, and yes, our frailty becomes more apparent. The adages and cliches generally used seem more like truisms than simplistic sound bites. And yet, from a philosophical perspective, do we have any empirical evidence that we can change? Are we subjected to a sort of rationalism that will appropriately deduce what we should do? As I age, and having spent semesters studying philosophy, I appreciate the thoughts of John Locke (and particularly his Second Treatise on Civil Government) and certainly Descartes’ cogito ergo sum touched my own core the first time I heard it.

So am I (and I am aware of the lack of parallel structure here, so forgive me) a rationalist or empiricist? Do I believe my essence is tangible because I can think of it or is it through the daily events of life? Even as I write this I am unsure, or more accurately, I do not cleanly fall in either camp. I told my students regularly that God (which is also an issue for many philosophical stances) gave them a brain to do more than hold their ears apart. So certainly there is a rational element to who I am. And I believe that experience affects how we understand or believe our reality. David Hume’s argument that we are always prompted by passion (a simplification of Hume’s position) and reason is a slave to passion; additionally Hume argues that any rational sense of causation is impossible because it requires inductive reasoning, and connecting to a pattern of the future is a metaphysical presupposition that cannot be managed. All of this creates a plethora of issues when I ponder both my thoughts and experiences of our present world. As I struggled with my figuring out where I am in that rationalism/empiricism continuum, I reached out to my former brilliant colleague and philosopher. She confirmed what I suspected that I am at the most base level and empiricist, that my experience creates the base foundation of how I interpret what I see, feel, or what is necessary for me to feel comfortable or grounded.

It could be argued, and some will certainly assert, that such an examination is esoteric if they are hoping to be kind. Some might accuse me of something less appreciative. I remember a convocation at Luther Northwestern Seminary when I was a student there. The yearly Winter Convocation was held, primarily as a way for parish pastors to come back and participate in theological renewal, something important if a pastor is to offer strong biblical preaching, thoughtful pastoral leadership to their congregants, and efficacious pastor care to those who are struggling with life and faith. The main speaker for the convocation’s central worship service was a systematics professor, a person from whom I had taken classes, and a brilliant theological mind who was capable of taking profoundly complex concepts and making them understandable. However in their homily, their sermon, to the packed chapel of students and parish pastors, they spoke on such an elevated level that little they said was something anyone might take with them back to their dorm, their refectory conversations, or their home parish. This was unfortunate, and the only reason I could imagine for such an obtuse delivery was their Doctor Father (e.g. the person chairing their dissertation) was in the audience. My New Testament professor, and again a brilliant theological mind in their own right queried me afterwards about my thoughts. He was the person who pushed me harder than anyone in my time in St. Paul. He inquired (and I can still hear his voice), “So Martin, what did you think?” Knowing him as I did, he expected candor, and I responded, “That was some serious intellectual masturbation.” He smiled and replied, “Indeed.”

