When the Daily Norm is anything but . . .

Hello from my desk on the mini-Acre,

I have been commenting, grading, and managing student writing most of the weekend. It is Sunday evening, and the 1st of October. We are into the last quarter of yet another year, soon what will be a third of another decade, and not that far away from another quarter of a century. The days seems to blend into one continuous week and then another, the months come and go and seasons change . . . and then soon, I am considering another decade of life. How did it all happen so quickly? How did an age that I believed to be ancient, far away, and almost beyond interpretation or possibility in terms of reality become who I am?

I do not really remember thinking of my grandmother as old, and yet she was born 110 years ago, almost 111. I do remember thinking my Great-aunt Martha seemed old, but she was born in 1877 outside of Bergen, Norway, and she had immigrated to America. While my Uncle Clare was certainly elderly (born in 1896), perhaps it was because there was an aspect of him that was larger-than-life, he never really seemed old to me. And Lydia did not seem old until the last few times I went to see her and the dementia had caused such drastic changes in the woman, who less than a decade before, would spend 10-12 hours a day working in her yard and managing things around her amazing home. So it begs the question, when is someone old? Certainly, I have been admonished with the cliché, “You are only as old as you feel.” If that is true, I have no specific age, and it can change drastically from day to day. In spite of all the things that have happened to me, I feel quite well, and the fact I never looked my age growing up, appears (pun intended) it might finally begin to pay off. I do love going to work even now, though the rigor of reading and grading papers every day wears me out more than it used to do. I am still excited to see what students do, what they learn, and what they offer in class. There is always something new; being afforded the opportunity to work with such amazing individuals on a daily basis offers me hope, in spite of the title of this post.

I think what makes me feel old most often is believing I no longer understand the world we have created. And yes, we have done this . . . we are responsible for the craziness that permeates our existence on a daily basis. During the past week, I listened to the retiring Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff take a thinly veiled swipe at our former President; I watched as our elected officials came within minutes of shutting down our Federal Government again because of the serious brinksmanship of more than one person. I listened to commentary across the political spectrum, which I make myself listen to, extolling the dangers of everyone running for the Office of the President, and I realize that perhaps this incredible experiment which is American democracy is gasping for breath, suffering from multiple maladies. I find it frightening . . . not so much for myself because I am in the waning years (not that I want to expire soon), but rather because this world continues to struggle with what is best for its inhabitants; from health to politics, from climate to space, there seems to be little we agree upon. It seems that power is valued above all else.

Perhaps it has always been so: history, that story written by the victors, has lulled me (us) into believing that the best thing will win out. Maybe that’s because I live in America, and we have been indoctrinated to believe that our moral compass of preaching fairness, of offering a foundation of openness (is it a facáde?), of establishing a place of opportunity was always based on goodness. I have grown up believing these very things, but so much of what our public has done, our politicians do, or the world’s governments attempt over the last decade seems to support a sense of “pay-no-attention-to-the-man-behind-the-curtain.” The Wizard of Oz, in spite of my wanting to watch it every year, scared the be-jebbers out of me. Those flying monkeys were creepy, and when Margaret Hamilton, the Wicked Witch of the West, crackled out of the crystal ball, I would hide my head. Many perhaps do not realize this amazing yearly movie was a political piece from the outset. When written around 1900 by L. Frank Baum, a political activist of the late 19th century, many believed it to be a political allegory. Considering what was happening with the Gold Standard of the time, of what silver (the ruby slippers were silver in the book) also did economically, and yet even the Emerald City was about money (the green color) we were already a world of haves and have nots. Interestingly, the witch of the West, was interpreted as the American West and what the Louisana Purchase (remember Manifest Destiny?) and beyond offered us. Those frightening monkeys, according to some research, were a depiction of our Native American, first residents (that sounds pretty terrible). I won’t take the time to support or debunk all I have read, but by 1939, when it was released as a movie, it is probably not without some irony that America was coming out of the depression, and Hitler was invading Poland. World War II, yes, the one already fought, turned America into a global power economically, politically, and scientifically.

