The Importance of Integrity

Hello from my upstairs office,

When I was younger, while I did not frequently lie about things, there were times I probably stretched the truth to some degree. Most times it was because I feared a spanking, which my mother was particularly adept at administering. There were times I perhaps revised the facts because I felt stupid or was embarrassed. There were times when I was simply afraid of the consequence. Somehow, in my less-than-astute thought process, I believed whatever story I concocted made sense. Of course, that was because my ability to see the larger picture, to connect the dots, was pretty limited. What is it that causes one to lie? What is it that makes such a process or action seem preferable to merely telling the truth and facing the consequences for our actions?

When I was researching for my comprehensive exams, as well as working toward a dissertation, focusing on Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the German theologian and pastor involved in the plot to assassinate Hitler, required me to consider the reality of lying or the keeping of secrets. Sisela Bok, the Swedish-American philosopher and ethicist, has written two books, which were on my required reading list, one titled Lying: Moral Choice in Public and Private Life, and the second, Secrets: On the Ethics of Concealment and Revelation. I think at the moment is it would be a good thing to revisit both books. It is alarming to me how societally we seem to be comfortable with dishonesty, either through lying and in keeping secrets. In the past few days the firestorm that has erupted because of the secrecy behind what happened (when or as it happened) about the Secretary of Defense is an incredible example. While I am not taking sides on this issue, what about the right to privacy? As more and more things come out, it is apparent there are issues. Words like honesty or transparency are tossed around somewhat haphazardly, but with important consequence. Certainly the political climate of our country and the disarray of how our elected officials seem hellbent on pointing fingers about everything does not bode well for where we are headed.

In one of my classes, while having a conversation about ethics and how ethics function, I asked a class (and these were students I respected for their intelligence and ability pretty much across each member of the class) how many of them had cheated on an assignment while in college. Every single student raised their hand (I guess I should commend that honesty), which stunned me. Then I followed up, how many of you have cheated more than once? Again, every single student raised their hand. As I worked to not pick my jaw up off the ground, I asked why? And the first student to answer said, “You have to compete.” That sentiment was seconded, third-ed, and beyond by the remaining members of the class. When I asked if they found that of concern, no one really did. I remember walking out of class that day quite disillusioned. How did we get to a point that cheating to compete is seen as necessary or acceptable? I do not find any of the students to be bad people, but certainly my opinion of them is affected by what they said. What I remember is struggling to come to grips with my new-found knowledge. What are the ethics of honesty? Is there such a thing? Assuredly, there is a connection between honesty and truth, but what is it? And perhaps more importantly, how does it work? Entire courses are taught on this, so any sense that I can do this topic justice in a blog is a bit ludicrous, or an exercise in the absurd, and yet, it is something worth consideration.

While there are a number of truth theories, perhaps the most accepted one is referred to as correspondence theory, which addresses how our “minds relate to reality” (Ethics Center), but how can we know what something really is if all things are based on perception? Additionally, one might consider what is called a coherence theory of truth, which means one works within the accepted systems, arguing there is a consistency in what is understood (Ethics Center). However, what happens when neither seems to be working? Is all truth situational? It seems we might find ourselves in such a space in our current world, and if so, again, what are the consequences? If truth and honesty are connected, which I believe they are, if there is no substantive truth, what happens to the concept of honesty? If being truthful, whatever that means, is connected to behaving ethically, then honesty is connected. Aristotelian virtue ethics is integrally connected to the concept of honesty, and, in fact, many of Aristotle’s virtues are connected to what he referred to as the “stable equilibrium of the soul” (Sachs). This statement about the soul is, for me, instructional because it is about how conduct connects to our internal compass of right and wrong, of what is acceptable or unacceptable. It is that connection that seem to have lost its way in our present world.

At every level of our national conversation, there seems to be little regard for honesty or truthfulness, the sort of aberrant behavior that characterizes our dialogue is stupefying, and that is in more than one way. First, there is the reality of how startling is it; second, the fact that it is so commonplace we accept it as typical speaks to its insidious consequence. The fact that Richard Nixon resigned rather than be impeached in comparison to where we are today speaks volumes to how our national consciousness, our collective national attitude toward truth and honesty, has changed. While eating lunch with a dear colleague today we noted the difference in our students, their expectations, and the expectations of even our administrators. Education is the foundation of democracy. Critical thought and careful analysis are fundamental to navigating the complexities of the world in which we live. This is not an idealistic hope, it is reality. The fact that a substantial percentage of the American public no longer believes many of the basic tenets of our great American experiment still function or matter does not create any sense of security for our future. How did we get here? There is no easy answer, and to posit one would be naive, but are there things to which one might point as primary concerns. For me, integrity is one. Integrity can be understood as a code of conduct, the principles, the morals or values by which someone chooses to conduct themselves. As such it is a sort of uncompromising set of standards by which someone conducts themselves, a sort of deontological, Kantian understanding of right and wrong, that categorical imperative. Let me also assert there is nothing easy or simple in being unwaveringly principled (mostly because we are selfish – I am reminded of the elements in the Lutheran liturgy which say, “We have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done and by what we have left undone. We have not loved you with our whole heart: we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.” Therein is a the perfect reality of our selfish nature . . . at another point, we note we are selfish and unclean. It seems we have forgotten Paul’s admonishment in Romans 6, when the apostle inquires, “What are we to say to this? Should we sin all the more that grace may abound?” and he answers immediately (in the Greek imperative), “Certainly not!” Again, it seems we have listened only to the first half of Luther’s statement, “If you are going to sin, sin boldly!!” Certainly most don’t know the context of this letter to Melanchthon, but it is worth considering (please do go look at it). It seems most of us have now created the world where this is all we practice. The sort of ask for forgiveness later, if we ask at all.

While it is not my intent to make this a blog about doctrine, there is certainly a connection for me from my time as a parish pastor to the person I am today. It is interesting to me that I believe there are so many parts of my life I would or could be much more effective at than I was at the time. And many of those reasons are related to the very essence of this blog post. I tell my students regularly, intelligence and work ethic are helpful in their roles as a student, but I am as interested in their integrity as anything. It is that element that will propel them toward being successful in a manner that matters more for society, for the future of a world struggling with issues of climate, discrimination, gender-inequality, racism, and the list can go on. Integrity is as much as social construct as issues of truth or honesty. As I write this blog, our former President is in court; the current President’s son has been voted to be in contempt of Congress; the war between Ukraine and Russia continues to rage, killing both combatants and civilians daily; the war between Israel and Hamas (or at large the Palestinians) is an unmitigated humanitarian disaster. Our elected leaders are too busy sniping at each other to lead in a meaningful manner; those running to be the next President seem to have more flaws than attributes; and we are more interested in who wins the Super Bowl or which NFL coach lost their job. Hmmmmmm? Who are we and what have we become as a country, as a humanity? Where did we lose that focus to be people of principle? I am not sure what we can say or to what in specific we might point, but perhaps we need to go back to the things we were taught as pre-schoolers . . . treat people with respect . . . be honest and do not lie . . . use manners first and foremost . . . perhaps we need a primer on al the things we have seemed to have forgotten. I am reminded of the Prayer of St. Francis, which I had sung at my ordination. While there are a number of versions of it, this version by John Michael Talbot was sung by my best friend who has been gone for almost 9 years. It is a song that still convicts me to this day.

Thank you as always for reading, and I wish you peace.

Dr. Martin

Our Propensity for Drama

Good morning very early Wednesday morning,

After an incredibly wonderful, though a bit chilly and wet New Year’s Eve, it seems in spite of vaccinations and a good coat and scarf, I have managed to become one of the numbers (statistics) of which I wrote in my last blog. I have been the majority of my New Year’s in bed. With the help of NyQuil, hydration, and sleep, I’ve made substantial progress, and my COVID tests have remained negative, so I think I am merely fighting either the common, albeit miserable, cold or a variant like a sinus infection. Regardless the diagnosis, it has been a significant reminder that this sort of in-between weather is a best friend of germs. It is helpful that I have been able to stay inside and isolated for the last couple days.