My struggle with understanding my stance on the question of who I am from a philosophical basic is two fold: what allows me, compels me to respond to what I see around me? From where do those thoughts, those responses begin, originate? And how do those thoughts, responses, affect my understanding both of myself and of others. By extension, it obliges me, if you will, it requires me to examine the society in which we live. How is it we both individually and collectively determine what we value? How is what we believe or say we value illustrated by what we do? As I have written today (and this post, while occurring within a 24 hour period, was not at one sitting, which is something I am sometimes asked). As someone who seems to believe they have an empirical leaning, I would like to believe we have a more likely explanation for some of our individual or collective choices, but at the moment, I am not sure that is what I see or feel. As a person just recently turned 70, I was barely entering high school in 1970 when the confrontation between members of the Ohio National Guard and students at Kent State University occurred. While I watched the aftermath on television as many did, I was not old enough to understand all the issues. Of course, the music of Neil Young would become a rallying call or cry for many, including my older brother. Experiencing the tenor of the country concerning Vietnam and how its reality occupied the evening news at our dinner tables, the consequences were far ranging. President Johnson would choose to not run for President again, and the violence of both those against the war or those struggling for equality on other levels (the dual assassinations of MLK and RFK within the same Spring of 1968) would rock American in a level perhaps not experienced for a century. I often hear that the national response to Vietnam or to the watershed year of 68 happened because people were different then. Is that true? To some degree, of course, because America’s stance and role in the world was still being determined. Now a half century later, it seems the parallels in response to what 1970 Kent State and 2025/26 in South Minneapolis (and across Minnesota or the country) might be instructive. In spite of the many changes in the last half century (e.g. from personal computers to cell phones and now AI, the shift in societal norms, the change in family size, the significant decrease in religious affiliation, the shrinking middle class, or seemingly oxymoronic relationship in political polarization and a more accepting attitude of racial diversity), when the reaction of many toward a federal government, which has arguably overstepped its legal authority is very similar. Likewise, while many are a wee young to remember, there was even then a conservative support of the government’s involvement in SE Asia. It seems the rural/urban divide in this country is part of who we are. It returns me to the question I posed to myself? What is the basis for my decisions and my positions on many of the thorny questions that confront us? As someone from NW Iowa, and albeit a larger city, I do not believe I grew up urban. What cements our foundational decision making? It is location, economics, time in history, religion, or something else? I guess I will continue to ponder. The picture is my graduation picture; I was 16 when it was taken. The video below is Neil Young’s incredible song written in response to Kent State. Thank you for the comments, the likes, and taking time to interact with me.

Thank you for reading,

Michael

If I Could Do It All Over

Hello from snowy February evening,

As I ponder and worry about the world we have created, pensive as I wonder if we will survive the unending chaos that confronts me from all platforms we seem to incessantly absorb, I am reminded of that adage of what if I could go back in time, but know what I know now, would I do it? Almost without exception, my answer was NO (emphasis intended) not for anything or anyone. Undoubtedly, there are decisions, actions, choices, if to do them now, I might handle differently; there are experiences and consequences I could have done well enough without them occurring.

Part of what makes us unique in creation as we understand it is our unique ability to remember the past, both in terms of time and clarity, as well imagine the possibilities for the future, again certainly in terms of a quite distant or distinctive manner. When I was in Arizona preparing to undergo one of the more significant surgeries I have had, I was speaking with my Great-Aunt Helen about memories from early in life when my sister and I lived at her sister Louise’s house (my grandmother). I was in my thirties at the time and my grandmother had already passed over a decade before. My great-aunt stared at me in amazement, and stuttered, “B-b-b-but you were barely two; how do you remember that?” I simply replied, “I don’t know; I just do.” My grandfather died of cancer before I turned three, but I remember him. I remember seeing him working in the stockyards; I remember him sitting on the back steps with me as we watched a nightly visiting Great Horned Owl. I see clearly his carrying me into St. Joseph’s Hospital after I was bitten by a dog. I remember him at home lying in a hospital bed as he lost his battle to cancer. All of this happened before I celebrated a third birthday.

My memory has always been somewhat unique. Abnormal? I am not sure. A blessing and a curse? Certainly! Has it created difficulties or gotten me in trouble? Undoubtedly! And yet I feel blessed to recall most of the parts and experiences of my life. Poets throughout history have imagined the what is of returning to childhood. Elizabeth Akers Allen, a Maine poet from the 19th century wrote, “Backward, backward O time in your flight / Make a child again just for tonight.” It is a poem used in the movie version of Norman Maclean’s incredible novella, A River Runs through It, occurring later in the movie when Norman hears his clergy father reciting the poem in his study and they speak together antiphonally. The appreciation for both their mutual knowledge of the poem and the realization of their deeper connection as father and son are palpable. Especially in light of their family struggles with the second son’s unhealthy habits. And if you’ve never watched the movies or read the short barely-over 100 page family memoir, it’s worth the time.