It was that America I was born into as a baby-boomer. It was that America, the America of the quintessential American dream, that I was raised in. But how would I describe it to my students? It was a time where I believed in the goodness of people and my government. It was a time where I believed in the possibility of doing something beyond the station into which I was born. In spite of being the child of a barely 16 year old mother, on my third family before I was five, and growing up on the poorer side of my town, there were options, chances, and opportunities; I merely had to work hard and believe. Beneath all of that, there was a hope, an optimism, and those around me, both in my family and my neighborhood, in my church and my school, who supported and held to that same hope and optimism. Today, it is something I wish for my nephews and nieces, for my great-nephews and great-nieces, and yes, now, for my great-great-nephews and great-great-nieces . . . how did that happen? What do I believe is possible at this point in time? To be as honest, I am not sure. There are times I feel more angst than hope some days as I read all that is happening, when I listen to the commentary about our daily world.

And yet, I see the faces of my students. They are two generations behind me . . . and what do they offer? They offer me the hope and optimism, which could be taken away if I listen only to the talking-heads where castastrophe seems more reasonable to report than facts, where sensationalism about anything has taken the place of objectivism, allowing us to get caught up in emotion versus using our intellect. Please note, I have not taken or supported either side. What I see in my students is a goodness, accepting people for who they are versus so many other attributes we were taught to focus upon in our generation. I remember my parents telling me I was not allowed to date a girl who was Roman Catholic. Bless their hearts, but about as far as they could imagine a mixed-marriage of any kind would have been an ALC and an LCA Lutheran. I see students who have concerns about our divisive national atmosphere, and they hope for something better. I see young people who are intelligent and questioning, but believe we need to think about how what we are doing to our planet affects them and their children. In spite of what COVID did to their world, I see students who are trying to make sense of it, and even though they have some fear, they believe there is something better. I have been blessed for 30 years to be around this group of people, those individuals who merely want a chance to do what we did . . . live our lives. I think at times my generation was more selfish (possibly unintentionally) than we understood. I think, despite some of my concerns about critical thought or thoughtful analysis, students today are much more prepared than we were to manage this world they are being left.

While I do not begrudge what Taylor Swift has accomplished, I do not need to read about her for a week at the Kansas City Chiefs game, and if she mixed ranch and ketchup. I do not need to know that Britney Spears had some new struggle because she was found with knives in a video. Unfortunately, on the other hand, I do think we need to know when either President Biden or former President Trump seem to show the consequence of their age (and this should be done equally). And while I believe that both Dianne Feinstein and Ruth Bader Ginsburg did incredible things as women, I am willing to say they both stayed in their positions too long. There were consequences, and significant ones, because of the power of their positions. A couple weeks ago, I was speaking to the President of the University. When he realized I was planning to retire this year, he (I guess this is a compliment) inquired as to why, even when I told him my age. I noted because I was tired, and I did not believe I had the stamina I once had. I noted I did not want this to turn into I should have retired a year ago. He appreciated and supported me in that view. It is hard to imagine the other side of things, but I am working to do so. Knowing when my norm needs to change is important for every student in my class. I owe them the best I can give them. I owe them the time they deserve. While my life is just a little minute piece of this amazing, incredible tapestry we call America, we call academe, it has been a profound journey where I have learned much, about the world, about my students, and most importantly about myself. I wish for a normal that will provide each of my students the same hope and optimism I had 50 years ago. So many of my dreams have been realized, and many of them I did not even know I had. I am a dreamer . . . I guess that has always been. I am a believer that something can be better. This collage of some of Top Gun: Maverick says it quite well. I have been where I belonged, even when I did not know it.

Thank you as always for reading.

Dr. Martin

A Date of Triumph and Tragedy

Hello from my office at home,

It has been a long week, and it seems just when I think I have some things figured out, I don’t. The fall (and late summer too) have been incredibly busy, to the point of taxing, but I am maintaining. Maybe not as well as I wish, but the proverbial head is above the surface (whatever you do, do not turn your head!!). The past weeks and months have been focused on 50 years ago, and as this is written, 50 years ago today, I was marching on the parade deck at MCRD as a graduate of Marine Corps Boot Camp. I was not the honor recruit of my battalion; I was not even promoted to PFC as some of every platoon are. I merely was one of many who completed the 80 regiment necessary to join the Fleet Marine Force. And yet, for this underweight, undersized, and immature, recently-turned 18 year old . . . and by only a few days, graduating from boot camp was a success of epic proportion for me. I had barely made it in because I was so small, and in 80 days, I grew three inches and gained 30 pounds (a 26.09% increase in my weight in less than three months). That is a serious growth spurt, and yet, I still looked like I was in middle school.