In the meanwhile, the world around me, both near and far, seems to hurtle itself forward as a first-class passenger of Ozzy Osbourne’s “crazy train” (strike up the guitar)! Between the daily ridiculousness of a 2024 campaign, which has not even officially had a caucus or primary yet, assassinations in Lebanon, bombings in Iran, earthquakes in Japan, and the tragedy of the continued war after Russia attacked Ukraine, the proverbial “to hell in a hand-basket” seems apropos. And the daily headlines of our local newspaper continue to focus on what is wrong with things rather than offer any sense of how the goodness of some in our town was such a wonderful way to bring in a new year. Don Henley reminded us quite accurately when he wrote, “people love it when you lose /// kick ‘em when they’re up, kick ‘em when they’re down, kick ‘em all around /// we love dirty laundry.” Why is it we have a fascination with other people’s misery? What makes us want to hear the latest gossip, and the things that will cause the other pain? It is that we are essentially mean or uncaring? That we thrive on drama at the expense of the other? Seldom does a day, or even a few hours of our 24/7 news cycle go on than I am bombarded by the updates on my iPhone or iWatch alerting me 5-10 times in less than 5 minutes about the most recent newsroom catastrophe. And having the world in our hands makes it exponentially more shocking, except that it no longer is all that shocking, which really is the thing that should shock me. If this sentence seems unclear, read it again slowly. We are in midst of what seems to be a constant, never-ending series of crises. Is it true? Is there no hope for us as we have become obsessed with the latest dirt? Do I really need to know more about the Jeffrey Epstein list (and I am in no way saying anything supportive of him)? And in spite of my own political position, the practical reality that campaigns never stop makes me detest the entire political process, and yet I am well aware of the need for a well-educated electorate. Can I understand why some people want to go-off-the-grid, as some call it? That is an emphatic, “hell yes!”

Certainly, there is little I can write, say, or do that will change this, and our head-long dive off the 250 ft. cliff into the ocean of AI will do little to slow that. And for the record, I am not anti-AI, but I am beyond concerned about the issues of boundaries, privacy, and the ethics of it. So . . . Now that I have depressed you all . . . What might we do? As crazy as it might sound, and Ozzy is still singing, “Crazy, but that’s how it goes.” I think it begins with a (conceptually) simple adjustment in what I am willing to sign on to. Note the parenthetical adverb. If I make a conscious effort to stay away from gossip and drama might I look at the world differently? If I choose, if I take some agency for my surroundings, might I decide to focus on the positives of any given situation rather than ruminate on the sad or negative aspects of the moment, the day, or the world? How is it we love gossip, that we seem to thrive on it? Our need to know is seldom really knowing, it is only hearing an aspect of something and we’re off to the races. Needing to tell our important nugget of some salacious set of facts that will only create more hurt than help. Ironically, some of the next words in Ozzy’s famous song are, “Maybe it’s not too late to learn how to love and forget how to hate.” What if we might simply pause before we choose to dive into the latest drama of something? What if we consider the humanity of the other before we jump on that out-of-control bandwagon, a vehicle of discontentment and damage? The destruction and havoc caused by our drama-driven need to know hurts all of us. The broken relationships, the shattered dreams, or the loss of hope in those affected by our need to join the cacophony of noise is profound. The long-term consequences change people’s lives snuffing out potential.

I’m sure those of you who read regularly are wondering from where this blog post emanated? I am not a resolution maker; and I am generally an optimist. And yet, there are a handful of situations that cause me pain, in most cases more for the other than myself. In each situation there is a sense of discord and a history of consequence. In each life, there was (and is) such potential for goodness, but through decisions and choices, there is turmoil. Turmoil that overshadows the ability to proceed on a more beneficial path. Too often, the drama of the situation controls most of what occurs. Too often I have let that drama control me, but that is my own fault. Too often I wanted to believe, foolishly, I could do something to change it. Perhaps both naive and a bit arrogant. Walking away is not something I often do, though a couple of people could assert I have. Learning is something I do try to do consistently, though I am sometimes a bit slow. While I am most assuredly not climbing on any sort of resolution-making process, I do think I am making a conscious effort to eliminate as much drama from my life as possible. It was 26 years ago today I sang at my father’s funeral – that I officiated the committal service for him in Graceland Park Cemetery in Sioux City, Iowa. It was a bitterly cold January in the snow as I buried the best father I could hope to have, and he adopted me, not the other way around. He was known for his perfect smile, his affable demeanor, and his willingness to give to others. He is remembered by me for the things he said that were not arguable. He told me often, “Choose your battles wisely and fight them well.” I listened to that, perhaps too well. What I did not listen to as carefully, and perhaps more importantly was the rejoinder. He added, “And don’t make them all battles.” Dad, I am still learning that part.

It stuns me it has been a quarter century since I last saw his smile, a smile that would light up a room, or heard his matter-of-fact wisdom. He was not a drama person. He was much too wise. I need to remember and tap into that wisdom. I am not sure he would ever appreciate Ozzy, but this is a kinder video, so perhaps. I still miss you, Dad, and I love you.

Thanks as always for reading.

Dr. Martin

More than a Number

Hello from my living room,

It is quiet and peaceful; I returned from a wonderful family Christmas, back in Iowa for the holiday for the first time in a decade. Currently, the music is off; the fireplace is burning softly; and I closed my eyes for a brief minute or two. At the moment, after a morning of schoolwork, I am just enjoying the solitude. The day still has plans, interactions, and things to achieve, but I have learned to relish those times of a simple nihilism. Perhaps there is something positive in Nietzsche after all. Dr. Hansen would be proud of my progress in accepting things I found unreasonable. I remember him saying to my protestations, “Michael, you do not have to agree with it; you need to understand it.” How correct he was.

As someone who struggled mightily with mathematics in public school, I am amazed how numbers fascinate me (Dr. Kahn, there is hope for me yet!). We are controlled by numbers. We are often allowed to move forward or held back by a quantity, a value, or a limit which is numerical. We are attached to numbers be it our age, our SSN, or our standing when digitally compared to those around us. My students and generations of students before them (as was I) are worried beyond comprehension by a GPA, placing an indeterminate pressure upon themselves to achieve the requisite level to be considered successful. How much money do you have? How much do you owe on your home, your car, your credit cards, your student loans? How much money have you saved for retirement or have you set aside for your health needs? I think you get the idea. Indeed, there is no corner of our life we have not quantified in some manner.

Currently, my own life is constantly monitored by a CGM patch telling me where I stand in my battle with Type II diabetes. My regiment of medication to keep me humming away with some degree of health are all determined by milligrams and dosages. Certainly, the ability to quantify is important for order, for structure or boundaries, for anticipating possibilities, but it is possible we lose our humanity in the numbered-word-cloud that explains who we are or what we do? I think that too often that is the case. I appreciate order, structure, and managing expectations perhaps more than most, but I am struggling; I do not wish to accept anything that reduces me to an algorithm, little more than a numeric potential. And yet, that world is here. These are things I ponder when I am awake at 2:00 a.m. . During the fall semester I spent significant time in my 400 level course focusing on AI with my students. It is not a futuristic concern; it is for the most part so far ahead of the average person’s scope of concern that we need to be concerned. Concerned is not the same as frightened, but rather it is thinking about it; learning as much as possible, using it on a regular basis to understand it, and then determining the potentiality of it. The ability to invent, to reimagine, is an essential element of who we are. Things that once stupefied us now seem mundane, but those possibilities became realities because of dreamers, those people both fascinated by numbers, unafraid of the world or of the unimaginable.

Daily in classrooms I see that student who thinks differently, who questions incessantly, and sometimes (often) they have little idea of the possibilities, of the depth of their question. And yet they ask. There are moments I want to respond that their question is not relevant to the issue, but often I refrain. I might ask them to hold on to that question. I might say that we’ll get there. Sometimes the student might be a student with what we societally refer to as “needing an accommodation,” particularly when we label them as “on the spectrum.” However, they are the very individuals who make connections most of us miss. They are the ones who see possibilities most cannot. They defy the numbers. As I am coming to the end of my active full-time teaching, I find myself reflecting more on what I have learned than perhaps what I have taught. I have been influenced by so many students and they have taught me probably more than I could ever hope to impart for them. What we refer to as “the COVID Semester,” the Spring of 2020, when our world turned upside down, I had an incredibly capable student, but also an incredibly trying student. He noted one day in class that I did not like him. He was mistaken, and I did tell him that. And while the conversation was more complex than noted here, I told him in all my time teaching there was only one student I could truly say I did not like (and I believe that student earned an A in my course – in fact in both of them). And 30 years of cumulative time, that person might be one of the most capable, intelligent students I ever taught. The reason to dislike them had to do with integrity. I am hopeful as a parent, which I know they are, they are teaching their something very different than what was exhibited by them.