If I could be that child for just one night, what would I wish for differently? I would wish that my adopting mother would have been happy with her three adopted children versus the angst and anger she most often exhibited (and I feel badly for her more than myself). I wish my parents might have been a little more financially solvent so my father wouldn’t have found it necessary to work seven days a week, twelve hours a day for most of my elementary school years. I think that would have helped family dynamics immensely. I wish I would have felt more confident in who I was both at home and in my world because that inability put me developmentally behind in a number of social and professional ways. And perhaps, most importantly, I wish I would have felt safer in general so I might have believed I could accomplish things sooner; perhaps I would have married early, more successfully, and had a family of my own. And yet, lest you think I am unhappy or displeased with my life or where I am, that is not the case. I have been profoundly blessed at every turn of my 70 years.

Another thing I believe makes us unique in creation is our undying ability to adapt, change, and learn. I remember as a child praying regularly for different life, wondering if I were to pass if it would matter. Surely, that is a sad statement, and thanks to God, to some surrogate parents (Jake and Marge, Frank and Margaret, Bud and Jan), to some childhood friends, I am still here to reminisce over 60 years later. In our ability as adapt and learn, we develop two things resilience and optimism. We imagine the other and we hope for something not yet realized. Much has been written about my boomer generation, that is for sure, and I believe the verdict on us is still out; and it is complicated also for sure. My noted slow development and my late entry into college pushed me into later boomer group or perhaps into the next generation. Three decades of college classroom has provided incredible insight into the next alphabet listings of generations. What seems evident is we are all a definite propensity to blame those before us, to play the victim of our circumstances. Blaming the other and choosing to be the victim might be momentarily understandable, but seldom is it an efficacious way to exist.

As I sit in my somewhat monastic space, I am listening to YouTube and a recent Heart concert (Dec 2025). It is the first time I have listened to them and believe Ann Wilson’s voice has lost its edge and her unparalleled vocal power. And yet, simultaneously it reminds me of moments since the 70s they have been the soundtrack of my mind, of my emotions. This past week as one of the voices of Three Dog Night passed, I was transported back to junior high school. In the last months, I have lost more than one person in my life, and other struggle. So do I want to go back? No, the answer remains the same. All in all, I know my life is blessed; it has been blessed in aspects never imagined, and perhaps in ways still not realized. I have been so loved by so many. And I will leave it simply with thank you for an amazing life.

Thanks for reading,

Michael

A Vision for What is Possible











Hello at the beginning of another week, 





My appreciation for history is because of the amazing history teacher, Mr. Larry Flom. Additionally, he taught my civics class and American Government class. The importance of understanding the role of our government and how it works. He taught me both in terms of understanding and appreciating the genius of Checks snd Balances as well as creating a strong sense of Constitutionality. And that began when I was in eighth grade. I think it was something every one of us who were fortunate enough to have Mr. Flom as a teacher probably realizes much more today than I did in 1968-69, though I was living in a pivotal time then also. 





I find myself pondering what this who gathered in Philadelphia must have wondered, imagined, and believed in that time before our Constitution was penned? Were they afraid or so driven by conviction of something better their fear dissipated to the extent it was a mere afterthought? Was the specter of facing a King and the profound power of England paralyzing at moments that they reconsidered and feared they were foolish? We now look at them as more than larger-than-life; we call them revolutionaries; we refer to them as geniuses and founders. And while Ben Franklin was in his early 40s (and the oldest), a number of them were in their 20s. The First Continental Congress in 1774 was in response to what the colonials believed was British overreach (Coercive or Intolerable Acts) which stifled self-governance. So the push back against a tyrannical power (even their own – they were still British citizens at the time) is in our national DNA. 





