Understanding Life

Hello on another day of significance,

It’s an Election Day and as always the attempted reading of the tea leaves is on full boil. Additionally, there is an irony that the early morning news feeds all raced to be the first to report the passing of former Vice President/Secretary of Defense/White House Chief of Staff Richard (Dick) Cheney. He reshaped the role of Vice President, and some will argue started the country on the path of pushing executive power. He also showed incredible principle to speak out about his feelings on January 6th as well as cast his last presidential vote for Kamala Harris. The stark reality is that life continues and the equalizer for all of us is that life stops. What I find myself doing more and more frequently when someone notable passes away (e.g. a musician in a band I grew up on; an movie person whose movies touched me; or someone who wielded power in our world) is comparing our difference in years. Perhaps 14 years seemed like a lot once upon a time (the difference between Dick Cheney‘s age, at his death, and my current age), but not as not the case now. What I find interesting is that we don’t really always know the age of those born before us who have become influential in whatever area of life it is. Additionally, as we are living longer, pointing out someone’s age, particularly in the area politics, seems to be more and more likely, as well as more and more significant.

There are certainly those persons who say age is nothing more than a number. And that is certainly the case; it is a number. But to say that no numbers are significant is a bit naïve. I remember 16 and its importance to be able to drive. And of course I am old enough that 18 meant I was an adult. Free young people today, the number is 21. And then the course, there is the number 30 or the number 40. Terms like biological clocks, or phrases like over-the-hill, get attached to those numbers. Attempts to reverse our understanding of aging with phrases like 50 is the new 30 or whatever else is said, hoping to somehow make us feel relevant is tossed around as another number is added to our chronological clock. Personally, neither 60 or 65 really phased me, but I’m not sure the same will be said for me about 70.

Is there a particular age the pushes someone to seriously consider their mortality? I doubt that is the case. For me, and I do think I am somewhat typical, I don’t know that I have ever considered how long I will live in terms of a number. Because of a lifelong battle to maintain health, and more than once being told, I had hours, weeks or months to live, I pondered more about what I would still do rather than what age I had attained. I remember realizing that I had lived longer than the grandmother I recently wrote about. I remember when I was older than my adopted mother when she passed. In each instance, I don’t believe there was a sense of accomplishment, and certainly no morbidity, but rather a realization of mortality. on the other hand, when both of them passed away, I was in my early 20s and mid 30s. While certainly an adult, I still believed I had most of my life in front of me. When my grandmother passed, I had not yet been diagnosed with Crohn’s disease. When my mother passed, that diagnosis was still quite recent. The irony of life . . . As I am writing this, I got a notice that the wife of the pastor I served with has passed away. Another moment of irony that I am writing on this topic and received the notice from my former church secretary. I remember when I arrived in Lehighton the fall of 1988. I did not realize that Guy and Norma had been high school sweethearts and in reading the obituary today, they were married 67 years. That is a profound testament to understanding life and love.

What makes one’s life memorable? And then perhaps one asks to whom? What are the objective aspects of life? How do those aspects affect longevity? Studies back to the mid-20th century show that the objectivity of life has less to do with our sense of meaning than do the subjective aspects, which more regularly affect both behavior and social interaction (Berger and Pullman, 1965). Having some feeling of importance or a need to keep ourselves involved with others has a profound effect on how we manage life. In fact one specific study focused on a life of meaning and its connection to mortality. There was a direct correlation between having a life of consequence and staving off our eventual mortality. What makes one’s life something of consequence? Most generally it is our interpersonal relationships or our interactions with events or tasks that provide a sense of worth. When our lives go through a significant change, I am realizing that the need to find something of value to do is imperative. And that for me is more than merely keeping busy. it is more than some achievement, and it is more than simply having another person. For me it is pondering and writing, making my brain work. Questioning the why of something is important to me. It is what gives me purpose, or so it seems. I struggle when people are willing to merely wander along much like the feather blowing in the wind at the beginning and end of Forrest Gump. Certainly, there are moments to allow for such a possibility. The memory of my CPE supervisor telling me that I lacked a sense of humor or that I was too serious just came to mind. While I am not sure I accurately recall how he framed it, I remember being shocked at his assessment. Now 40 years later, I think he was probably more correct than I was willingly to accept in that moment. There is a seriousness that I seldom seem to shake. Even as I prepare for an event, someone whose opinion I value told me I was too serious, too scholarly, as a did something. Again, I was taken back, and even a bit hurt. How do I allow myself to have fun? Do I even know how? That is an incredible question to ask myself at this point. What provides a sense of enjoyment for me? Do I know? Again is there a seriousness in my figuring out fun? Another absurdity of sorts. Is something being enjoyable fun? Does doing something enjoyable mean I having fun? What does it mean to have fun? When do I last remember having fun? Oh my goodness! What have I discovered or realized? What might I do? What gives life a sense of both importance and enjoyment? Do I know? Hmmmm

Thanks for reading, as always.

Michael

When Kindness is Dismissed

Hello on an mid-November evening,

While my salutation is somewhat non-committal, and I am a generally optimistic person, the daily rejection of kindness or simple goodness in the world, the country, and even within my own minute corner of Bloomsburg of has me rethinking life on a fundamental basis. From basic manners or expressing care for the other, manners are non-existent, and the belief that a simple “my-bad” suffices is ludicrous. Additionally, the meeting of any kindness with suspicion that it cannot be done simply out of pure goodness says more than I have room to write about our current world. Depending on the issue, there is always a sense of how might I manage it, but I am feeling more powerless presently than I generally do, and that frightens and dismays me. I am well aware of what degree of actual power I have in most situations (e.g. minuscule). Additionally, a regular reality check has been pushed upon me from every direction recently. Lydia used to tell me I am too kind for my own good. She regularly admonished me to not trust people and that I always give people the benefit of the doubt. I can still her her little Austrian accent across the breakfast counter, when I would try to counter her. She would simply respond, “That is BS.” Even Susan, my first wife, warned me of similar things about my youth kids. She regularly said I was too believing of their goodness or basic honesty. She referred regularly to their “me-first” philosophy.

I am quite intuitive and as such my radar is generally alive and well. At the same time I sense things pretty accurately. So between the two, not a lot surprises me. However, my overarching desire to look for the good in people, at times, undermines what my brain seems to realize. The actuality of our selfishness, our self-regard, seems to be the true character of who we are as humans. I am grateful for some supportive conversations, and the willingness of some to take the chance of being honest, in spite of their being worried to share some insight. Conversely, the failure of another, in spite of the significant time spent around me, to speak on my behalf is painful. What the entire situation shows is my intuition, my reading of a couple situations, and some as far back as a few years ago, demonstrate my attempts to be kind and supportive have been both misinterpreted and then miscommunicated. I am feeling more than a bit badly about that, but another lesson learned. Trying to be kind is not always perceived as kindness. This is not a new phenomenon; and yet, sometimes it is evident that I do not learn from past experiences, and, in particular, my willingness, my propensity, to be open and caring. As recently noted, caring about people was something seemingly inherent in my DNA. My Great-aunt noticed it before I was two.