Entering the Marine Corps, looking back, was somewhat of a pipe dream. I had gone to that recruiter in Sioux City because I skipped school one day, and I was convinced (as was quite easily done) to visit the Armed Forces Recruiting Station. Over the next weeks, because I scored so well on the entrance examinations, I was given a contact to go into whatever MOS I wanted (I had no idea what I was doing). Because I had lettered in a sport in high school and had reasonable grades, I ended up in an honor platoon that required each member to have graduated from high school and lettered in a sport. Fifty years ago, there were a number of individuals who ended up in the Armed Forces because it was preferable to going to jail. We did end up with a couple of tag-a-longs in our platoon, but the great majority of us traveled from the airport in Omaha to the airport in San Diego to begin our journey on the yellow-footprints. As I noted in a recent blog, my father’s admonishment that I did not know what I was doing was profoundly accurate.

Boot camp is unlike any experience one will ever have (and certainly while the Marine Corps is known for its boot experience), and I believe to some degree the same can be said for any branch of the military. In fact, I would imagine the shock is even more extreme in a world where everyone gets the trophy. I remember the first time I got mail. When you received mail, which was a big thing, the entire platoon was seated in close quarters on the floor. We referred to it as the impact area (imagine 60 18-20 year olds crammed into a 20×20 sqft space). As your name was called, you were required to stand up and respond loudly, “Sir, Private is here, sir!” I stood and shouted the requisite response to which my Drill Instructor, SSgt. M.D. Blood (his real name), responded, “Bullshit! I said stand up!” I responded, “Sir, the Private is standing up, sir!” To which he again responded, “Bullshit!! You cannot be that God damn small and be in my Marine Corps!” He then asked where I was from. I answered the questions, but I doubt there was anything beyond my lack of size that amazed him. He then told me that I was to be a house mouse, which I had no idea what that meant. I would find out, and additionally, from now on, he would refer to me as Private Chicken Body!! That meant whenever he called, “Chicken Body!!” I would have to run to him and respond, “Sir, Private Chicken Body reporting as ordered, sir!” Quite the moniker for the next 80 days of my life. I had made it into the Marines by going across the street to a bakery and working to make it to 115 pounds. As I got to boot camp, I had maintained that weight, but was told if I lost even as much as a pound I would be dropped to Physical Conditioning Platoon. To make sure I did not drop weight, I was put into the chow-line behind what (and we were all whats, not whos) was referred to as a “fat body;” I had to eat all their carbs plus mine three means a day. That was a lot of food, and additionally, I had to be done eating at the same time as everyone else. To this day, I can probably eat faster than most anyone around me.

While I was singled out due to my diminutive size, ironically, I could not disappear. All three of my drill instructors knew where I was at all times, and as the house mouse, I was responsible for cleaning their quarters every morning with the other house mouse and king rat, the leader of the three of us. The one thing being small did do in terms of advantages was make pull ups and running easier because I had little weight to carry. On the other hand, when it got into some of the hand-to-hand combat things, I ended up on the losing end of some things until I learned to use my speed and agility a bit more effectively. Perhaps the more difficult thing was my immaturity. I had never really felt supported in a number of spaces, so being there alone was at times overwhelming. It was my grandmother’s letters that kept me going. She told me how proud she was of me, and how she believed in me. I needed those words of affirmation more than she knew. Even when we were in second or third phases (the latter portions of recruit training), I had hurdles to overcome. One day I did not qualify on the rifle range, and I ended up in the sand pit for two hours. When I was coming back for third phrase, I got hit in the knee with a seabag and almost sprained a knee. I was petrified I was going to be dropped and have to be picked up later, but I managed. When we did water safety I was petrified because I had almost drowned only two days before boot camp back in a lake at home. It seems that almost weekly there was something that would keep me from reaching graduation on time. So that 27th of September morning fifty years ago meant more than most would ever know. All I knew was this . . . I made it. I graduated on time and with those other recruits I had stepped off the bus with some almost 90 days before.