The reason I find this interesting as well as important is because I am sure many in the country (or the world for that matter), regardless your political stance or allegiance will agree where we currently are is untenable. The polarization, the lack of civility, the vitriol, the discontent are palpable, and that is an incredible understatement. The division we are experiencing either societally, globally, or individually is of importance, and harkens back to Lincoln’s statement about the Union. He was correct then, and it is true now. I understand the current situation and feeling of pain and fear well. From living in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area for a good part of the 1980s to feeling a struggle between political ideologies with people I genuinely love. The division which currently exists in the country is real, and I believe is being used for political advantage. That is certainly how it seems. While many are not aware, even those who live here, per capita by population (in other words total population and the divide between rural and urban), Pennsylvania is the most rural state in the nation. The number of rural folks to urban is about 3.25 to 1, and as the 5th or 6th most populace state, that is significant. When President Obama was preparing to run for a second term, I was in Dunkin’ one morning, and I listened to a white male perhaps in his upper 60s at the time. He spoke out loudly enough to be heard in the entire Dunkin’ (apologies for what follows, but I will quote exactly because of the shocking nature of his words), “As long as we have a fucking nigger as a President, we have e a problem.” I was both stunned and silent; I was appalled and embarrassed; I was mortified to the point of confusion. Where did I live? What year was it? And no one, including me (there were perhaps 5 men at the table), spoke up about how inappropriate, how unacceptable that was.





It is easy to want to blame our current occupier of the Oval Office for all the societal divisions and current challenges, and he most certainly has fueled the fires of hate and division, but he did not create it. He merely uses it for personal gain. I can say unequivocally that his administrations have done more to damage our Constitution, the checks and balances that were established from the beginning of the country, and our alliances than any administration in my lifetime, and perhaps in the history of our country. I find no joy, and I take nothing positive in the need to make such a statement. In fact, I am searching both rationally and emotionally to find hope, to see a glimmer of sunshine in the midst of what is happening. In my heart of hearts, I believe the response against the overreach, against the murder of others, against the language used by our current administration, by those on both sides of the aisle, demonstrates that a commitment to democracy still exists. The response of Congress, although mostly partisan, to hold up on the funding of ICE and DHS, while problematic because it affects both FEMA and the Coast Guard, is still fortunately and unfortunately one of the few levers of power available. making federal law-enforcement adhere to the same requirements as other levels of law-enforcement is  rational, reasonable, and beyond necessary if we are to reestablish any trust at the national level.





Daily, in our News saturated world, when anyone can publish on a variety of platforms, little will go unnoticed, but everything has a spin. Everyone has an opinion and an agenda, and I am no different. While I am passionate,I would like to believe I try to be thoughtful and measured. While the events of the past month have pushed me to a level of engagement I have never before participated in, it is because never in my lifetime. Have I been as concerned for the survival of our democracy as I am now. Presently, there seems to be something that happens daily that chips away at the checks and balances of our Bill of Rights, leaving our societal fabric tatters, destroying the melting pot that made this country, a beacon of hope; it compels me to speak out, to use my voice and my words to question the actions of my government in ways I never imagined.





Currently, in our hyper-partisan country, as we seem bent on destroying each other, both our allies and our enemies are watching, either aghast or overjoyed. My friends in Poland, Norway, or Spain have asked what I think.  My exchange students from Denmark or even Russia are stunned. I wish I had some answer that I could provide them that I believe. What I do believe at the present moment seems either dichotomous or oxymoronic. I am not completely sure how we will survive what a decade plus of Donald Trump’s attack on his own country has done. Simultaneously, the response of Minnesotans, of those in other occupied, American cities, and the marching of American citizens across the country illustrates that somewhere there is still a modicum of common sense and decency. So this returns me to the title: what vision do I have? I want to believe the grand American experiment envisioned in the 18th century still has a place in the world. I want to believe that the branches of our government will work in a manner of the checks and balances initially conceived to limit the power of any person or branch can still succeed. Yes, as cliché as it sounds, I want to believe that a government for and of the people will still show that all people matter. Not in the way, that the founders spoke of all people (remembering slavery or women’s’ suffrage, revisiting civil rights or people with disabilities),  but truly for all people. Yes, that puts me outside the idea of conservative Christianity; yes, it puts me outside of those who claim wokeness is some sort of an abomination. I believe it puts me square in the middle of the Commandment to love one’s neighbor as oneself. Perhaps it’s time that we return to a faith in a loving and forgiving God, who commands us to both love and forgive. Therein is my vision for the future. Therein lies the possibility for a world where all people are valued, and we care for one another. 