As I ponder the numbers, the dates, the possibilities, I find the things that matter most are not as easily quantified. Do you have integrity? Are you able to work with other people for the common good? Are you willing to question in a thoughtful and respectful manner for the sake of intellectual curiosity? These are the things that will make both our own life and the lives of those around us meaningful, hopeful, worthy of the incredible possibilities that stand in front of us. As the year completes and a number changes, this song is one of my favorite songs from an incredible artist gone far too soon. As I ponder the coming year, the reconnections with my past in significant ways give me joy and hope. I am so blessed to be more than a number.

https://youtu.be/cfAxWtcfDUk?si=sgAogHhj98lVfih7

I wish you all a blessed new year, and thank you for reading.

Michael

Recollections and Reckonings

Hello from the Shadows of the Clock Tower in Menomonie,

I have sort of snuck into town for a couple days. I was blessed to share dinner with two couples last evening, one a former colleague and his partner, and the second two incredible friends and culinary inventors by whom I was regularly blessed when I lived here. I hope to do some mutual working over the next day to help him prepare for his coming New Years soirée. Coming back to Menomonie evokes the entire gamut of thoughts and possible emotions because there is so much that happened in the six years I lived here, as well as the additional 6 years I returned regularly to spend time with Lydia. This New Year’s Day will be 9 years ago she passed away. It is stunning that much time has passed.

My last two visits, I have stayed a a new hotel, built on the block across from Harvey Hall and the tower. Former businesses on this block included a coffee shop where I spent significant time and a pizza restaurant where Dan and I were known to have our students. Later, while caring for Lydia, there was a corner pharmacy where I spend a lot of time getting her meds. In fact, the breakfast area of the Inn is on the exact footprint of the pharmacy. And of course, other establishments like The Logjam, Acoustic Cafe, or the Raw Deal create recollections of conversations, of time spent grading, or sharing a meal over the 20 years since I first came to Dunn County. There are the places that no longer exist that are central parts of my memories on the Red Cedar River and Lake Menomin (and some also on Tainter Lake) – Zanzibar Restaurant, where many a night in conversation with Mark while sipping on an Akvavit and tonic, or the original Caribou Coffee location, where much of my dissertation was written, (and there is a second location now and perhaps a third). Those places bring back memories of people, one who would travel back from Placerville to Menomonie one summer, students who would come to see me at Caribou, Acoustic, or the Raw Deal and ask questions. There were colleagues that I worked with in Dr. Daniel Riordan’s Teaching and Learning Center, some of whom are treasured to this day. I think of former restaurants, like The Creamery in Downsville, a place I heard about before I even arrived. Strange how so many memories have to do with food and beverage, right?? Probably not. Today, I met with a former student and her two children. She sat in the back of my composition classroom almost twenty years ago. Little did I know that she would be the person who would first try to manage Lydia in Lydia’s own home. Little did I know she would edit a dissertation for me. Little did I know that even today, she would drive with her two incredible children to have lunch with me, only yards away from the building where she first graced my classroom. Menomonie was a place that both provided a start for me as an academic, and simultaneously almost buried me. I was fortunate to have those, both in academe as well as in town, step up and support me. Dr. Daniel Riordan almost single-handedly guided me through that final year. Dr. Mark Decker, even though he was in Pennsylvania, gave me an exit ramp. Mark and Robin Johnson were always there, even after I left to make coming back to Menomonie a homecoming, even until today. And then there is Lydia . . .

It was nine years ago to this day, I saw Lydia for the last time. I would be flying to Poland the next day, the first of a number of trips. Lydia was fading, but hanging on with all her might. In spite of the belief she would pass in about three days, she would live another 13. As I sat on the floor by her bed that evening, I wept quietly because I knew I would not see her again. Fortunately, Nate and his family were driving in from North Carolina to be with her, making sure she did not pass away without anyone there. All of the sudden, I felt Lydia’s hand on my shoulder. She had been mostly non-responsive that last two days. I looked at her with tears in my eyes, leaking down my face, and I whispered to her, “You became my mother.” She managed a faint smile, and responded, “I know.” I told her in a breaking voice that I loved her, and she again responded, “I love you too.” I moved up to her side and hugged her. She closed her eyes, and I stood by her side as my shoulders began to shake. Her room was at the end of the hall, directly across from the family gathering place. I went out there, and sunk into an over-stuffed chair, and I wept. The person who changed my life in so many ways, and did so long after her passing, was about to leave a world that saw her move from more than one country in Europe to more than one continent in the world. I went back to her home, gathered my things, and I would return to her room one last time that evening. I entered her room, and she was sleeping peacefully. I bent over her and gently kissed her on the forehead, and I whispered so softly I barely heard my own voice, “Lydia, I love you.” Once again, I went out to the same chair and did my own reprise of my earlier event, sitting and crying unabashedly a second time. It was now snowing, and the the roads would be slippery, and I was flying out of the Mpls/St. Paul airport early in the morning. As I left that time, I knew life would not be the same, nor would Menomonie. Lydia, would live until New Year’s Day, and again, the debt of gratitude I have toward the Langton’s for being there those last days is unpayable. There were also others who cared for Lydia at times, from the incredible staff at Comforts of Home those last three-plus years, from my former student who lived above her to a second student, who lived in my little house the first year I was in Bloomsburg. She did her best to manage the little Austrian tornado, who did little to make her life any easier. Some of the things Lydia did to make her life difficult defy logic, but that was Lydia. She had a stubbornness that was unmatched, particularly when she was such a diminutive character. While her stature was small, there was nothing about her otherwise that lacked size. So in the almost decade that has passed, so many things have happened, and the majority of them in my new location.

Since leaving Stout (and Menomonie as a full-time resident) the summer of 2009, I have been blessed to call Bloomsburg my home. It is actually the zip code I have resided in the longest since graduating from high school. My time in Bloomsburg, both professionally and personally, created an individual who is now fortunate to say he has been in the academy, has mentored and instructed a generation of students, and has been blessed to be a member of a community where I would like to believe I have made some contributions that have changed people’s lives. Between creating professional relationships both at the university and in town, I have been enriched in my own life. At times unexpectedly, fortuitously, events or people have come across my path that have changed my life in ways unanticipated. That first trip to Poland, noted above, introduced to me an incredible colleague, professor, who allowed me to travel with him to Poland (and Central/Eastern Europe) on subsequent trips. Those trips and experiences changed my life beyond measure, from experiencing an entirely different part of the world to spending two summers to begin learning Polish. I have met people who continue to be in my life, each of them a blessing in their own manner. I believe it was my own traveling aboard, which had not happened for 25 years, that prompted me to become a host parent for exchange students. Now, even though the first student who spent significant time with me was not technically a program student. I have a Russian daughter because of it. Two additional sons, one from Denmark and one from Estonia, both blessed and taught me in very different ways. I am a better person because of all three of them. My view of myself and the world has changed significantly because of my travel and the people I have met. This past couple years, rather than Europe, I went south to Central and South America. Those experiences were also incredibly life-changing. I am always amazed by the cultures that I have immersed in as I travel, from their values and philosophies to their languages and the food, there is so much to learn.

As I move into this new year, rather than thinking of the past, I find myself being pushed into the future, a future that will include retirement during this calendar year. While I am thinking and planning, I believe there is a certain consistency with most of my life. I am unsure of what will happen, and while in the past I was not worried about that, allowing choices to dictate my path, there has to be some planning, mostly in the area of healthcare, and a reality that says, in spite of our expertise, our wealth, and our ability, the way we manage our healthcare is abysmal. I have made my appointments with insurances, with Medicare, and with my pension personnel. I am working on making sure there are no surprises. And yet, I am open to whatever happens on the other side of August. I have possibilities and plans; I have considered various options, and even some new ones, and the excitement and chance of working toward something mutual is beyond what I ever imagined possible. As I often tell my students, ponder, plan, and believe in yourself and the options. Whatever choice you make, do the best at it you can. While my expectations are always exciting, I do believe that living in the moment matters. As I move into this next year, I will savor each experience, both wondering about the future, but building on my past. I wish you all a wonderful end of this year, and a prosperous and blessed new one to come. I will believe in the possibilities and move forward with a sure and certain hope.

Thank you as always for reading and Blessed New Year!