What I have been reminded of clearly is that the very people you might want to believe have caring hearts (are fundamentally good), and I do not be-judge the accomplishments of others, seemed to believe that something done out of the kindness of my heart was an embarrassment; and in spite of my intention, it perhaps offended them. I somehow sensed that since, but such a possibility seemed so unrealistic, so absurd, I discounted it. I remember working carefully to do it appropriately and as honestly as I could. I remember diligently to make sure every single person was thanked. Now it seems I was correct. More amazingly, it was relayed to me that what I was doing was seen as unnecessary (maybe even inadequate). I must add that I have spoken to one of the principle people in the situation, and while there was some loss in what a conversation might have stated, and consequently of intention or desire from both sides. The misunderstanding it seems has gone on since that time, and there was some expression of gratitude, that is helpful. Certainly there is a change in perspective over time, but it does appear that in spite of the good intentions, it was not really appreciated. What is apparent is I, too often, let my kindness, the goodness of my heart, rule my actions. It is because as I often say, I would rather be remembered as too kind than too uncaring. I am pushed to reflect on and ask the question: Am I able to moderate this in a way I do not feel I have betrayed myself? Again, my heart overrules my brain. In the second instance, what I believed to be a good thing to support an event, and what I do regularly in chronicling events has been portrayed inaccurately (and there is an irony that past experience with that individual allowed for that very possibility.). If you would look at my photos of which my phone has more than 14K, the number of photos from my frequenting events is significant. So sharing a photo was not meant to be problematic (and it was not shared publically). I did see a marked change in attitude and behavior. Furthermore, to exacerbate that circumstance, when I specifically did something to make sure there was no chance for a misinterpretation, again, it appears that was told incorrectly to others. Again I find myself questioning perhaps a misperception or more problematically a lie. This last situation does more than frustrate me. It angers me because it raises a question of both intention and character on multiple levels. At this moment, I am unsure how to approach it. There is always the simple let it merely settle. However, there is a question of will that happen? There is confronting it, dealing with it, and getting it squared away, but there is no guarantee that is what will happen. What frustrates me, what creates a significant level of pause is the following reality – generally, there is no real win in this circumstance. And the fact that it is now 4:20 (interesting number), and I am awake and editing this says a lot. I shared this post with a friend and asked their honest opinion. They accurately noted that posting it could create more problems than help, and that is true. Do I protest too loudly or do I feel that profoundly, unfairly, treated? I will sit and ponder.

Group speak is a dangerous thing. Societally, it can create a conversation that results in violence against the people or individuals being targeted. When it is about an individual or specific circumstance, it become easy to add comments that aid in the perception of what is being asserted. Perception is reality or becomes reality for the person or group until proven otherwise. Is it regularly possible to question one’s perception? Yes, of course it is. The more significant question is whether or not the energy required will result in a reasonable ROI? Group speak can easily become group think, which is more dangerous. The need to agree becomes more important than conversation that might question the accuracy of the current conclusions. This can lead to a close mindedness, and impair the ability of those who do not believe things to be accurate. And in the lack of questioning, the silence creates a complicity, an unintentional support of a blasphemous conversation that can profoundly hurt someone.

Sometimes the discrimination that occurs toward males is stunning. I remember even when I was married, a spouse asking why I went to lunch with grad school colleagues. I responded because we were hungry. The next question was “What did you talk about?” To which I answered, “Class.” If there were females, she wanted to know what they looked looked like. If I went to lunch with only males, she even asked if I was gay. I remember being afraid to even say I went to lunch. In the twenty-five years since a divorce, the number of times I have been asked why I did not date is incredible. The number of times I have been questioned about my sexual preference is perhaps more than a hundred. When I opened my home to a gay colleague that sealed the deal in the minds of many. In fact, a woman in town (my age) and someone I found interesting told me her former husband, whom I have only met at social events, told her I was gay. The reality that I can be a single male and be content to remain single seems unimaginable to many. For the record, do I notice attractive people? Indeed, I do. Regardless their age. I actually appreciated aging in the academy because it allowed me a sense of safety. If someone is young enough to be a daughter or granddaughter I can assure you, I more often than not find them annoying. I know that sounds harsh, but I am not interested in what they are. And now I am old enough they could be a great-granddaughter, the distance is more extreme. In fact, when a person I found incredibly attractive and we tried to figure out our relationship visited, they slept in another room (and we are contemporaries). Not because I was not attracted or found them undesirable, but rather because it was the right thing to do. I wish I could say I always maintained that standard in my life. However that would be untruthful. However, here in Pennsylvania, I have had 6 female students (some at the request of their parents and all with the support of their parents) live at my house, 2 male students, and two high school exchange students, and I worked very hard to make sure they were safe and respected. So any conversation that occurs asserting something else is not only unfair, it is categorically wrong. I have worked diligently to be morally appropriate the entire time I have lived in Bloomsburg. I am proud of how I treated students and advisees during my 15 years at the university.

Again, it does take me back to kindness, and the consequence of perception. I remember from time to time being told one cannot be that kind and giving without expecting something in return. Do I expect something in return? Perhaps I do. I expect to be treated with the same kindness and respect I try to give. Again, in spite of a general feeling of disregard for someone who did know me well, I remember them once accurately telling me that my sense of loyalty was not typical, and that I should not expect it of others. While I do not like to admit their wisdom in much, they were spot-on wise in this circumstance. So why do I keep hoping for a different outcome? Is it because I want to believe people can be or do better? Is it because I wish for a world where kindness and some degree of goodness can make us all more gentle and genuine? It is that I somehow purport the “Golden Rule” can actually work? I am not sure what I hope at the moment. I am not sure what I want at the moment. I not sure what really matters at the moment. Perhaps I need to to schedule that talk with my grandmother as I noted in my last blog.

Thank you for reading. Perhaps Vincent was right.

Michael

Grandma, I Miss You

Hello from my little corner,

Sometimes we are called to remember, to give thanks for those things, places, or events, which in some way influence or define the person we’ve become. I think there are definitely those things or events that are quite easy to point to for me. Collectively, health has been a series of events from surgeries to diagnosis, from medical concerns to simply managing a life begun earlier than planned. Things, on the other hand, might seem a bit more nebulous at moments, but nonetheless, the consequences help solidify them. Adoption, a person’s passing, an ordination, a new tenure-track position, each of them necessitated a change that transformed my life trajectory. The importance of, the degree to which, or the aggregate nature over the spans of my life are not always clear to me. Certainly, the opportunities I have had to travel have transmogrified me, my understanding of the world and myself. When people ask me what is my favorite travel experience or where is my most memorable location, there is no simple answer. Undoubtedly, the beauty of the Keweenaw Peninsula, and particularly the drive turning left on 41 to go toward Eagle River and Eagle Harbor and eventually Copper Harbor as beautifully stunning as anywhere. The picture above is on that drive. My worldly travels have been of profound importance and established an understanding of the other, a connection to the other that has grown a sense of awe and empathy that would have never happened without those experiences. While København, Oslo, Prague, Murcia, Moscow, and Budapest are influential, Kraków holds a special place in my heart like no other. And yet when I think about what means more to me than anything, it is not any of these. It is a person. Her name was (is) Louise Ethel (nee Hannestad) Lyman. Officially, she was my paternal grandmother, but she was also my principal parent from before I was two years old until my sister, Kris, and I were adopted by the Martins in May of 1960. She is the first parent I remember.