Thanks for reading, 





Michael

	


	





	

		
Finally Understanding my Father’s Passion
	


	
	

		











Hello on another chilly weekend, 





The week here in Bloomsburg, which began with the most significant snowfall I’ve experienced in my decade and a half, and then cold that is a bit uncharacteristic of Pennsylvania. The single digits or below zero windchills are not typical, like what an upper Midwestern boy knew from time in Iowa, Minnesota, or Wisconsin. It’s a difficult thing for someone acclimate to when this a rarity. I will admit watching the snow week ago made me happy, in spite the need to shovel for an hour or more to be able to back the bug out of its parking spot. The cold this week, which is damper and more penetrating than the Midwestern cold I grew up experiencing. Perhaps my age also affects what I think of it all. Additionally, the week was a bit stressful, certainly in part, because of my choosing to speak out regarding what I believe is a critical juncture for our national identity. I know this because of some pretty extensive contacts across Europe. 





My father, Harry Martin, epitomized the “greatest American generation,” who graduated from high school at the height of the depression – 1933, and became a veteran, serving in Belgium as many in his age group did. The youngest of 5 children, he was often the person to keep his father from spending all the rent money collected on beverages. As many in the family, he began his work in the meat packing industry, a vibrant part of Sioux City, which served as home to the third largest stockyards in the world, though the largest in receipts. After the war, he would become a journeyman electrician. While I understood conceptually the importance of Roosevelt’s New Deal for his family, I seldom considered what it must have meant emotionally. Likewise when he was established electrician and a member of IBEW 231, he had enormous pride in both his work and his membership in the electrical union, and the importance of unions in general. His commitment to fairness and justice was not something he often spoke about, but it was certainly how he lived. Between the four year period he worked twelve hours a day, seven days a week, or when he was the general foreman for 200+ electricians for the remainder of his working life, he never phoned in anything. He believed those under his charge should be paid every penny owed, but they should work for every cent.





If you ask most people about my father, I believe you would hear two things about him. He was loyal to his family, his God, and the people with whom he worked, and he always had an incredible captivating smile with perfect white teeth because he was generous and happy. My father cared deeply about fairness, justice, and the equitable treatment of all people. As I consider his position on society and work, there was only one time I remember him being angry about the town in which we lived, the town in which we was born. Iowa Beef Processors (IBP) workers went on strike for better conditions and more appropriate wages. A strike in 1969, which included violence, as well as an 8 month strike in 1973-74 was focused on overpowering the union. I had never heard my father support violence against another, and he was not prone to swearing, but I saw both. He believed the scabs (those crossing picket lines) deserved anything that happened, and his vocal response was animated and vociferous. I remember speaking with him when I came home from Communications and Electronics School in December of 1973. He was livid at the tactics of the corporation, which he found unfair, inequitable, and completely inappropriate for the union worker.





My father was a New Deal democrat. He was a veteran, and he was committed to a strong middle class and achieving the American Dream. He believed in the fair treatment of all people, and that everyone should have the opportunity to thrive, but that everything was earned. On the other hand he believed in welcoming people to this country. I remember our church sponsoring a Vietnamese family and he did things to help them acclimate, including helping make sure their house was electrically sound. In fact, he was perhaps more welcoming than I was. I remember a conversation about his commitment to the Democratic Party and I pushed him on why (I was in my early 20s). Again, he noted rather emphatically that without a strong middle class, without unions protecting the worker, without the people pushing for equity across society we would not survive as a prosperous country. He said that was why he would always stand up for a world that was equitable and just. I remember him connecting it to his military service in Europe.





Overtime, I listened to his consistent commitment to the blue collar worker, never wavering that if a person worked hard they always deserved a chance. What I realize now is that passion that showed up when it came to equity, fairness, and justice is much the same for me. My father believed in society equity, but he did not believe in governmental or corporate overreach. In fact, the word or phrase he would probably use was such actions were either bullshit or a crock of shit. I remember when Fred Gandy became the Representative in Congress for the 6th District. He was appalled he had a gopher in Congress (that was Gandy’s character nickname on the television show, _The Love Boat_). I believe he was more disillusioned that he now had a Republican.