Dr. Martin

A Few of my Favorite Things

Hello from my office,

I have caught up on my morning class requirements, need to work on Spring things, and I hope to get some cards completed yet today, but I want to write and reflect too, so it seems, for the moment, the writing wins. When I was in elementary school, my hometown had a group called the Sioux City Children’s Choir. You had to audition to be in the choir, and we practiced weekly on Saturday afternoons. We recorded a Christmas album in the Masonic Temple and one of the Spring concerts was based on the pieces from Rogers and Hammerstein’s Sound of Music. To this day, I have most of the lyrics committed to memory. What are some of your favorite things? Ponder and remember for the moment, but as importantly, what makes them favorites? Seldom does something inanimate have the ability to become a favorite without a memory or experience surrounding it. And sometimes, those things which achieve such a status can be forgotten until something occurs to remind us of their importance. What makes something dear to us is something that evokes an emotion while simultaneously connecting us to both the thing and possibly the event. Sometimes the item or the event might seem even a bit mundane, but at the moment it had an incredible effect on our experience, changing our mood, brightening a moment, and creating a memory that is lasting.

As is well evidenced, Advent and Christmas are two of my favorite things, but if I break that down a bit, what were the memories that helped establish that? One was the food at my grandmother’s table. She and her elder sister, my Great-aunt Helen, were fabulous in the kitchen. They were not fancy, and yet they were elegant. That Christmas table was set in a way that you felt like you have been invited to the King’s Madrigal dinner. An experience, to this day, I wish I had participated in is a Madrigal event. Perhaps it will still happen. However, Christmas dinner at Grandma’s house was an event worth memory in and of itself. From the bakery pies to the fresh baked rolls and breads, from the perfectly prepared side dishes (and if you could imagine it, it was there) to the main courses of exquisitely prepared roast turkey and the juiciest of hams, from the sides of olives, candied crab apples, which I can no longer seem to find, it was a feast. The second thing I remember, and look at very differently now, is before we opened presents, we sang Christmas carols together (remember those small caroling books that were everywhere). My older brother and I played our instruments (he trombone and I trumpet) and my sister led the singing. We would sing for perhaps a half hour. At the time, I remember not liking to practice for this event, but while it occurred and everyone sang, it was quite fabulous. And perhaps a favorite present – one year we got a really nice wooden toboggan, and we would take it to slide down the hills at the acreage. It was a wonderful time. That toboggan provided hours of fun for the entire neighborhood, and my older brother used Johnson’s Paste wax, buffing it with an electric drill buffing disc until it shone in the light.

Looking back on favorite things or moments now, most of those things are about memories and people. Over the past month or so, I have been blessed to reconnect with an incredibly intelligent, insightful, and compassionate person. It is hard to believe we have known each other for over two decades, and yet there is this connecting thread that has woven its way through time and space, and much like two magnets, we have either attracted the other, or when circumstances were not ideal one could argue that like when the two poles of a magnet are the same,7 we were pushed apart. And yet, now it seems through conversations, texts, and questions we find that we have overlapping favorite things. The one that both surprises and tickles me is hot chocolate, or in their words hot cocoa. Who would have imagined? There are moments we both remember over the period of time, and while we do not always remember them the same, the recollections about those mutually- significant events have profound similarities when comparing thoughts and feelings. That has been a joy to uncover and imagine. Sometimes, we have little idea about, nor are we prepared for, how an encounter might change our lives.

However, I ponder some of my favorite things there is a theme, or so it seems. I am most at peace when the people around me are content with what is occurring. Contentment is illustrated most often by a smile, a sigh of relief, or simply feeling as there is nothing more that needs to happen at that time. I have learned through the years that a sense of serenity is rare, and oft times, we are not even aware that it has happened, that is, until it is gone. It is a quietness that needs not be broken. A second thing I find to be a preferred thing or state for me is that moment of unexpected happiness. It is when something falls into place, something is completed or accomplished, coming after some hard, intentional effort. We are not always aware that our task is finished, but there is an emotional release, allowing us to feel that proverbial weight off our shoulders, and the happiness that follows is genuine, nothing contrived. I remember when the chair of my dissertation shook my hand after my dissertation defense and the committee’s subsequent deliberation, and he said, “Congratulations, Dr. Martin.” I felt my legs seem to lose all feeling, wondering if it were his hand in mine that was holding me up. The relief and the happiness, the immense feeling of accomplishment is something I have seldom felt.

And yet, not all momentous moments of accomplishment have been joyful. I remember when I was ordained at my home parish in October of 1988. It was a moving service, and it went off well. The people I had invited, the participating clergy, family and friends were there to help me celebrate this important moment in my life. After the service, I there was the obligatory reception, and people gathered at my parents’ home following the reception, but I was not feeling celebratory. I was feeling so overwhelmed by the gravity of what had just occurred that I was sick to my stomach. The stole, the yoke, which scripture says would be light, not burdensome, felt more like the scriptural millstone. While I was happy to be ordained, the awesome reality of being a pastor was humbling and frightening. While I had passed the classes, managed certification, and felt a deep sense of calling, I felt inadequate and wondering if I could be true to that calling. Even though I eventually left the roster and finished a PhD, as my seminary colleague, colleague as a clergy person, and person for whom I have the deepest respect and joy for her friendship notes (and has through the years), “Michael, you have always been called.” She humbles me yet today. And yet those moments when the Holy Spirit worked through me, be it at a funeral, in a sermon, at a youth retreat, or in weekly worship are still some of my most treasured moments. It was not what I did, but rather what occurred through me. Even today in a classroom, in a advising meeting, in a committee meeting, I am only as effective as those around me make it possible. While I certainly have agency in all moments, it is the community working together that makes the best things happen.

It seems what connects all of this for me is that community, the group of people with whom I am fortunate enough to have surrounding me. Each class is its own community, and that showed up in my First Year Seminar in ways I never anticipated. Through the art and task of cooking together, the community created was stunningly effective. When things work, they are effective and efficient, I find a sense of joy and accomplishment, but it is about a group joy for me. When a class speaks to me at the end of the semester and says they learned things they never expected to learn, particularly in a Foundations in Composition course, I find happiness that is seldom paralleled. Most students are not pleased that Writing 103 is on their schedule, but a fall student wrote, “As my final sentiment to this last discussion post, I would like to thank you Dr. Martin. You pushed me every day of this class to better myself and also provided me with opportunities to do so outside of class. You offered a timeless and personal sense, sharing knowledge that many teachers I have had over the years lacked. It is truly educators like you that make students like me want to pursue a career in education.” Again, this is both humbling, but gratifying. It is one of my favorite things when I am fortunate enough to make a difference in someone’s life. Perhaps that has become my favorite thing, be it professional or personal, if what I do makes a difference, makes a person’s life better, more focused, more secure, more hopeful, I am the person who actually receives the gift. I have for at least half my life tried to live in a way that if my life makes other peoples’ lives more meaningful, I make my own life more meaningful. Let me note, there is no true altruistic nature in such a philosophical stance. I do gain something. Perhaps what I have gained is I know what brings me my greatest joy, simply making someone’s life more hopeful. So to simplify it here are some things that would classify for me as favorites (and some sound a bit oxymoronic): joy, hope, contentment, sincerity, gratitude, love, and peacefulness. Again, perhaps not ironic as I finish this post in the last week of Advent that those four candles, which are hope, love joy, and peace, are in my list. I wish you each a blessed remainder of this calendar year, and may the light of Epiphany shine bright for you in and throughout the coming year. One of my favorite pieces, both from the original movie, but as reimagined as the end of the first season for the New Directions in the show Glee, I leave this as I find it beyond moving.

https://youtu.be/BYIh0Td8EPs

Blessed Holidays to you all,

Dr. Martin

“Do you hear what I hear?”

Hello from my upstairs office at the Mini-acre,

This past week has been a quick transition from fall semester to winter term. Over a couple of days, I was simultaneously completing the calculation and submission of fall grades and jumping headlong into the winter term while working with students to get them up and running in my asynchronous, online Technical Writing class. It is not only a blink of an eye for me, but for students also as finals had completed just the Friday before. They are exhausted from the fall, and they have chosen to cram fifteen weeks into 23 days of class. That is a tall order for anyone, and it takes some careful reconsideration on my part. I need to make sure there is a substantive amount of material that I have still covered the learning objectives of the course, but I still need to make sure it is achievable in the allotted time. Fortunately, this is the seventh or eighth time I have taught this particular class, so I believe I am more effective and much more reasonable in my expectations. The first two times I did it from Poland, so along with the compact time period, there as a time difference, so meeting with students was a different challenge. Often I was working at 1:00-3:00 in the morning Polish time. It was actually a good learning experience.