She was (and is until today) the only person I have completely trusted and believed to love me unconditionally. I have referred (and still do) to her as my hero in life. She was, like all of us, flawed, and struggled with significant demons following the death of her husband and father within 6 months of each other. However, thanks to an elder sister was able to get back on track and live her life. She was dedicated to her work and her grandchildren, and she had an elegance to her that I believed to be simply normal. I know now that it was just another reason she was exceptional. Her kindness and support of her employees and her sense of appropriateness (I think her most vulgar expression might have been damn), her adherence to being polite in all circumstances was unparalleled. I think I would probably disappoint her with my use of vernacular language. I lived with her a second time after that initial time, the summer between my junior and senior of high school, and that time might have been more consequential in spite of the fact it was only three and a half months compared to three and a half years at the beginning of my life.

So what is it that created such trust and admiration for her? First – it was how she gave without exception, and with such willingness. And the love that imbued every action she took still stuns me. Her smile and her gentle manner created a sense of safety I have never felt since. The gentle spirit that permeated 4547 Harrison Street, or how the breakfast she fixed each morning, which is still my comfort food, set a standard for goodness and provided hope I have seldom felt since. As I have noted in other posts, when I decorated my house on The Acre, there were things, not always realized or planned, that recreated some aspect of my preschool home with her. From the sort of country kitchen to the sort of circular pathway that replicated the movement in her house. Those parallels would sometimes dawn on me unexpectedly, revealing how deeply things she did or provided have remained in my heart in spite of her physical absence in my life since that late September day in 1977. Perhaps it is the lack of direction (and therefore safety) that I currently feel; possibly it is my scattered existence; perhaps it is again that incredible sense of melancholy or loneliness that often is the deepest most consistent feeling I know. What I would give to have a chance to sit down with her and simple hear her voice, experience her smile, and hopefully sense that the profound love I always felt, even when I might have disappointed her.

I know there are times I took her for granted, and the degree to which and depth of how I am profoundly sorry is immeasurable. There is one time I remember clearly the profundity of pain we both felt one rainy cold afternoon when my mother had kicked me out of the house yet again. I threw a few things into my car, telling my father as he arrived home and I was leaving what happened, and drove to the bakery, hoping to return to Harrison Street. When my father had begged me to come back home only weeks before, my choice to return to Riverside hurt my grandmother to the core, and we had both cried when I left. So now when I asked to return, her eyes welled up in tears and she told me she could not allow that to happen because she was in such pain. I was frightened and it was the first time she told me no. I ran out of the bakery to the back lot as the rain poured, crying and she came after me crying also. My immature 16 year old self could only see my pain. I know now the anguish she felt on so many levels had to be agonizing. Grandma, I am so sorry. I am not sure I have ever asked for to be forgiven for my selfishness of that day.

When I returned from the service, I still struggled with my mother, but my grandmother loved me as much as ever, but I was not always in Sioux City to adequately express the love I should have. These are more examples of my taking her for granted. Well, I have spoken of this event in other posts, I will always regret not seeing her the last time I was in Sioux City the summer of 1977. In spite of my promise, I failed to stop by her house. When I got that phone call late in September that she had passed away, I was heartbroken. More significantly, I was ashamed and felt a profound guilt. I remember sobbing at her grave. My entire body shook as I tried to grasp the loss of my protector, of my hero. Only a few months before he had been there when I struggled with my brother’s death. She was only 64 years old. Now I look at that as so young.

Grandma, in spite of my failings, in spite of what is currently seeming as a step backwards, as I try to regroup and understand my path forward, I hope that you know how much I still love you, how much I still miss you. I hope that in some small way I have made you proud, and that I honor the amazing woman you are to me yet today. Thank you for everything you did to love me, to raise me, and to support me. I am so blessed.

To all, thank you for reading this tribute to my Grandmother Louise. If you have that person still here in your life, let them know how important they are.

Michael

Every Silence Screams Volumes

Hello on a rainy and somewhat foreboding fall day,

During the night I heard the rain steadily pelt my window, sounding more like sleet, something yet to come (perhaps sooner than I desire) as we move into November. As I sit in Starbucks in the library doing work, or attempting, I am struggling with formulas for chats and wishing I knew some things a bit better than I do. I think I might have to see if I can log into LinkedIn Learning as an emeritus. I think I need a quick lesson or two. The past month seems so much like the Tale of Two Cities to me that it is beyond words or emotions. Waiting for my consulting appointment for cataract surgery has me in a state of limbo, and with my belongings and tasks in different places, in different states, and at different phases, I feel like I have less power than I normally do. And yet in spite of the in media res reality of life, I am adding some additional components, projects to what I am doing. It’s both exciting and extensive, but also interesting and connects areas of my entire life.

One of the things I learned when I wax a parish pastor was the importance of listening and observing. I often say it is where I first began to read-between-the-lines. When you wear that turned-around shirt, people will generally give you the milk-toast version of their situation. It is not that they are trying to be dishonest, but more often it is their fear of being too vernacular, too earthy. Consequently, there is a need to ascertain the reality, the realness, of the story and their subsequent need to come to the pastor’s office. Often it is in the silence, the pauses, the absence of words one hears things most loudly, the most clearly. Sometimes it is what is written that one speaks most intentionally. As I wrote this post on a Halloween Day, it does not go unnoticed that today in 1517, Martin Luther chose to nail his 95 written Theses on the Castle Door in Wittenberg. So to my Lutheran clergy friends, my friends from a Lutheran tradition, or those who claim to be Lutheran, Happy Reformation Day. I smile as I think back to a party we had on Reformation Day in seminary. Honestly it was one of the more enjoyable unique parties I ever went to in any of my college/grad school time. Perhaps, as an aside, the most hilarious/unexpected party I ever attended in my higher educational time was also at seminary. It was a Tupperware party. Remember those??

We all know people who fall into the category of loud or boisterous as well as people who are quiet, reserved, seldom speaking out. They are the people I find the most interesting; the people to whom we should perhaps see as most important to listen, wanting to hear what little things they might say, but I think it is what they do not say that might be most significant. Their silence is incredibly loud. I remember in the service it was common knowledge that the people most quiet one needed to be careful of, attentive to. When I was first in the parish, and it is this next week, 37 years ago, I was installed at Trinity, often the most profoundly faithful people were the weekly parishioners who sat in their same spot weekly; their reverence was demonstrated by the quiet, but habitual manner, they worshipped. I remember being asked in my call committee interview how I understood a person who did not attend services regularly? I still believe the piety of attending worship and what is in the heart of a person was not something I had the right to judge or believe I had the insight to determine.

As I get older, I appreciate silence so much more than when I was younger. The solitude of a quiet space can do more to quell my troubled soul than anything else. Proverbs notes “The one who has knowledge uses words with restraint, and whoever has understanding is even-tempered.” And goes on to say, “Even fools are thought wise if they keep silent, and discerning if they hold their tongues.” I remember a CPE colleague once telling me I needed to speak less. I was shocked at the time, but even shortly thereafter, I realized she was correct. Learning to speak less and listen more has been a life-long struggle, but I think it was because when I was young I was afraid to speak. It has taken some time to return to the place where I am content to step back. I think it was when I was at Dana that being older and a known person before I arrived that pushed me into a place where I was expected to speak, or at least I believed that to be the case. And certainly the roles or positions I have held for close to 40 years have put me in front of people. And yet, ironically, I believe it was being in front of people, expected to speak that I learned to appreciate my silence, or opportunities to say less rather than more. My tolerance for volume (and noise that is simply noise) has lessened, and I am not completely sure if that is a hearing issue (which is probably part of it) or it is I do not really like commotion. I have realized that even when I am in a crowd of people. Once upon a time I probably found energy in that. That is certainly no longer the case. Even when I was at a holiday function or family celebration over the last years, I can only manage a certain level or time frame, and I have to step back. Even a walk outside.