As I ponder the life of the youngest boy in his family, the man who worked hard after adopting my sister and me when he was already in his 40s, never treating me as anything less than his. I think I finally understand his passionate commitment to fairness, to equity for all. I believe that much of what he held on to, church, work, family have certainly shaped the man I’ve become. He was consistent; he was principled; and he believed in the dignity of people. When that dignity and fairness was put in jeopardy, he was more than capable of doing the right thing, calling it out. I think now it was a matter of faith for him. I am grateful that even now I am learning how much he taught me, how much he influenced the man I am.


















Thanks Dad and thanks for reading. 





Michael

	


	





	

		
Life Marches By . . .
	


	
	

		






Hello from a snowy town in Pennsylvania,





Earlier in the week we experienced perhaps the most accumulated snow in a single storm here in Bloomsburg since I arrived in 2009. Only one other time did we have more than 12”. We have been forecasted to get something substantial, but seldom does it happen.i must say Punxsutawney Phil had things pretty well spot on this time. I loved watching the snow pile up. It reminded me of being back in the Keweenaw. 





I am always somewhat caught off guard in spite of life’s consistency. The predictability is always more likely than we believe, or perhaps are willing to admit. I think the significance of these redux events are more instructive, more helpful, than we often realize. There are two things that come to mind as I write this. First, we are never indispensable; regardless of how well we did; regardless of our seeming importance; “life goes by” with or without us. This is not meant to underestimate our value, but it is being honest with the reality of the world. Too often our self-worth, our esteem, is dependent on the other. Undoubtedly, those are patterns or attitudes we develop early in life, and the revision of patterns or attitudes is difficult. I am not sure those early things are ever completely erased. Indeed, life marches by . . . 





The second thing I have come to understand is how loyalty is such a fleeting attribute. I think loyalty is too often misunderstood, undervalued, and often mistaken. Additionally, I believe it is more integrally related to the first thing I noted. Is it because we are so dispensable, disposable, that loyalty is so circumstantial? It would be somewhat logical. In the corporate world, and certainly, in the sports world, the adage of “what have you done for me lately?” Seems to be the order of the day. Again, life . . . 





The complexity of loyalty is something I am struggling to understand. Or perhaps it is not complicated at all. Loyalty is unconditional, but incredibly fragile. Much like trust. Perhaps unconditional love and loyalty are more synonymous than one might imagine. Opening oneself to such a possibility with anyone takes profound courage; it requires vulnerability that goes beyond the ordinary. The consequence can cover the gamut of hope and despair. And I am know from experience that counting on the loyalty of anyone else is both foolish, and perhaps more importantly, selfish. Loyalty is given, and cannot be demanded of someone. Much like love. Another connecting aspect might be truth. Truth, understanding the essence of truth can complicate loyalty. Truth mitigates loyalty, which by extension argues the possibility of unconditionality. And as I ponder all of this and the reality of why we are so conditional, I guess it is plain and simple sinfulness. That is an easy way out of the discussion on one level, and yet, there is understanding what sinfulness is. That’s for different blog. Loyalty is often connected to patriotism and yet again, this is not about that – again, another post perhaps. Fealty is also connected to loyalty, but the difference is while loyalty is generally mutual, fealty is not. It is unidirectional; and most often it is required. There is a demand or requirement from someone with more power. If we go back to the founding of our country, I believe that we need to be honest that those incredible founders supported slavery. I also know this comment will put me in the woke category for some. 