Those of you who know me are well aware of my profound appreciation for the Advent and Christmas seasons of the liturgical year. This affinity began when I was small and, perhaps, even when I was still living with my grandparents. However, it was certainly there in elementary school because Christmas was my grandmother’s holiday (she claimed it as such). Between the long hours at her bakery, preparing all the holiday baked goods from her Scandinavian background, her home, with its three acres of land turned into a fairytale world of decorations and an atmosphere where love permeated every corner. Walking into her home, the very place I spent my pre-school years, on Christmas morning was the epitome of the seasonal carol, “to Grandmother’s house we go.” I felt safe and loved once again. Kris, my sister, and I would have our belongings for the next week as we resided back in our first home of memory for the remainder of our Christmas break. That feeling of magic is what I work to create every year in my own home.

Last night, I invited a couple, who have become treasured friends over the last few years. This is our second Christmas gathering, though we do get together at other times. It was interesting to hear her recollections of last year’s decorations, which were pretty spot on, and note the differences this year. She has pretty incredible attention to detail. While I certainly decorated this year, I believe the decorations are more styled to creating a particular ambiance, perhaps less noticeable because of size, but more elegant at the same time. Whatever, each room of the house has some element of the wonder of Christmas, which for me is such a foundational piece of my memory. Some shake their collective heads in wonder at my Christmas decorations, but I am not named Griswold, so in case you have that image in your head, please dispense of it. Each year is a sort of gift to those who come to visit, and it makes me feel happy the entire day as I putz around my house.

And yet, not all find their memories as comforting. I know this reality, and I find it sad. They hear something, feel something, very different in this season of lights and anticipation. I see it when I stop to place something in the kettles with the bell ringers; I am made aware of it when I see the trees with angels and a person’s name who doesn’t have the possibility of Christmas as a season of giving. I will go tomorrow to pick a name or two and see what I can offer. Where did the beginning of giving to those who are not as fortunate begin? Most will argue that it was Dicken’s amazing story of Scrooge that began it all (in 1843). Dickens wrote about the students (children) he saw on the streets of London in the poorer sections, and it was a time that England was reconsidering its own struggles with the Christmas traditions. Dickens published his little book on the 19th of December (almost to that day), and it sold out by Christmas Eve (A Christmas Carol – Wikipedia 16Dec2023). I remember playing Scrooge one year in the Sioux City Children’s Community Theatre production. I can still remember many of the lines (Weather seems to be getting colder, said Bob Crachit, the poor underpaid clerk. “COLD? HUMBUG! It doesn’t feel cold to me!” responded the misered-curmudgeonly Ebenezer Scrooge.) And yet what do we see and what do we hear in this world that seems so torn apart by animosity, corporate greed, and a lust for power? Certainly our increased distance from December when the Christmas things appear is an example of our obsession with making Christmas about buying.

It would be easy to become disillusioned by it all, but I refuse to travel down that path. Lydia, the amazing elderly woman I cared for a decade, asked me every morning when I came to fix her breakfast (note an Austrian accent), “Michael, how are you?” And I would respond regularly, “I am well, and I have no complaints.” Her response was always the same, “That is disgusting.” And I would tell her that I was brought into her life to balance out her cynicism. She told me that was BS. And so it went. In some ways, in spite of her really good heart, she pretended to be a Scrooge of sorts. She did not like Christmas, and was so astounded when she would walk into my winter-wonderland only yards from her backdoor. I think the idea of giving to someone and making some difference in their life is really what the holiday is about. Ironically, it is because of Lydia that I have been able to give as a do, or to the degree that I do. I love seeing the look of surprise on someone’s face and the joy in their eyes when they receive something unexpected. For me, and this is my Grandmother through-and-through, it is so much more about what I can give rather than what I might receive. It gives me such joy to find that perfect thing that someone might not expect. What I see, what I feel, and what I hear, even without words, makes the moment worth it. I will not make a drastic change in our world that seems to pretend once a year (for thirty days or so) to care about those who have less than the other, but I can make a difference in the people with whom I come into contact. Maybe it is as simple as letting them go first in a crowded store; perhaps it is the willingness to allow the other person at the corner to proceed in their car before me, and those few seconds will make no difference to me and a world of difference to them. Maybe it is being willing to accept a late assignment with no penalty at this point. What do I see, what do I hear?

The dissonance of the world can drown out the incredible chords of the Christmas carols that some do not want to hear. Again, with them showing up earlier and earlier, I have some empathy, but from Thanksgiving to Epiphany, I am all about them. There is that melancholy side of me who does appreciate the minor key signs, those diminished chords or even the 7th of the chord brings me a particular feeling of reality and hope at the same time. Veni Veni, Emmanuel (sung in Latin) will get me every time (Mannheim Steamroller’s initial version of it is really gorgeous). Likewise, this blog post is the title of another of my favorite Christmas carols. Do you hear what I hear? The second or third year I was a parish pastor, for our Children’s service, which we titled “The Animals Christmas,” I asked everyone to bring a stuff animal to put in the chancel area. That is an entirely different story for sometime, but I did a monologue sermon, in my nightshirt, bathrobe, slippers, and long-tailed stocking hat. I carried my teddy-bear and used the music of the first Mannheim Steamroller Christmas as background, and spoke about the animals and what they must have witnessed that first Christmas. I noted about the giving of that same Grandmother, mentioned earlier. As I put my teddy-bear to bed (on a piano bench made up like a bed, in the midst of 100s of stuffed animals in the chancel, the last strains of Stille Nacht on that first of the Christmas albums of Chip Davis, played and the lights faded. As the lights came back up, there were members of the congregation with tears streaming down their face. I was stunned. Now, some thirty years later, I am reminded of how something so simple as a stuffed animal and the recollection of caring could be so powerful. They heard so much more than perhaps I did that night. I was just worried about doing it well and hopefully that someone would realize the magical power of giving.

Today I was reminded of the frailty of life again as I listened to the stories of so many people I care for and love. Yes, in the cacophony of competing sounds that can overwhelm, I choose (and it is a choice) to hang on the hope that small acts of kindness will make a world of difference for the person receiving it. Step back for a moment, and if you have the means, give to the other. Listen for a moment for the tones and the songs that remind us that this is goodness in people. Sometimes we merely need to let it occur. To my students over the years who still read this: thank you for being the amazing light in my last 30 years. To those who are students now, I wish you a blessed holiday with your families. I wish you all a blessed last week of Advent as you prepare. For my friends of other faiths, I wish you a blessed season in your own traditions. And here is the carol that inspired this blog.

I wish you each a wonderful coming week and thank you for reading,

Dr. Martin

Where you Belong

Hello at the end of Finals Week and Grading,

I remember finals weeks as a combination of merely wanting to finish and feeling exhausted while simultaneously seeing it as some sort of proving ground, wondering if I had done the requisite work over the past three months to demonstrate some sense of competency (which is often misinterpreted as average) with the material I had digested in that time period. I remember one semester when I had, unknowingly to the Registrar, attempted 23 credits. I went to two classes I had not signed up for because I wanted to return to my German; I needed to take Greek for Seminary, and I had signed up for a Latin class from another college because I believed it would be helpful. Having all three finals on the same day, however, was a bit much. I remember walking across the Dana campus and the carillons were ringing. All I could think was Hemingway: “For whom the bell tolls,” ran through my head because I was quite sure I had just received a serious butt-kicking. That finals week was at the end of my first semester sophomore year. With the exception of my final week of seminary or perhaps my comprehensives or dissertation defense, it was as stressful as any time I was working through my degrees. And yet, as I look back, I was where I was supposed to be at the time. Most often I did not realize the appropriateness of the time, but rather wondered what I was midst of.

Recently I wrote of changes in direction or path being much like the process of revising a paper, that time when we look at the global changes that are necessary to get something to really be effective, to work in an optimal manner. Revision is one of the most frightening things we can do, whether it be in a paper or something more substantive, like a major component of our lives. Often revisional requirements, actions that change our trajectory, are because of our own actions (or inaction). Sometimes those changes are foisted upon us because of the needs of others. Regardless the underlying cause, such revisional action is seldom done without a degree of trepidation, a particular level of anguish, or in a way that we consider it matter-of-fact. When I think of those events, those occasions when I have been required (or chosen) to make such a drastic move, there was never a time it happened without an emotional response; there was never a time that one of those emotions was not fear; and there was not a single instance where I had complete confidence I would be okay. And yet, here I am, and I am okay. It is very different to look back at some of those events, and perhaps, I find in spite of the trauma of some of those things, they needed to occur for something more positive to follow. I also realize that there is so much one can learn if only open to riding that process out.