What I did not know is that four years to the day later, (and because of college and other experiences, I was able to return home a bit early) I was in Ames, IA. I received a phone call from my Great-aunt Helen, my grandmother’s older sister. My grandmother had passed away. The 27th of September, a day of celebration only years before was now a day that gutted me. My grandmother had been my mother when I was a small boy. She was (and is to this day) my hero. She was the person who had sent the letters that helped me hang on in boot camp. She was the person who loved me unconditionally my entire life. She was the woman who taught me as much about manners and goodness as anyone ever would. She was only 64 years old. When the reality that I had lived longer than she did hit me, it was shocking. The same will occur this year, particularly if I live to the next birthday. I will have lived longer than my adopted mother. Grandma Louise was at an event in Storm Lake, IA with her best friend, Bonnie Martin (no relation). They were both very active in the Order of the Eastern Star. It was a regional event, and as told to me, Bonnie turned to put her jacket on her chair. My grandmother, who said nothing laid her head into Bonnie’s lap without a word, and had passed away. I cannot imagine the shock for Bonnie. We would chat about it later in life. As I remember, her older sister, Helen did not request an autopsy, so I have no idea if it was a heart attack or a stroke, but it was quick.

While the losing of her was beyond anything I could imagine, what instantly hit me was I had failed to visit her the last time I was in Sioux City, in spite of promising to do so. I was lazy and did not make time. I took for granted there would be another time. It is something I still regret. I did, and it offers some small level of assuaging my guilt, take the time to call her from a payphone on Highway 71 on the outskirts of Atlantic, IA as I drove back to Ames. It was late morning. I apologized and was honest that I had failed to follow through. She was, as always gracious, and told me we would get together next time. She told me how much she loved me. It would be only weeks later I would receive that phone call. I remember standing at her committal service and sobbing more deeply than I ever cried. I realized in a way I seldom felt since how devastated I was to lose the person I believed loved me more than anyone did. My adopted mother told me regularly she spoiled me, and perhaps there is a degree of truth to that, but I think more accurately she loved unconditionally. I have often noted the worst thing she could have ever said to me was something like “Michael, I am disappointed in you.” That would have destroyed me at the moment, but it would have also pushed me to make sure I never did that again. It was not that I needed her approval; it was more that I wanted to make her proud, to show her that what she had modeled for me in her kindness, her grace, and her elegance made me a better person.

I wish, even to this day, I had sat down with her one last time and spoke with her face-to-face. I wish I could have been a bit more focused and directed in my life. Those attributes would not manifest themselves until after she passed. In my piety even to this day, I wish to make her proud of me. I wish I could tell her how much who she was and what she did was so influential. Sometimes I wonder what we might talk about. I have noted things about her throughout the years I have written in this platform. That was a tragic day not that many years after I had graduated from boot camp. I hope she is as proud of who I have become now as she was the day I completed my indoctrination into the Corps. I hope as I remember that day in the calendar year some 46 years later since she left life she knows just how blessed I am to call her my grandmother. This summer at my reunion, someone reached out when I noted that one of the venues of our reunion was where her bakery was. That classmate, had worked at her bakery, and as we chatted, she noted the same goodness and care than I knew first hand. It was a wonderful surprise to speak with someone who knew her grace and care even now some 50 years later. Dates are a stunning thing, particularly when they remind us of those days where we are fundamentally changed. Grandma, I still miss you; I love you.

An addition . . . I have gone back and proofread and edited. The thing about writing this on my phone the first time is I cannot see what is actually there. I should wait until I can see it on a screen. More lessons . . .

Thank. you as always for reading.

Michael

Facing or Realizing my Fears

Hello early in the morning,

Fear is something each person experiences. It is that emotion that an embarrass us, haunt us, humble us . . . and it is powerful perhaps accomplishing all of these things simultaneously. It is something we are led to believe we should overcome, something we can set aside, and yet, when the fear or object of our fear is so great we hope to avoid it at almost any cost, we refer to it as a phobia – fear of dogs, fear of snakes, fear of heights, fear of spiders or bugs and we even have Latin names for these phobias. And yet, from where do these so-called maladies originate, from where in our brain do they originate? And as importantly, can a fear ever be a positive thing?