Earlier today while speaking with my former colleague, a European with Canadian citizenship, he thoughtfully asked, “How have you gotten where we are in our current world?” He often ponders things from his perspective as someone born in the Soviet Union, someone who saw democracy in its infancy. Loyalty and connections to life are something different for him. His reflections and questions on life and the world almost always cause me to rethink, to reconsider how I understand life and myself. His insight into how individual and collective actions have consequences are instructive. As I ponder life I am continually stunned at how those people I have met around Europe (and this is consistent for decades) are seemingly so much better equipped to understand and respond to their world, their surroundings. From the first exchange student I met in my home town to eventual Dana classmates, from seminary colleagues to my own journeys overseas for 2/3s of my life, to hosting my own exchange students, the general rule is European citizens, our fellow human beings, are more gracious in spite of their inherent nationalism; they are certainly more critical in their thinking and analysis of their own life situation as well and their willingness to integrate the actions, the responsibilities and the repercussions of any situation. Life marches on. They understand this and they adapt and seem to thrive. 





As I noted when speaking with a young woman for whom I have incredible respect and appreciation, and who has an Eastern European parent, the first thing is to note the differences. Additionally, if I consider my European friends, acquaintances, accumulated for more than half a century, it is rather easy to see why they have developed such a multicultural mindset. Perhaps the more significant question is how is it America did not?





That is, again, the topic for another blog, but my immediate response places is on a number of conceptual attributes that, while on their own, have exceptional merit. However, like many things, one’s greatest strength can become one of our most profound weaknesses, difficult liabilities when taken too far. Some of this concepts are the most basic: individualism, freedom, self-determination, to name a few. From the intentions in the Bill of Rights to 2nd Amendment, the struggle with how those hopes and the employment of those desires have created some of our most contentious incidences. This is not a political response for me. It is philosophical. And yet life marches on, and yet not for all of us. From the Revolution to this week, those who died in defense of the Constitution, in their belief of what America is, or should be, have been simultaneously heroes and villains or traitors, depending on how one interprets. Life marches by . . .  it is our reality, and, in fact, it is our human responsibility to care for each other; that is a premise of all major religions. To much to ponder as I march on with it. When Jane and Henry Fonda filmed this movie, it was a real-life struggle because they were estranged. It seems as Americans perhaps we are the same. 













Thanks for reading, 





Michael 

	


	





	

		
Hooped Earrings and Monster Trucks
	


	
	

		











Hello from breakfast at Perkins, 





The beginning of the year is like an episode of the show that was on television when I was small, titled The Twilight Zone. I know that comment is anachronistic, and it reminds me of the last few years I was teaching and things I had used anecdotally earlier in my classrooms would no longer work. It was an early science fiction, fantasy, and horror weekly program that ran for about five years (from 1959-1964). It had a surprise ending and some moral lesson, but what I remember more as a small child was the music. There was a surrealism to it, and I think, perhaps that is what encouraged people to watch, both enthralled and simultaneously frightened. The events globally and nationally seem to be a presently-experiencing version of the show for me. Is there a reasonable ending, and certainly it is worth asking if there is a moral lesson that we will learn? There is no doubt on the element of surprise, to be sure, and the question of ethical methodology of what seems to be daily practice must be examined.





The week got away from me, but to say what the first paragraph notes has somehow miraculously changed in the last few days is most certainly outside reality. In fact, if anything, it has continued the spiral that seems to be what some powerful people intend. If you believe that what is happening in Washington is merely managing the moment, I am fearful that we are in even bigger trouble than you imagine. As noted recently,  I am generally not a conspiracy theorist, and more often than not, I fall on the side of idealism (I was once told by a previous chair I was too idealistic.). And in spite of my strong theological background, I generally want to believe there is an innate goodness in people before I ponder their sinfulness. So with those caveats, let me offer what the current actions about our federal government, be it domestically or internationally, have compelled me to wonder. History and civilization is full of stories about how incredible powers have fallen because of the greed of a few at the expense of many. From the Romans to the Incas, the Mayans to even the Biblical example of Sodom, immigration is (and was) not the primary issue when it comes (came) to civic collapse; more often than not it was a combination of greed and the corresponding economic inequality. Additionally, environmental degradation will often cause both short term consequence as well as eliminate long term survival. Combined, there is a resulting lack of collective responsibility for the other, resulting in general moral failing. Such a defect will hollow out any civilization. The Biblical command of loving the other as a basis for all might seem instructive, especially in this moment.