Perhaps that is why I like driving so much. I am in a solitary situation. I am in control of my space. Even my daily habits have changed in terms of when I get up and go to bed. My former students used to be stunned when I returned an assignment to the CMS at 2:30 a.m., and it was because I was still up grading. Now, most nights, and this has been for a few years, I am in bed by 9:00-9:15 p.m. And my alarm is set for 7:15 a.m. on weekdays and 7:45 a.m. on weekends, though I am generally awake before my alarm goes off. It seems that there has been almost a 180 from the person I was even into my 40s. As I spoke with a couple of different people in the last 48 hours, two or three times the Myers Briggs Personality Inventory came up, and I am well aware that mine has changed significant from 40 years ago. The importance of solitude is well-documented. Reflection in the quietness of a day is helpful. Mindfulness and presence, the understanding of who you are as well as where you are in not a bad thing. In the silence you hear more than you realize. The irony of this next statement is not lost on me as I am writing on a social platform, but the chance to step away from the noise of the computer, the pressure of believing we need to keep up with what is being said on multiple platforms, or convincing ourselves that we need to stay in contact with so many (in spite of the propensity I have to stay in touch, yet another incongruity) is something I find I need more and more. For sometime, I have been able to sit in the middle of a coffee shop and tune out the noise around me. I think back to the amount of time I have spent in Caribous, Starbucks, Fog and Flame, Brewskis, Coffee Grounds, and I have spent probably years of my life in coffee shops. The amount of money I have spent is probably not calculable. And yet, often I could be there in solitude in the middle of the crowd, I once referred to myself as the “lonely-in-the-middle-of-the-crowd person, and I believe that is even more true now. I love silence now because I love to listen to the sounds of silence, which, of course, was an incredibly popular song, originally by Simon and Garfunkel, and now covered by multiple genres. In fact, it seems to be one of the songs to do. Perhaps it is because we do need silence, we need the quiet. I believe it an essential element of mental health as it can strengthen our emotional wellness or awareness, our psychological resilience and it can even reduce inflammation, which is the root of many of our physical maladies. Even now as I write this, I am sitting in the corner of somewhere local, and even now I will put in my AirPods to minimize what I am hearing. It is time to work on some other tasks. As we finish October and move into November we will be back to Standard Time, the trees are beyond peak color, and the hint of something much colder is in the air. I wish you all peace and time for solitude. It is a good time to take a walk and notice the changes. Another irony, I was asked if I wanted to go to this concert at the time, but I could not afford it.

Thank you as always for reading,

Michael

Finding Friendship

Hello from the corner of the Little Bakery,

This I just created a TikTok for Nataliia’s little piece of heaven. If you are acquainted with my blog over the years, you are aware that my grandmother, who was my mother when I was small as well as my hero yet today, owned a bakery. The smells of baking pastries, of cakes, or of fresh bread were (and are) aromas that gave me a sense of love and security. Walking into the Little Bakery, shortly after it opened in the Fall three years ago, transported me back to that place and time. It was the first place to do so. The consequence was I fell in love with the bakery instantly. There is an incredible book that looks at the consequence of daily, seemingly mundane, items or experiences in our lives, everything from weather to food, from buildings to cars. I do not have it in front of me at the moment, and I can even see the cover, but I cannot remember the title. Understanding the things that make us who we are is a good exercise; and while an admirable goal, not always an easy one to accomplish.

When I was a child, I worried incessantly over whether or not someone liked me. I was in constant fear that someone might dislike me. Some of that was due to my diminutive size; some of it because I was told on a regular basis that I was unworthy of being given a home or loved by one of my adopting parents. Because of those two issues I worked diligently to become friends (or what I believed was friendship) with anyone who was regularly in my daily orbit of people. I wanted (too often and ill-advisedly) people to like me. That malady followed me well into my adult life, and it took a lot of work and reality checks to understand the problem with it. When I was first a student at Dana, there was a senior student, one both intelligent and talented, but not likable sort. He and I did not appreciate the other, to put it diplomatically, and after one particularly unpleasant encounter, he told me that I needed everyone as a friend and he found me hypocritical. At the time, I informed him that I had friends and acquaintances, and he rated neither category. I rejected his assertion completely. Some 40+ years later, I would have to admit he was, to some degree, correct.

Learning to accept that not everyone would like me was a difficult thing to come to terms with emotionally, but that was because I was so emotionally fragile myself. In spite of my intelligence, my experiences and my expectations did not allow me to accept something that makes sense. We will not please everybody; we will not be liked by everyone. As I am now in a different place both in terms of age and, more importantly, emotionally, looking back across the decades, I realize friendship is an essential element to our identity, but it seldom happens, or perhaps, more than likely, distance and life events make the maintaining of it difficult. Or is it we misunderstand the reality of friendships. Perhaps friendship is more profound and illusive than we imagine. I have been often told I work harder or more diligently to stay in touch than most. As I consider that, and I do believe it to be true, it is how I have maintained relationships with people from around the world. It is perhaps how I have come to understand the differences between the people we include in our lives. Perhaps there is a third category of people in my life. Acquaintances are those who I have met more than once and have made some difference, but unless we are in the actual proximity of the other, there is little influence in either direction. And yet when proximity is re-established, their significance changes. It again grows. There are those who have importance beyond that. They are persons who move in and out of our lives in spite of proximity or space. Generally, their importance at some point was more than passing; it affected our daily life in a manner that changed some course of action or our understanding of who we were (or are). And that importance (while our lives have continued to evolve) is easily recalled and have significance. This is not always a category that I have readily acknowledged or, perhaps, understood. Nonetheless, I believe there are a number of people who fall into this category for me.

So what is friendship or who has been (or is) a friend? I think that is an excellent thing to ponder as I look back across the decades. There are so many people who hold a place of importance, but who is that friend? Are friends only those who have covered the majority of our lives here on earth? Not necessarily. Often it is said, the person one marries is their best friend, and this certainly makes sense. And it prompts the question about friendship and intimacy (and I would assert intimacy is not merely physical). What creates, establishes, or maintains a friendship? Each of these verbs are integral and somewhat process driven. When I think about the person who was my best friend from childhood and I consider the person(s) I would refer to as close friends now, I am not sure the processes are the same. When I think about the persons in my life I would categorize as friends, the number is very few. From my growing up in Sioux City, I think there are two people I would consider as friends (and the one, who was my best friend from childhood, has passed away). The picture above is of the three brothers, and Peter is on the left. The other, my sandbox buddy as we call each other, was a little older than me, and our friendship did not blossom until after high school. However, in each case, the friendship has been established and maintained, but more importantly, it was nurtured. Nurturing requires that intimacy referred to above. It means that there is an honesty and consistency. The friendship is not negatively affected by either distance or time. There is no need to reacquaint because you know the other. The friendship is supported by both mutual history and a mutual desire to maintain and enhance that relationship. I think it is impossible to place a value on such a person and their importance.