We do categorize them as rational or irrational, so there can be some certainty that there had been significant study on the phenomenon of fear, and I have no doubt, no fear, that both my psychology or philosophy colleagues could point me in a number of directions to offer answers to my musings about this human trait. And yet, fear is not unique to our species. I have had people tell me, all well-intending that a snake is more afraid of me than I am of it. I can say categorically that I doubt that is possible, but again, it addresses the reality of how incredibly powerful fear can be. As some know, at least I am painfully aware of from where that fear originates. And is it the degree by or to which someone fears something that makes it therefore irrational? It is indeed true that there are healthy fears (even the phrase sounds oxymoronic to me)? And I can see in my own life that fears evolve, develop or dissipate as we age. They are added, or perhaps appear over time, sometimes without expectation or without any sense of origination. And sometimes things that previously created no specific response have become more problematic, more fear-producing. We are such incredible creatures, and more stunningly, our brains are so profoundly complex.

Fear is about comfort and understanding our comfort zones is not a static thing. However, regardless the circumstances that create this fearful response, it is a place for growth. It is a situation that offers an opportunity to learn, both about ourselves and our surroundings. Asking reflectively what we did and what we perhaps might have done is a really helpful thing. It reminds me of the summer I did my Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) working as a chaplain in a hospital (I actually noted some of this in a recent blog). We had to write something called “Verbatims” after a visit. We needed to the best of our ability write down the complete conversation as close to word-for-word as possible. Then we had to sit with our supervisor and discuss them. This allowed for reflection and opportunity to see if we could have provided care for effectively. I think at times even a similar thing for understanding our fear might be helpful. I know that it is often through writing something down I see it most clearly. While I am pretty sure my fear of serpents is not going away anytime soon, and my pretty serious discomfort with significant heights will always cause me pause, it is the newer sort of fears or discomforts that precipitated this blog.

It seems the older I become, the more overwhelmed I am in crowded places. I am not sure it is some sense of claustrophobia, but rather it is the over-stimulation that seems to happen when there are too many conversations; there are too many possibilities for interaction; there are too many things vying for some attention or interaction. I can manage it for a bit, but then I find myself feeling in the middle of a circus of sorts. It is not the people themselves, because one-on-one, I can speak with them. and they are actually significant in my life. I have been trying to figure it out, and I think it is an issue of noise (the multitude of conversations, bustling about, or my feeling of never knowing where I fit in, which perhaps sounds surprising). Some of it has to do with volume, but it is not some shocking in-front-of-a-concert-speaker thing, but rather maybe the continuous nature of it. It is sometimes I feel like the infamous third-wheel, the spare that should remain in the trunk. And it is not because of the others, it is my own personal struggle. It is such a different space I seem to occupy than when I was in my 20s and 30s. And yet, as noted recently, when I was growing up, I was perceived as a shy person. It seems I am reverting back to that. It is perhaps I am more shy in the midst of the larger spaces with numbers of people. In my current Google map, which I first started to write almost a decade ago, I refer to myself as the lonely-in-the-middle-of-the-crowd person. I am not sure how becoming that person transpired, but when I consider some of the things I have written, I see a connecting thread. Why might it be I am uncomfortable or feel inadequate in those spaces, which one might believe to be much safer than when I am teaching, when I am speaking about wines at a former dinner situation, when I am called upon to make some remarks, or even when I was a parish pastor and was placed in highly stressful situations? This is a conundrum for me. And yet I am blessed to be included, and I realize that.