Even before Kristi Noem was approved into her position as the Secretary of DHS, she has demonstrated a propensity to be a firebrand (remember a second book where she recounted killing a puppy). As I return to my title, which I am sure got some attention, recently, I read an article about the fashion of Sec. Noem by Paola de Varona, senior writer for Slate. While I am aware that some will argue why note this, let me offer de Varona’s words; she writes, “Noem doesn’t just talk the talk of the Trump regime. With her long hair, overfilled lips, and very, very white teeth, she looks the part. The Daily Beast appropriately referred to her as “Ice Barbie.” Some of the photo opportunities or videos of the Secretary seem to put as much importance on her fashion consciousness as what her job as the secretary of this now more controversial department. de Varona acknowledges, “I recognize I’m lodging a petty complaint (this is a woman who treats a visit to a prison packed floor to ceiling with deportees as a photo op) (2025). She continues, “Kristi Noem, please retire the hoops. Leave them for us, the people” (2025). Again, some might ask why this is important? It returns me to the idea of greed and corruption, perhaps a conflict of interest. The Secretary hired “The Strategy Group, ” an Ohio-based PR Consulting firm for $220 million. The significance of this contract is two-fold: it was a no-bid contract, and the owner of the firm is the husband of Tricia McLaughlin, who serves as Noem’s chief spokesperson at DHS (Mierjeski, 2025; Hon Senator Welch, Vermont, 2025). The conflict of interest, the greed, and the need to maintain power at all costs should create numerous red flags (and not the MAGA type).





Earlier today, speaking with one of my wonderful former students who is a high school teacher; furthermore, she is an incredible thespian, mother, wife, and beautiful person, and I must admit we commiserated about our current national atmosphere. She wrote something incredible about the world and what she wishes for her months-old son. When I first read it this morning it brought tears to my eyes. It was wonderful to speak with her. One of the things we discussed is about how we got here. I do not think it is a matter of getting here, but rather, I believe it is who we have always been, though perhaps under the surface (not very much, but there). We both (almost simultaneously) noted the number of Stars and Bars flags we have observed in the state of Pennsylvania. I can say there are more here than I have ever viewed,  all combined, anywhere else. Summer in Bloomsburg brings a 4×4 event to the local fairgrounds. Black and Brown students are warned (and unfortunately, it is necessary) to not go into town by themselves. Racism, inappropriate comments or actions, and a general white supremacy narrative is more the rule than the exception during that event. While I certainly understand the attraction of 4x4s, and I can appreciate their helpfulness in many situations (remember I grew up in rural America), the connection between 4x4s and Stars and Bars is quite common place. The significance of this is important. Almost a decade ago (2018), census reporting revealed the following reality: “. . . [P]opulation projections confirm the importance of racial minorities as the primary demographic engine of the nation’s future growth, countering an aging, slow-growing and soon to be declining white population. The new statistics project that the nation will become “minority white” in 2045” (Frey, The Brookings Institute).





Certainly, there is a lot here to digest, and I believe we are at a point in our history that the expected 250 years of white majority, the belief that we are somehow a Christian country, that our reputation as the welcoming light for the world are more myth than reality. To write this is frightening for me, but not so much for me as a 70-something, but rather for my students and their newly created families. To ponder this as someone who studied history and loves politics (even now), I am painfully concerned that our wonderful American experiment might be gasping for air, certainly on life-support, and needing of some intervention. Was the America I grew up believing in merely a facadę? Is it possible to get back to the hopes and dreams of what a Washington, a Jefferson, the Madisons, a Hamilton, or a Franklin had? Has the beacon of hope run out at 250 years? I am unsure. What is the next move necessary? I don’t know, but I don’t think it will be easy. I wonder what our founders pondered? What they worried about?













Thanks for reading.





Michael