When I think about the friendships I have created or been blessed by as an adult, there are some very different things that occurred for that reality of that friendship’s existence to occur. There has to be a time where you have significant interaction. There needs to be mutual interest, and there needs to be a clear sense of having some similar values. I think it is much easier to walk away at this point in life. For me it is related to drama. I do not like drama, and I will do most everything I can to avoid it. There are a number of reasons for that, but certainly, past experience has taught me drama is strength sapping and seldom goes well. When I consider my adult friends, again there are numerous acquaintances, and some significant ones, but few friends. I am reminded of the line from the song “Caledonia,” a song I recently listened to again, and one I appreciate deeply. There is a line in the song which notes “Lost the friends that I needed losing, found others on the way.” I ponder the significance of that statement, and I find myself asking, “Were they friends? What makes losing them reasonable if they were friends?” Does time and evolution of who we are make “a friend” dispensable? Are there times that taking a break from a friendship is necessary, and does the break eliminate the friendship? Does it render all the significant time or joint experiences moot? Is it that we are different in our tolerances Whenever there is a change, there is a sense of loss, and loss is painful, but is it necessary? What happens when there is an impasse? What is reasonable and what is healthy? Are they the same? And then at the same time, there are moments when what we think might be gone comes back. I have experienced that also. Much like the parable of the prodigal, there has been rejoicing. The memories of a half of century have reminded me of so much of my life. The blessing of them, of their family, there are no words adequate to express how significant they were or are. Life’s twists and turns are both predictable and unpredictable. Experiences, sometimes forgotten, still affect us when we least expect it. We are such capable and fragile beings. Friendship is both a gift and a responsibility. Sometimes it is difficult to manage it all.

Thanks as always for reading, and let that friend know they matter.

Michael

A Sacred Form of Strength

Hello from a rather sparse space,

Sometimes we find ourselves in situations unexpected, and the reasons are general more than some simple cause/effect sort of dialectic. And as importantly, or maybe more so, it is the consequence of a basic character trait, and even a perceived strength, but something that has been demonstrated or practiced for much of someone’s life. Recently, I noted some of my areas of struggle, the traits that make me uniquely who I am. And the being generous is certainly an admirable quality, but it is something that has brought both a sense of joy or happiness as well as some pain and disillusionment. At the moment the duality of that characteristic practice, which a Great-aunt once told me was apparent before I was two years old has my brain working in circles. Even today, as I take a sort of inventory of my life situation, I can see how choice not merely in the past months have been more concomitant than expected, but over even the past four or five years. Things decided, paths taken, circumstances experienced can collectively change the trajectory of something or someone. Much like how something even minimally out of square might, over a greater distance create a significant building problem.

Since retirement, which I am still comfortable – maybe, perhaps, maybe not, with, I have grappled, scrapped, or felt broadsided by, what I thought I had prepared for and what has happened has not been perhaps even close to what I imagined. I am not sure if it is because I uprooted most of what I had, be it location, space, belongings, or a combination of, I was not nearly as ready as I thought I would be. I do not think it is merely the change in schedule or responsibilities, I think it is, in a large part, due to a change in identity. As I sit in the Gathering Place on this early Monday afternoon, I am in a space I have (cumulatively) spent days. It is a place where a former dean (and not of my college), remembered me as the professor-who-had-office-hours there. As I sit here. today, two years removed from the classroom, I know almost no one, recognize only a few, and feel somewhat like the old man in the corner, in spite of being told I do not look or act my age, which I take as a compliment. What is different is the role I currently have as I sit here in a familiar place, but with more and more unfamiliar people. I am no longer the professor with an office on the third floor of Bakeless. I am no longer the advisor to Professional Writing students, nor the director of that program. And while my current life does not eliminate those roles once occupied, their completion and a life moved on creates a new primary identity for me. The current question is rather simple. What is that identity? What makes me of importance? Do I need to be of importance? And if so to whom and for what?

Identity is such an incredible concept, as well as a powerful element of our humanity. As noted by Anthony Giddens’s, the British social theorist, we all have subjectivities. In his structuration theory, he noted “[we] are not passive but [we] actively shape society through [our] actions, while simultaneously being shaped by the social structures [we] inhabit. He called that reflexivity. In the roles we are given (are fousted upon us), those subjectivities, each one creates part of our identity. The influence, be it less or more, of each role changes depending on our given circumstance. As I was telling someone the other day, for the majority of my adult life the places I occupied, the jobs or professions I had allowed me significant control of my space, from server/bartender to pastor, from Greek Instructor to professor, when I met someone, stood up in front of the congregation to in front of the class or met a student, I had some significant influence on that situation. At this point, I seldom have any control, except of myself. To return to Giddens, what does this allow or require? The changes are both a requirement and an opportunity to construct an identity in a more fluid and self-reflexive way, drawing from a wider range of cultural influences. This has been the context of the past year as I am far from my comfort zone. Even just this morning I am working to arrange, to logistically manage things still in TN. There are so many pieces to my literal moving puzzle at the moment, and this is where I realize the importance of what might at time be considered mundane to the general comfort of our daily life, of our existence. It connects more often than not to asking what makes us feel successful or accomplished? What provides us a sense of worth or value? A year ago I was selling, giving away, dumpstering the great majority of the things I had accumulated. The question I asked was not “Do I want it?” or “Do I need it?” The question was “Will I use it?”

What provides a sense of well-being for someone? It is merely stuff? Is it the balance in your bank account? Certainly, more often than not, I have bought into that idea, the cultural expectation that success is determined by one’s dwelling place, on the commas on the balance sheet. That success equals strength. And yet, as I sit this morning on a bench (not the Group W bench) listening to waves, watching the sun over the water, I struggle with the juxtaposition of being here was expensive, though I am honored to be asked, and merely stepping away for a moment to ponder the reality of daily life. I can tell that I am sort of swirling because I am writing daily. I am feeling unsettled in some areas and hopeful in others. I am feeling incapable in some significant ways and accomplished and valued (respected) in others. I know that daily life has those challenges, but for some reason they seem more conspicuous, more profound, at the moment. While always be a ponderer, an analyzer, it seems that those traits are taking up the majority of any moments that are not intentionally scheduled with something else. From merely noticing more about my surroundings to wondering what everyone does, what are their professions? Or what do they do to feel successful? It seems that I have an increased sense of vulnerability. Is that an inner fear or fortitude? Is it a resilience, a sense of courage or perseverance? Much of my life has been spent wondering the how and why, not only about life but the beyond as well. How does daily life and our navigation of it connect to the sacred, to the numinous? Is vulnerability to that numinous equate to a sacred strength? Perhaps so. Presently, I surely hope so. There is a truth and honesty in vulnerability. There is both taking a chance and believing in the comforting promise of baptism and the Holy Spirit. The dialectic of Luther seems alive and working for me.

Thanks as always for reading,

Michael

Understanding a Vow

Hello from the corner of La Malbec,

Time continues to march on, and often seemingly more quickly than expected. Over the past few years, and even more recently, attempting to fathom what it means to be a faithful person has become increasingly difficult. Why? While there are a multitude of reasons, the shift in public piety and the language used by some about faithfulness has taken a significant turn from what I learned growing up. Then my educational journey in seminary or my work on Bonhoeffer seems so out of line with current practice. Perhaps it is more on my mind today because 37 years ago, I was ordained into public ministry in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America.