When I consider the events in my life that were revisional, they started early. Early enough that I do not remember them . . . like being probably less than two and being moved to live with my Grandparents. The second revision was being adopted and being moved to the Martin household. As you can see, that one stuck because I still have that familial name. The next revision was something we all do, and that is graduate from high school, but my choice took me from Iowa to San Diego, CA for Marine Corps Boot Camp. The next years would be a continual revision of both place and identity, and by the time I got home, I had little idea who I was, but I knew I was not the same underweight, under-tall, under-emotionally mature, and there are a probably a couple more unders I could add that had left Sioux City some years before. The mid-1970s were not an easy time, and the number of things I did, learned, experienced created a dichotomy of sorts when I arrived in Blair, NE the fall of 1979. Belonging was not something I understood, and the reasons for that were legion, but hearing from a young age that I did not belong, feeling for most of my adolescent years that I was never big enough, good enough, popular enough was difficult. I was too small to play football, too short to play basketball, too weak to be a great wrestler, or too slow to be a great runner (although some of that would change later), too often it was what I was not rather than what I was.

It was when I arrived at Dana that I began to believe there were possibilities, and that I might belong. And yet, I was different there too. Now, because of a previous year’s visits as a member of an LYE team called Daybreak, I was known. I was older, and I played guitar, which was appreciated. It was really the first time I believed something beyond average was possible. My father’s words “anyone can be average” had been an indictment more than I knew, and for the first time, it seems I had an opportunity to do something better. And yet was I where I belonged? I was not completely convinced, and there was a moment (close to a year) I would transfer out and attend the University of Iowa because I convinced Dana, as a community, required more than I could give. The struggle to belong had overwhelmed me once again. Iowa was an important place for me because I was allowed to disappear and decide how I would manage life. Going from a school of 700 to over 22,000 was an incredible change, but it was a good one for this mid-20s student. I could blend in and focus on my school work. It was a time when I crammed more stuff in than ever before, but it worked. I was able to focus on both school and myself, and that was a new concept. It seemed I found where I belonged, at least at that time, in that moment. What gives someone a sense of belonging? To some degree it is about the persuasion of the place . . . it is about the daily routine and something seemingly mundane, and yet, it is often about something much deeper. It is about what nourishes one’s soul, one’s psyche, sustaining them in a consistent and wholesome way that a sense of comfort and peace prevails. This is when someone is where one belongs. And yet, I find myself questioning is it about place or about what one does? I think for me it has always been both. I am generally profoundly connected to place. It is why the rhetoric of place has always been of interest to me. It is because of my need to feel like I belong somewhere.

And now, revision is on the horizon again. For almost 15 years I have had the same zoip code. That is a record amount of time for me to be in one place. And Bloomsburg has been good for me and to me. I remember the conversation with my neighbors and dear friends, Tom and Elaine Lacksonen. Sitting in their living room, I cried as I thought about leaving Menomonie. They assured me that such a move might prove to be one of the best things that could happen. They were correct beyond my wildest imagination. Being afforded the opportunity to be at Bloomsburg (now Commonwealth) University has been one of the most profound personal and professional gifts I could ever hope to experience. As I noted in a recent Facebook post, from department colleagues to those in my college, including a Dean; from those on university committees to administrators; from incredible staff from custodians to food workers, from professional staff in advisement to Professional U or the Foundation, so many significant experiences have shaped the time here. And then there are the students, I have learned so much from them as well as been allowed to mentor, to educate, and share in their journeys. If it were not for them, I would have had no reason to come. And now with the integration, I have met wonderful students at Lock Haven and Mansfield. In the town, from coffee shops to restaurants, from small stores to bakeries, so many wonderful people have made my time here phenomenal. Working with doctors, caregivers, and others, I was provided an opportunity to use my own medical journey to get others to understand something difficult. Seldom does a day go by that there isn’t a moment that shouts out, you are where you belong. One of the things I am asked regularly is what will happen now. And while I have some short-term plans, and some long-term ideas, I have realized I am not a person to be pinned down.

That is related to the idea of place and belonging yet again. I sometime envy those who are homebodies, those content to stay in one place. My sandbox buddy as I call her, friends from the beginning of school is such a person. She has been content to live within a 10 mile radius for the great majority of her life. Even now as there are questions about the home she has lived in for probably forty years, she would never go far from where she is. Her sense of belonging to a place is strong. As I have noted recently, going home last summer did a lot to give me a sense of being from Sioux City once again. I did feel like I had come home. It was both surprising and gratifying. And yet, my desire to wander is integral to who I have become. I am not sure it is who I was because I never felt the need to go and find something growing up, whereas my sister was quite different. While I was not content in the sense of being pleased or happy where I was, I had no sense of why I would do something differently. Now the idea of the differance, yes, in the Saussure or Derrida understanding, is appealing to me. The willingness to see a word as subjected to what is around it for meaning works also when it comes to a sense of place. Belonging to a place is dependent both on one’s experience in the moment, but also as a collective of experience and memory. Perhaps that is why belonging is so subjective, so temporary. And yet, Bloomsburg has been so much more than temporary for me. It has been both the place that made a difference and gave me a home. It has been where I belonged. Thanks to each of you who have contributed to that belonging.

Thanks as always for reading,

Michael

When it’s Real and when it’s a Hope

Hello in the middle of a holiday weekend,

Phrases like “it’s the most wonderful time . . . I’m dreaming of . . . In the lane snow is glistening . . . Marshmallows for toasting . . . It’s Christmas time in the city . . . I’ll be home for Christmas.” fill the airwaves, the store soundtracks, or our memories as we move toward the hopefulness that seems synonymous with the season that begins with a week more until the first day of Advent. While I am certainly grateful for the kindness this season seems to bring out in so many individuals, there is still the truthful, and for some, painful actuality that this month, which culminates in Christmas and a rewinding (or real moving forward) to to another year, can be stressful, might be agonizing, or the lengthening darkness might overwhelm the bright, as the shortening days of the winter seem to permeate all crannies of our temporary existence. And yet, yearly, it seems that I find a sense of hopefulness as I allow myself, though much later than retailers, to turn toward Advent and what it means.

It was my first trip to Germany as a student at Dana College that I began to understand Advent as something much more than the time before Christmas, and it was reinforced in that second trip when I was a student in seminary. Advent, the season of lighted weekly candles, candles named hope, love, joy, and peace, the season of preparedness for something yet to come – it is all of that, but more as I would learn. Those trips to the land of Luther did more to help me understand the liturgical differences of Advent and Christmas than anything ever did, and it changed my appreciation for both. What I realize now is it help me differentiate the elements of hope and reality, but also to understand their connection. Hope is an incredibly important piece of our humanity. It is what keeps us going. I have considered the issue of hope from other perspectives, but hope from a liturgical sense, from a preparedness perspective, provides something that takes us from the real to the possible. What I realize at this point, as someone who is moving into a different phrase of their life, hope is the consequence of preparation. Hope is something that moves us toward the possible. It is essential if we are to commit to the changes that are often too difficult to fathom. It is the substance of moving from a place of despair, seeing more than darkness and believing that change is something within one’s grasp. While certainly some of this is based on my Lutheran heritage, much of it is also based on an unfailing belief that we have agency and accountability for ourselves on a daily basis.

As I have often noted, there are many experiences from which I could be disillusioned, still bitter. There were words, phrases, and actions that did much that caused me to question my place, my self-worth, and my value, many of them undeserved, many of them in the moment overwhelming. My agency, my self-advocacy came through some small ember that smoldered inside me, eventually bursting into that flame that pushed me to see an option for something better. It was hope and trust in something greater than myself that allowed me to wistfully imagine a possibility for something more promising. And yet, from where did that hope or trust emanate? It came from real people, a grandmother who, as noted, loved me unconditionally, a church member, another Marine, who served as a surrogate father of sorts, and parents of a co-worker when I had come home from the service. I learned that I needed the support of others as I struggled to make sense of who I was, where I was headed, and what I hoped I might do with my life. Each of those individuals created a possibility, provided an opportunity, and offered something that had incredible value as I stumbled along, wondering where it would all lead. It was not until I had made it through the Marine Corps, wandered a bit more and found my way to Dana College I began to really see who I was, or more accurately, what my potential was. There had been glimpses, but nothing sustained. It was on that Nebraska bluff that I first found potential; I found hope. And yet, as long as someone was able to make me question, those questions loomed large. It was when they were no longer there I could begin to process all that had happened. By that time I was a parish pastor. My colleague and senior pastor looked at me intently as I returned from that time in Sioux City in August of 1989, and stated rather intently, “I want you to go to counseling about your mother.” While on one hand, I wanted to rebel, believing I knew what I needed, but deep down, I knew he was correct. That work was the beginning of what would begin twenty years of work on my past.