Ordination was a profound day in my life. As I have noted in previous posts, it overwhelmed me. The reality of what is required of a pastor, expected of a pastor, understood about a pastor is not something any seminary class can teach you. In spite of the profoundly capable professors, most who were ordained and lived that reality, there was so much I needed to learn, and some of it, again, much of it was not something I managed nearly as well as I might have, comprehended as thoroughly as I could have. And most of it was not a theological issue, but more of an identity issue. I was speaking with a seminary classmate earlier today, someone for whom I have incredible appreciation and admiration, something who has, at times, taken me to task when I wandered, and someone at whose ordination I was asked to preach. I remember being petrified that I would be standing in front of a bishop and other leaders of the church in the burbs of Chicago.

While I did what I believe can be characterized as extremely well in all areas of my seminary education, including receiving lecture status at graduation to teach Greek or earning a scholarship to the Goethe Institute in Germany, having an incredibly robust CPE experience with Dr. Steve Pohlman, it was not until I was actually in the parish that I understood the significance of the connection between of the 3rd Article of the Apostles Creed and Holy Baptism. It was not until I had spent some months or years in the parish and even after I was back in graduate school working on a PhD that I realized how much I appreciated systematics, earlier believing that I had more affinity toward Biblical Studies or Church History. It is systematics that explains and grounds our daily faith and piety to our hermeneutical understanding of both scripture and sacraments. Looking back and pondering even today, as I write this I am still evolving in my understanding of what occurred when I had hands laid upon me, as I listened to the words of Father Fred, who began his words in my ordination sermon with “Mikey, you’ve come a long way.” He was correct, and while I am sure he knew, he was kind and didn’t follow with, “and you have so far yet to go.” That would have overwhelmed me more than I already was.

The Ordination service uses verbs like inspire (through word and sacrament) teach, serve, and reflect (theologically). Additionally, to serve and be empowered (by the Holy Spirit) so that I might be an active witness to the mystery of God’s love to all people. Maintaining an adherence to the reality of preaching the Word of God and implementing sacraments with integrity was not something I seemingly found difficult, but being a truthful witness to the love of God was not always something I found as easy to do. My human frailties got in the way as I found myself struggling to feel the constant presence of God’s love in my own life, to fathom the complexity of what Luther referred to as the first and second use of the law. To accept the infinite grace of God, something I could intellectually, was not something I could readily accept emotionally, personally. I remember my undergraduate advisor’s statement to me when I was first diagnosed with Crohn’s. I had returned to Dana, having lost substantial weight. He admonished me, both lovingly and sternly. After telling me I looked ill, he said slowly for emphasis, “Michael, your theology of grace works well for everyone, but yourself.” And he was correct. The incredible grace of God is freely given, but all too often we are incapable of accepting it. The difficulty is we believe it to be conditional, based on our worthiness. However, as noted so aptly by my brilliant confessions professor, the late Dr. Gerhard Fôrde, “Confessionally speaking, the answer to the question ‘what must I do to be saved?’ is nothing.” Nothing in my life prepared me for such a gift, and my intellectual understanding was not sufficient enough for me to emotionally manage it. So the vow of being able to witness to the mystery of God’s love could not adequately be fulfilled. More importantly, when I was in my 30s, the time I served as a parish pastor, I had little, or no, knowledge or realization of that lack. How could I inspire others to accept what I could not accept myself? What was it that created such incapacity in me?

Some almost four decades later, I believe there were two reasons. The first was my own overwhelming feeling of being not good enough, but as importantly, perhaps more so was the prison I had created for myself because of a lack of forgiveness. Not forgiveness received but rather given. And in my life those two things were intrinsically connected. It was about my mother. It was my feeling undesirable, invaluable, and the hurt and anger towards her for having those feelings. Again, how could I preach about or live a life bathed in the grace of God when my hurt and anger separated me from that grace. It would be some 2 1/2 decades later before I would write a blog that forgave my mother. The burden lifted from me is immeasurable. The weight of that hurt, of that separation from a more complete measure of God’s grace probably affected my ministry more than I will ever know. As I consider that day of ordination, as a much older man, I am still humbled by the call bestowed on me of a loving and compassionate God. I think much like Luther’s first celebration of Holy Communion, where stories say he was filled with fear and trembling, I can appreciate even more so now, almost 4 decades later, how God knows us better than we know ourselves. As I find myself traveling to participate in things I have done before, as I spoke with a couple of my clergy colleagues recently, I appreciate the depth and gravity of my ordination today more than ever; I understand it now more than ever too.

Thank you as always for reading.

Michael

Vertical or Horizontal? Perhaps a look at numbers might reveal something

Hello from the Campus Starbucks,

Familiarity can be a double-edged sword, most certainly, but sitting back in Starbucks at the Andruss Library is a good thing. The rearrangement of the traffic flow as well as the tables makes getting some work done much more arduous, but thank goodness for a charged phone. The memories of meeting students here or in the Gathering Place over the years definitely is present as I ponder schedules, continue managing appointments, and examine my ever-growing to-do list. Presently, my MacBook is charging in the corner because the remodeled space has no way to sit at a table and plug in my computer (I believe that was more intentional than they admit), so I have decided to blog something that has been percolating for some time, though regularly the past few days.

A year ago, the middle of October saw a shift in the momentum that first characterized the Harris campaign, and, to be honest, I was feeling more and more resigned to a repeat of Grover Cleveland in American Presidential history. Certainly, that is what occurred, and much of what has occurred in the country is what was promised by Mr. Trump, so when people seem surprised by some of the falls out, and I am generally referring to the moderate, or even some on the more extreme, right, I want to respond with a sort of Homer Simpson “Doh?!” However, because of my commitment to decorum in general, I do not. I think about one person in particular who notes they will probably lose their Medicaid, but they unabashedly support the MAGA agenda. They lamented this loss to one day, while, ironically wearing the tell-tale red baseball cap. Hmmmmmm!! The second group of people, many for whom I still have appreciation and care, are those conservative believers. Those who claim the importance of a creator, but seem too often to stop with the first article of the Apostle’s or Nicene Creed, seeing second and third article as subservient at best, which I will assert is non-Trinitarian. However, my recent pondering and reading has caused me to reconsider, simultaneously being both kinder and more worried.

The conservative direction of Christianity (not where it is going, which is an issue), which I (and others) assert is vertical, has important implications and consequences. More will be said about that. Conversely, I will assert, Christian denominations who practice a more horizontal theology (focusing on the consequences of the second article and the subsequent involvement of the third article) think more about their fellow humans. I know that is a bit of a broad-stroke move, but hear me out. The vertical nature or morality of Christian conservatism, which is pushed even further in “Christian Nationalism,” is about power; it is about the authority of God over all. Hence, first article dominance (pun intended). It is about a system that is incredibly top-down. It is about the acceptance of the rules and a rejection of actions or behaviors that violate the rules. For those who find such a system comforting, the all-powerful God is easy to follow; as a ruled-based theology it becomes a recipe card no matter what. If you put in the correct ingredients, the final product is just fine. Of course, what happens if you are out of that teaspoon of baking powder? Is it possible to change? Can one question the recipe, question the all-powerful? Is there even a possibility? What happens when you employ the same verticality into our politics? Germany of the 1930s is a great case study. Present day North Korea or Iran are also instructive.

So what does a horizontal theology look like? Is there room for such a possibility? And some might question if such a theology is Biblical. Returning to my initial contention, certainly one can argue such a direction is Biblical if you look at the actions of Jesus, from his disciples to his questioning of both political and religious authority in his world. The significance of Jesus’s daily ministry (and non-inclusive of his salvific role) was his personal ministry to those outside the Jewish religious hierarchy. Again and again, from his initial miracle to his teachings and actions, much of what he did calls into question a rules-centric philosophy. His focus on a people-centered gospel, a relational gospel which flew in the face of the first use of the law, which was typical Midrash. Jesus called into question the optic heavy theology of the Pharisees, pushing a need for compassion, empathy, and love for the other. Jesus believed the consequences of God’s love, which is certainly vertical in nature, was understood best when it was horizontally given to those in need. The admonishment of Jesus in Matthew 25 is not merely a horizontal theology, but it is a both/and. The commandment to do to the other is a given, something given by God to creation, so the verticality cannot be ignored, but neither can what the command requires, which is decidedly horizontal. Loving and caring for the other is how one experiences the love of God.

So what are the struggles in our present world? When theology and politics overlap, and even more so, when the idea of vertical morality and power are intertwined, the reality of good versus evil, of us versus them, or of the nation versus the world, the consequence and reality of Christian Nationalism and an Old Testament theonomy becomes inherent in the practiced theology and politics, making the separation of church and state impossible. However, the theology of the Old Testament is not the gospel, the Good News, that is proclaimed in the New Testament. The legalism of Paul, the legalism of the Torah is much more difficult than most conservative Christians are aware, but such a hermeneutical struggle, to be fair, is not surprising. Between a cherry-picking of scripture that suits narratives of power and a seeming unwillingness to consider any kind of compassion, the vertical theology of Christian Nationalism removes any sort of responsibility for the immoral treatment of the other under the guise of obedience to God’s commandments, or the prescribed understanding of God’s commandments.

And yet, perhaps some consideration of those commandments might be appropriate. Certainly the first three commandments are vertical in nature, focusing on the relationship of the human, the creature, to the creator. But that is precisely 30% of the Decalogue, There is still another 70% to consider, or more than 2/3rds . . . And those commandments are about the humans relationship with the world and with one another. From the giving of the Commandments in Exodus, which followed the Hebrews leaving bondage in Egypt until today, there has been an unquestioned reality that the chosenness as people means we have both a duty to God as well as to our community. However, such a theological position is much more complex, and it requires the choosing of paths which are seemingly incongruent with the rule-based beliefs of a nomo-focused faith practice. And it certainly does not protect those who need power or authority. Furthermore, the reality is it blinds one to injustice, creating a practice of personal salvation over a social concern for our fellow humans. Vertical morality is cluttered with examples of the damage such morality has created; from slavery to the Sunday morning Christian wearing a white hood the night before, from bishops in Germany pledging allegiance to Adolph Hitler to the Shoah, from the demonization of immigrants to the persecution of political enemies, the lack of accountability allowed from this top-down threatens the very gospel preached by Jesus, and it negates the call of the Holy Spirit to lead us to faith.

Certainly, the current world is struggling with what it means to believe in the amazing grace of our Triune God, or so it seems. There is an irony that many conservative Christians use the epistle of James to speak about their faith (and a works-based theology), but vertical morality eliminates that option. With no horizontal aspect to one’s faith, it truly is pro-forma; and contrary to the vertical idea of depth, the practice of faith as simply following a list of requirements. Such practice is profoundly shallow. It eliminates the love and grace of God. I will argue rather than strengthening our personal relationship with a loving God, it removes us from the hope snd love of that same God.

Thank you as always for reading.

Michael

_Something’s Gotta Give_

Hello on a Sunday Afternoon,

It’s been a sort of meandering, albeit significant past two weeks. Since meeting with doctors on a variety of appointments, there have been some important things managed, other important things to ponder, and, as is normal with our health system, issues to figure out. I remember when I turned 60, there were significant issues, and I wondered if it were merely entering that new decade. I am contemplating the same as I make it to yet another title. As I have noted in some of my social media, I am beyond grateful for the thoughtful, thorough, and personal care I have received from my various doctors and specialists. I do not take any of that for granted, let me assure you, and there is not a single moment I am not appreciative.

Unless you’ve been under a rock since late last week, I am sure you are aware of the passing Diane Keaton, the incredible actress, producer, thespian, and force of nature both in Hollywood and beyond. While I do not often put famous people on a pedestal, nor am I akin to so kind of hero worship, she is one of the couple people to whom I might be inclined to make an exception. The first movie I remember seeing her in was Baby Boom. I was in seminary and many of my feminist-leaning seminary class mates were encouraging their male class mates to see it. I found it both endearing and groundbreaking and Keaton’s portrayal of the protagonist that saves the movie. Certainly, it is a series of expected RomCom events, but the humor and her acting make the movie more than an “oh-yes, I-saw-it” experience. And I am certainly no movie aficionado, nor am I capable critic, but I believe she could carry any movie she appeared in. My favorite movie of her is the title of this post. Both she and Jack Nicholson are exceptional, and her beauty and elegance in that movie as well as her humanity made her one of my favorite actresses. I watched the movie again out of reverence for the profound body of work she has provided us. I laughed and cried as I watched, both because the movie evoked such emotion, but also out of sadness of a life ended and graciousness that her talent was shared with the world.

As I pondered the reality of the movie (we all wanted to be loved, and we are also so fragile when it comes to accepting it), the title seemed to be indicative of how my life has unfolded. From birth to retirement, it seems like figuring out how to proceed was merely making a decision, realizing “something’s gotta give” if the next step, the next piece, the next chapter was to occur. None of this is meant to be hyperbolic, but there have been situations from the outset until even as recently as a week ago that have me somewhat pinned into a corner, and there is the reality that you have to do something and move forward. The choices might be stark; perhaps they are difficult, but nonetheless, there are choices to make. In truth, something’s gotta give. There is a certain substantiality to daily life; there is no escape, and while doing nothing might seem like an option, it is a choice, and it is doing something. As I pondered life, there are three areas I have always struggled to make choices, perhaps because of fear. Those areas are (and not necessarily in order of importance or concern) relationships, finances, and health. While it is easy to assert health is most significant, and something that has been central to my daily life, at least since I was in my 20s and diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease, it is perhaps the easiest of the three to face head on for me. Of course, I do not remember my birth, but the profundity of my prematurity caused immediate response for those charged with my very existence. Certainly, ending up in a Pediatric’s Ward in first grade, still struggling with under-development, and having all three childhood diseases back-to-back was a difficult time for doctors and my parents. Some decades later from once being told without surgery I had about 72 hours to live, when receiving another diagnosis and told once in 6 months certain options would be off the table or when various people came to visit when I received news that I had months or weeks, each time decisions were made, not always because I knew the best decision, but sometimes because I had to make a decision. Plain and straightforward – something’s gotta give. Generally, I must say things have worked out. Twelve abdominal surgeries, drug therapies, homeopathy, and a number of amazing medical people, I have managed well. Perhaps, the reason it is the easiest of the three to manage is because it is just me. It’s what happens to me.