In spite of all I had accomplished, there was a hollowness, an emptiness that no person nor success could heal. Once upon a time, the counselor, who worked with me for 6 years through graduate school, noted the difference between my professional and personal life, but he also noted that there were times that struggle to be good enough, to be work enough, to succeed enough in either realm would never happen because I would not let it. That is a stunning statement to hear, but more importantly one to comprehend. What is enough? There is no amount if there is no hope. It was not what I was or wasn’t doing, it was what I did to mollify my struggling, my damaged, self-esteem. What causes us to lose sight of hopefulness? It is because our reality is unfulfilling, and yet that begs the question, what will create a serenity in one’s life? Too often I found it easier to prevaricate anything that forced me to be introspective. Any such self-observation was painful because it caused those negative voices and actions to bubble to the surface and I was incapable of dealing with them. So it begs the question of what happened to change it? Distance from the time where that was the basic atmosphere that was either created for or self-created is part of it. Being in a situation where I felt valued is most certainly another. However, most importantly, those two things allowed me to be contemplative in a way that I faced those demons of sorts. I was strong enough and brave enough to be honest with myself. Again back to the connection of what is real and where is there hope?

The title of the blog seems to indicate they are different, polar opposites of sorts, but I have concluded that is the problem. Reality is our life; it must be dealt with, but what comes to the rescue when our reality seems to overwhelm us? It is the ability to see something, to believe something, to hope for something different. Note — I did not say better. Difference causes us to rethink, reassess, reimagine. Difference, is the same thing I speak with students about in their writing. It is, in composition terms, revision. Our lives are full of revision, a new school, a new job, a new house, a new car, and each time we are offered that revision, think about how you feel. It is something that offers hope. Hope always occurs within the reality of our lives, but too often we fail to see it. Hope is not something that beams through like the morning sun in an Eastern window – it can be, but often it is more like the Advent candle, a flicker of a single flame reminding us that there is still darkness, but that is not all there is. As I finish this week of classes, the last week before finals (and I do not have any of them), tomorrow will be the last day I am face-to-face in my teaching career in the academy. How did I get here? That is my reality this morning as I write this, and while there is a profound mixture of thoughts and emotions, and I am in the whirlpool of commenting, grading, preparing for a winter session and one last new prep in the Spring, I know tomorrow will be overwhelming to me. As always, there are so many student stories and they too are overwhelmed. If they are freshmen, this first finals period is daunting. If they are graduating in a week, doing final senior seminar presentations, and preparing to do that “adulting” thing, they too are beyond frightened. And yet for all of them, I pray they see a hopefulness. Regardless the grade in a class, in spite of any sense of what if?, whether they are ready or not, the semester, or their time as a student at Commonwealth, will finish. And I believe now, perhaps more than ever, and in spite of the panoptic worry about our world, the students going into today’s world are more diverse, more accepting, and more capable than any student group in history. It will require thoughtfulness, careful analysis, and the belief that they can make a difference. I see them daily, and I listen to their thoughts and concerns. It seems impossible that four years have passed since my brilliant colleague, and soul of our department, left this world. Dr. Terry Riley was known for his ability to be a realist and yet hope for the goodness in his students. He also taught us, his colleagues so much. As Advent is upon us, I wish you all hope and yes, love for the other. I wish you joy in your preparation for this holy season, and I wish you peace both in your hearts and in your relationships.

Thank you as always for reading,

Dr. Martin

Understanding Family

Hello from my office on an early Friday morning,

The week of obligations classes, office hours, and other requirements of the week is complete save a departmental meeting, which I cannot seem to find the information for. Hmmmm . . . Earlier this morning, Jennifer, my niece, and her husband, John, departed to return to Iowa after a week’s visit. It was a wonderful time, contributing to our relationship as uncle/niece/spouse and all the things that have developed her soon to be significant birthday. I remember the phone call I received as I was a young Marine telling me I was an uncle for a second time. There are significant points over her life that appear like a movie video spliced-together as I consider her life.

Having lost her father at barely three years old, I remember shortly following when Rob, her older brother attempted his hand at cosmetology, cutting her hair at daycare. Somehow I was along that day as their mother picked them up. Jennifer came out with a stocking hat pulled down over her ears, and the look on her face telegraphed there was an issue; Rob’s barbering left a great deal to be desired, and Jennifer had a number of various lengths to her new doo. It would take some serious repairing. I remember when a sales person came to their home and front door in the year immediately following her father’s passing. The sales person unwittingly asked if her mother or father were home. She looked up with her still radiant smile and beautiful brown eyes and exclaimed, “Mommy’s shopping and Daddy died, and he does not live here anymore.” I heard her answer as I got to the door, and the more sales person was stammering, “I am sorry.” He looked at me aghast, and I responded, “It is okay; she is explaining life as she understands it.” I remember Jennifer coming to visit when she graduated from high school, and I was living in Pennsylvania the first time. She charmed more than one of the boys in my youth group with her disarming and infectious laugh and her engaging personality. I remember her at both my father’s funeral and at my sister’s funeral years later. To see her grow into the young woman and mother she is now has been such a wonderful experience.

In the last two decades-plus, I have watched her develop into a business professional, a college graduate, a mother, grandmother, and general contractor and laborer who can do anything needed to build or repair a home. There is nothing she cannot do, and all the time maintaining an elegance and grace that few can muster even when they are focusing on it. I think of the times I have called and asked, “What are you doing?” The answer, no longer shocking, might be “roofing – drywalling – building a retaining wall – camping – working for a defense contractor – walking the dog – driving somewhere.” I think you get the picture. Her love for her family, her children, her husband (and his for her), are unparalleled. She has no idea many times how much she is admired or how she has astounded this uncle of hers. Life has not been as she planned, but she never quits to face a challenge. And there have been moments we have not agreed, and there are places we still see things very differently, but she is always willing to listen as well as state her opinion. It is one of the many things I appreciate. Even when we do not agree, we can discuss and question the other, never questioning if our relationship is in tact. She is both connected to those around her and fiercely independent. Last week when she and John came to the Wild Game Dinner at La Malbec, she walked in, and in spite of my being well aware of her beauty, stunned me yet again and how profoundly gorgeous she is. This is where you can see her mother come through. While her mother was the ultimate sort of hippy-wild-child, her mother turned heads into her 40s and 50s by her beauty and elegance. She never looked her age, and her daughter follows those footsteps to the T.

One of the things that has always amazed me is how people with the same genetics can be so incredibly different. Personality is such a differing element of who we are, of how we manage our lives, and how we are perceived and responded to, even by those who know us. For many years, I found myself running from family . . . struggling to know where I fit, be it either in my own biological family or the extended family that I would be adopted into. Jennifer is part of what would be an extended family, the daughter of the older brother, adopted by Harry and Bernice before my sister and I were. What I have realized while ageing is family is a combination of a number of things, and genetics might be the only thing we do not control. Over the last few years, I have make the choice to re-engage more intentionally, more significantly, and not surprisingly more successfully. Many of the very things I ignored or took for granted are the things I most appreciate, the things that have the most importance. As I tell my students regularly, as they create a Google map about their families and for their future children, there are no perfect families. There are so many things that affect each of us as we interact. As I write this, we are at the beginning of a Thanksgiving week. One of the things I told my students last Friday was to be careful and to take care of themselves during the coming week. Over 30 years of teaching, I have lost students during breaks to something tragic. That is not what any parent, any family should be required to endure, particularly during the holidays. I remember when that same brother noted earlier passed. It was the first time I saw my father cry. That was life-altering for me. Even now, I am on my own for a holiday, but I have learned to create a family where I am. I have friends and colleagues who have blessed me in ways that are different than those to whom I have some familial relationship. I have learned to create family from those exchange students who have graced me with their time in my home, be it from Russia, Denmark, or Estonia. Their families have graciously accepted me as an extension of their household, which was demonstrated yet again this past summer as I traveled to Humlebaek. It was inked on my arm as I added one more tattoo this past week in honor of my Russian student who graced my home with her presence for the year she was at Bloomsburg. She will get the same tattoo in the weeks ahead. She chose that tattoo.