On the other hand, relationships . . . oh my. Again while I have examined this often, and intently, have done extensive long-term counseling, and, yes, failed in two marriages, I am still a hopeless (hopeful) romantic. Then again, I am unsure how to get beyond the idea of hopelessly in love, which actually is fleeting. I understand the idea of loving someone, liking and not liking them, or realizing the tremendous effort necessary to sustain a profound and intimate relationship, but it seems I do not know how to do it. That is both tough and a bit embarrassing to admit. This is something I have attempted to understand for years. It is because I did not grow up with a model? Is it because the words of disapproval still ring in my ears too loudly? It is the incredible wounding that occurred when a person who promised to love through all called me wimp when she left because of my Crohn’s? As I reach an age where I am both independent, but simultaneously lonely at moments, I have little sense of what I really want and need. Indecision can create paralysis or it can establish the need to examine and ponder the possibilities. Momentary paralysis can serve as a breathing space, but again, soon after, something’s gotta give.

Looking thoughtfully at my upbringing, both the area I have just considered and the third area previously mentioned were nothing ever discussed in my childhood. Relationships, something I have addressed throughout my posts, are learned mostly through observation. My father worked away from home through most of my elementary and junior high years. He and my mother were not often home together. There was never any sort of hostility, but there was not really any affection either. Shortly after my divorce from my first wife, he plainly stated, “I am not surprised you are divorced.” That statement stunned me and then he explained. My initial response to his summation was rejection. However, further examination proved him spot on. In the area of finances, I knew nothing, and I had little idea of how poor or solvent we were, nor did it ever feel appropriate to ask. My life was a rollercoaster early on, even through a marriage. If I have a malady in that area at this point, I was too generous. This is not an exaggeration. If everyone paid back what they owed me, it would be into 6 figures. And that is not the only area of generosity, footing the bill or giving things to others has always been who I am. It has pushed me into the corner more than once. Somehow, I managed, figuring it out, working harder or more.

Life is choices and consequences. It is both a cliché statement and a truism. It is something I face at the moment in all three areas, not all to the same degree, but certainly simultaneously. Something’s gotta give, and at the moment, perhaps because of age, it seems more imperative. Yet, what sort of power, what amount of agency do I have? I am not sure, but I hope I might figure it out with the sort of class and elegance, the amazing goodness, that it seems Diane Keaton exuded in everything she did. And ironically, my father’s name was Harry.

Thank you for reaching,

Michael

escuchando español

Hola desde el hotel y Main Street Bloomsburg,

It’s Friday night and the end of the week where I have felt like I was on a rollercoaster. The role health has played in my life has been significant, and while that can be argued for any human, from day-one, a premature delivery and a birth weight of 17 ounces has affected my very being in multiple ways. What is still amazing is whether that miraculous start, and survival is still creating consequences. I am not sure if things I face now as a septuagenarian are related to my beginning or if I am merely just getting older. Monday started with multiple doctors’ appointments to manage various issues affecting almost every aspect of who I am. While that is due in part to my travel and needing to manage things in person (most doctors are not licensed to do telemedicine across state lines), so getting everything managed at one time is optimal. The other thing realized in keeping my address and administrative life here is a simple, but important fact: my doctors know me and my unique circumstances, my modified body. That reality was readily apparent this past week as my PCP questioned some things. She is incredibly thorough, and while her concern led to a stressful few days as I waited for the additional testing, the very thought she was so attentive was comforting.

As with earlier this year, returning to Bloomsburg was and is sort of mixed bag. The familiarity can be helpful, but the simple reality that I technically no longer live here is readily apparent on a variety of levels. I have found myself wondering if I should still be working, and imagining what I would have done in the year and a bit longer if I was still in the classroom. Some of my retired colleagues say they never looked back, but I guess I am different. I wonder how much of it was my mantra that being a professor was not what I did, but it was who I was, and still am to some degree. The reality of identity seems to be a bit complicated, or am I merely making it such? I am unsure. More people still refer to me as Dr. Martin than Michael, and even that at times confuses me. Which moniker, which name is more comfortable and why? Another reality is schedules, and certainly people have lives that have continued just fine without me; there’s nothing surprising about that. No one is indispensable, and that is something I have told others for a long time. Higher education is no different; it is a business. The starkness of that truism was profoundly evident in the post-COVID, which on the Bloomsburg campus was exponentially more pronounced by the integration of three campuses (previously other universities in the PASSHE). Even today, running into some former colleagues, I often hear from them “I am jealous.” However, of what? Of no schedule per se, of no daily responsibilities to a classroom, department, students? I realize things I miss more than things I did not enjoy. I understand the profound opportunity and privilege I had to be in a classroom with amazing people.

More appointments today, but also some good news, although tempered. My balance is squared away again, for the time being. The crystals in my right inner ear will always be problematic; and reoccurring vertigo is the pragmatic issue. Getting things back (literally) in balance this time was especially problematic, necessitating at a follow up visit. This is the first full week in almost a year that I have not feel shaky or out of balance. I am hoping to get some work done that has not been possible over the next weeks. The only thing left to manage for the moment is the cataracts that have gotten much worse in the last year. And having Lasik in the past does create some complication, but my ophthalmologist is well aware and already taken that into account. As typical, I have been reading about the procedure and how it might affect me. It seems pretty routine and improving my eyesight will be a good long-term strategy. When I had Lasik done almost 20 years ago, it made a profound difference for me.

I am continually astounded by the xenophobic attitudes of the American public from the person on the street to those who have elected to our national offices. Since it was announced that Bad Bunny, who is Puerto Rican, which is an American Territory, would be performing at the Super Bowl, the ridiculous response to his SNL spot or MTG’s wanting to pass a law before he performs border on the line of absurdity. Even though I can trace some of my family linage back to shortly after the Revolutionary War, there are many in the family who immigrated and spoke another language (e.g. Norwegian, Irish, Spanish). Certainly, their desire to speak English was probably significant, but if you consider the reality of Puerto Rico as a territory, their Hispanic culture is their reality, their identity. Expecting Bad Bunny to only speak English, particularly when his music is indigenous is ludicrous. However, MTG falls into that category regularly. Throughout the decade-plus I have been writing, I have noted on numerous occasions that visiting other cultures, listening to other languages, and experiencing new places and peoples has been one of the most significant things I have done to understand both myself as well as the other. It was while first hopping through the snow in Garmisch, sitting on a train from the Spanish border to Paris, listening to Danish that early morning at the main train station in København, or experiencing a demonstration in Rome listening to the Italian chants, I realized what education really entailed. It was taking in a lecture on Luther as the first socialist at Karl Marx Universitat, being examined at Checkpoint Charley by East German guards, or sharing the reality that I could write to an East German seminary to student, but he could not write back that taught me the differences governments created for its citizens, and the blessings the diversity of America offered. When I worked on a doctoral degree, it was teaching a writing class of all foreign engineering students that to this day was one of the most profound teaching experiences I would have (and I visited one of those students just this past July); traveling with a colleague to offer students the opportunity to experience Eastern or Central Europe, studying Polish in my 60s, hosting exchange students or immersing myself in Moscow after being blessed to have a Russian student share her life for a year and hosting her parents in my home are some of the most transformative things in my life.

Fearing the other, closing ourselves off to the rest of the world out of anger or arrogance is not what made America a great nation. The change we are experiencing over the 40+ years I have found myself traveling to other countries is sad; it is frightening. Even this past summer, my experiences in travel to Denmark, to Poland, and to Spain enriched my life yet again. The globalization of our world has consequence, and those consequences are complex, but our similarities far outweigh our differences. Fearing the differences are not who we have been; it is not who we should be. ¡Que viva el otro! Démosle la bienvenida al otro. Seremos mucho mejores.

Thanks for reading (and listening).

The Other (Dr. Martin/Michael)