This past weekend, I was blessed to meet the parent of one of my current students as he ended up at my home working on my furnace. What are the chances. She is a wonderful student, and I told her father that he and his wife could be very proud of their daughter. It was so amusing this morning when I showed her a picture of the two of us in my living room. We chose to not tell her that she was correct about the person he would come to do repairs for, in spite of her imagining that was possible. In many ways each of my freshmen classes become their own little family as they work to traverse the world of college in their first semester. The opportunity to do a First Year Seminar class in the kitchen at the Greenly Center has created an incredible group of first year students, those who have developed a cooking family, working together to create meals they share. What my students remind me of regularly is we create relationships with those around us on a daily basis, and that sometimes the people who become family in the most unexpected but significant manner occurs through events that we experience through daily routine. While I have no relationship with a former spouse, one of the things I still appreciate about her was the family she had. Her parents were good people, hard working, and two individuals who lived for their two girls. They were loving and caring, and I will admit they were very good to me, even when I failed. I recognize many things now with a sense of gratitude that I did not always illustrate at the time. I hope that is some degree of wisdom coming through. As we move into the end of another year, the holidays can be stressful and create situations where we fail to demonstrate the care and love that are so important. One of my favorite movies is a thoughtful show about a young black man who is stereo-typed because he is from the Bronx and a basketball player. He meets a curmudgeonly old writer (hmmmmm) and the relationship is developed becomes much more than a mentor. I do understand that well when I consider those students who have graced me with their presence in my home, sometimes for a summer, a semester, an academic year, or even as they continue to grace my life after graduation. The video below is about the idea of family, of friendship, of developing things that are an unexpected gift in an unexpected moment. As you prepare for this Thanksgiving (for my American and Canadian friends) and to those from other places, I still give thanks for you.

Blessed Thanksgiving and thank you for reading.

Dr. Martin

Inquiring Minds

Hello from Cracker Barrel,

I am trying to remember the first time I went to a Cracker Barrel. I think it was when I lived in the Detroit area, and perhaps I was on a short vacation to the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee. While this might be a surprise, that particular National Park is the most visited in the country. What I appreciate about Cracker Barrel is breakfast (and yes, the Country Store). I am a breakfast person, which I think is because the memory of breakfast is such an important aspect of my pre-school years. Two softly poached eggs, a piece of fresh bakery toast with homemade jam, and a half of pink grapefruit will always be my comfort food of choice. My grandmother would fix that many mornings for both my sister and me. Memory and the recollection of things are such a significant part of identity, but I believe it is the emotions connected to those memories, those reoccurring events, that make them the most powerful.

And connected with those emotions are the additional senses that only add to the pathos that is such an important part of myself – the place and my visual recollections, the smells, including the heating that travelled through the floor vents, the kitchen and food always prepared with a significant dash of care, and the sounds of her in the kitchen, pots, pans, a tea kettle. It is quite amazing how all of it coalesces into an emotional experience that provides such hope. I am unsure of just what it is that causes an unexpected flash, a seeming millisecond, that synapse that brings something from the recesses of our memory, making it as clear as if it were yesterday. And yet, the moments occur, sending ourselves, our emotions, back to that moment, perhaps like a backwards Deja vu, and seemingly experiential familiarity with something. However, such moments are substantive, reminding me of those people, those events, those places that are central to my identity. Additionally, much like the connecting of data points in our rapidly evolving AI world, I am able to make the connections and understand my actions or emotions much more accurately.

As I seeming fly through the last year here at the university, my thoughts pan over the last thirty years of teaching. If I consider my own trajectory, I would like to believe I am a much better professor than I was in that first teaching position. While I liked being in the classroom, I remember calling my undergraduate advisor the first time I assigned a failing grade to a student’s semester. I was devastated. I felt as if I had failed, and probably to some degree, I had. I still feel that today when someone fails my course. I wonder what I could have done differently, what I should have done differently. Of course, I am keenly away they have a role in it also. More importantly, as I move toward next summer, I find myself wondering about past students, where they are; how they are; what has become of them. I am fortunate enough to be in contact with students from my very first year until even last year. While I do not know how many students have been in my classrooms over the past three decades, I do know that some of those students are now middle-aged. That is stunning to me, because there are moments I want to believe I am still middle-aged – I guess not so much, or I would not be retiring. While I could write about dozen of them, there are a handful that seem worth noting in this post. In my first year at Suomi College, there was a group of students who welcomed me and one whom I believed from the outset would eventually be a pastor. For me, not surprisingly. that happened. In fact, he would attend Dana, where I took him to visit. He and his family were beyond gracious to me. The RA of the floor that year now works where I would return to graduate school and has a significantly important administrative position. In fact, I met with him when I took my current colleague’s son to Michigan Tech and the three of us had coffee together. There are others who have been gracious even to this day noting that that campus pastor and instructor were important to them. During my time at Michigan Tech, where I was a graduate teaching instructor, what I find interesting is the relationships that have endured where more with the staff or faculty, though some of those students are still in contact with me also. In fact, one, who has traveled the world, and is now back in the Keweenaw, chatted in passing just yesterday.

Moving into my first tenure track position was a shock to me, in spite of my being an older first year professor, I do not think I was any more prepared than most, and I think my age ended up as more of a liability than an asset. If it were not for a colleague, who is still my colleague 20 years later, I am not sure I would be teaching. There were two students that first year who had a profound influence on my trying to navigate being a professor, whatever that would mean. Ironically both of them had small children and were trying to manage being a single mother and completing their degree. I am still in touch with one, and was in touch with the other until politics and a 2020 election broke that (which is still a painful thing). It is hard to imagine these students are almost forty years old. There are two more students, one who hoped to go to medical school and one who is now an art teacher, both are mothers and fabulous at what they do. They were dedicated, intelligent, and that shows through yet. They are a blessing in my life in ways too numerous to count. There were also faculty colleagues who worked with me during that six years, individuals who to this day bless me by their support and care. One is the most incredible artist/photographer/talented person I have ever met. Ironically, we began our academic journey there together, but it is since I left I have really gotten to know them. Another, who has since passed helped me move on from there and supported me as I left. Without his care and counsel that year, I am quite sure my life would have taken a very different path. The third, continues to be colleague in my present position. Their influence on my life both inside and outside of the academy cannot be measured. In them I have an incredible colleague, a best friend, and a brilliant and insightful person unlike anyone I have ever met. There are no words adequate to explain what they did and continue to do for me.

It was in coming back to Pennsylvania that I finally understood what being an effective professor/mentor/advocate really required. It was through the mentoring of colleagues here, seeing a culture that allowed academic discussion, and participating in the spirited conversations about both scholarship and pedagogy that I finally learned what being in the academy meant. Much like understanding how systematics had relevance to the parish, I learned how scholarship, which might seem esoteric, established a foundation for what I did in my daily class. I am as grateful to a former passing colleague (I assisted them in getting a position in my old department, but they were coming as I was leaving) as they have noted they are to me. They turned me on to a scholarly article titled “Claiming an Education.” I have continued to use that article ever since. One of the most significant phrases in the article speaks about “fostering intellectual curiosity.” Make yourself question. Require your mind to struggle with what lies beyond the obvious. Since the first fall of teaching college students, thirty years ago, I have been blessed by some incredibly talented people, students who are now successful as managers, supervisors, mentors as well as amazing parents, community members, and some who own their own companies. Some work for Fortune 500 or even 100 Companies. If the changes from freshmen to seniors was profound, what they do and who they are now is sometimes even beyond their wildest dreams, but they did it. How, sometimes by hard work and grinding away, sometimes by being in the right place at the right time, and yes sometimes unexpectedly, but through taking a change. The claiming of an education does not stop when they graduate; instead it is the beginning of a new education or a more continuous process through which they evolve. Additionally, there are the roles outside the classroom, from advising to being a faculty advisor for student groups. There are working to help students develop as they debate, travel abroad, or supervising internships. There is the reaching out to students when they are struggling or life is collapsing around them. All things that my former life as a parish pastor taught has served me well.

There are times I have asked them to come back and present, and I am both astounded and pleased by the professionalism they exhibit. I think of one student who ended up working in the area of health communication, and it was not what they hoped to do. In fact, they actively tried to change, but their innate ability to be effective and successful kept them in that area. I believe they are still there. I have watched students meet others, fall in and out of love with another. I have observed their profiles and see how they grow and flourish. It is always gratifying to see them transform from that questioning and somewhat overwhelmed 18 year old to a pharmacists, attorneys, teachers, managers, and some even eventually a professor. I could write a book just about students, but undoubtedly, I would leave something important out, a person would be overlooked. Each time I sit down, another person, another story comes to the fore. What I know now, the opportunity to be in a college classroom has been as profound a gift, albeit in different ways as being a parish pastor was. The change to make a difference is always there, and many times, the awareness that it occurred is not so apparent. And yet, the inquiry, the questioning, the imagining that occurs everyday has been something that keeps me going. To each and every student, thank you for blessing me over these many years.

Thanks as always for reading.

Dr. Martin