I find myself craving the solitude I have at times, and simultaneously pondering if it is helpful or detrimental. I love being in my classes and working with my students. I love when I can connect with a student and help them come to terms with some aspect of their education, which seems to be vexing them. I love when I can work through a problem with students in a way they can walk away feeling better about themselves. I am humbled when someone reaches out years later and something all those years ago made a difference. This past summer, my classmates and I spoke with both incredible respect and love for our history teacher, Mr. Larry Flom. It is 50 years later and he passed away before the turn of the century, and we are still speaking about him. It is those kind of teachers who inspire me to do better, to go further, hoping that something offered will make a life-long difference. Undoubtedly, there is an idealism in that hope, but it is that same idealism that probably helped me achieve getting to this point in the first place. There is an interesting dichotomy in what I do because there is a solitude in it. When I was a pastor, when I was a server, when I am teaching, there is no where to hide. It is all on me, and the strengths or weaknesses are there in front of everyone. And yet that does not cause me fear. Why is that? From where does that strength or ability come? I have also wondered if COVID has something to do with it. It seems that COVID gets blamed for most everything. I remember initially believing that the online teaching was a way to be more efficient and more focused, and I believe it did that, but it did not make it easier for students. That is certainly the experience I had during those COVID semesters.

It is easy to see fear negatively, particularly when the memories or the emotions connected to that fearful issue are so intense. And yet fear is necessary . . . it is the foundation of our instinct for survival. It is the basis for knowing when to continue or when to stop or change course. And yet, how do we know in the midst of it that there is something efficacious? When does the decision to run or remain as a thoughtful fear provide a more beneficial outcome? Perhaps it is previous experience; perhaps it is more critical thought and careful analysis in advance. As I begin to chart a new course for the years ahead, I hope that some of the things I have learned along the way will offer a more productive and perhaps even more successful future. While there are certainly some things that I could have done without, each of those experiences did something to create the person I am as I consider what to do after I empty an office, sell-off belongings, or make some additional decisions about what next. Yet, there is lot to do before that time, but it is evident already that it will come more quickly than anticipated. And there is some fear to that also. What next with no concrete plan is not the way I generally go about things. I do plan, and I need to have some sense of what will happen. Perhaps there will be new fears, which is always the case with the unknown. Perhaps there will be less fears with less responsibility. Most of those who have retired before me see to be very content with their new found freedom. They settle in and what happens has consequence, but not the sense of dread or worry about the ifs. We’ll see what happens next. Will I find new fears or face the same ones that are such a part of my limited perspective. I remember my Great-aunt Helen telling me I was a brave person before I went into a surgery at Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale, AZ many years ago. I faced that time with a determination that it was a hurdle to jump and I would. I realized that my life was in someone else’s hand. And so it is now. I can only do what is possible, and I believe facing whatever comes is the best way forward. Sometimes it is hard being just one person, but there is something good in it also. I remember a song from my high school days, and a band that was popular for many 45s at that time. Here is an appropriate song from the group Three Dog Night. I smile when I see the fashion and the hair . . . I resembled that more than I knew.

Thanks as always for reading.

Dr. Martin

Can I be the Other?

Hello from the office in Bakeless,

It is the beginning of my 15th year here in the PASSHE. What is in an acronym? This state system . . . these institutions of higher education. Fortunately, a former colleague, Joan Navarre, one of UW-Stout colleagues, offered me an article about being a student in the university system as I was leaving Wisconsin. That article changed my understanding of what it meant to attend a college or university – what it meant to be a person who desired to get a degree beyond high school. I had never thought of myself as a scholar. I was an intelligent (at least that is what I know now) high school student, but I was not a committed, dedicated high school student. In fact, I have spent most of my life questioning my intelligence, my ability, and yes, at times felt that incredibly powerful imposter syndrome, even after 30 years of being in a college classroom. Certainly, I have been told many times (and bless those individuals) that I am capable and yet . . . those doubts persist. The reality of what I do on a daily basis is setting in as I make the plans for life beyond it. As I come to my office daily, I am confronted with the reality of what students face and the fears they must contend with in our world, which somewhat misguidedly seems to demand a college education. Perhaps that sounds a bit oxymoronic coming from the professor, but what makes the cost reasonable? It certainly is not merely the numbers, the commas, and the dollar signs. What is the cost of an education? It goes so far beyond what a student, the government, the relative, the company, or even the university pays. It goes far beyond the dollars given by donors or others. There is the time commitment of staff, of administration, of family, of faculty, and yes, of students. It is complex and it is getting more so.

As I have noted at other points, I never really expected to go to college let alone become a college professor. What an incredible surprise, a phenomenal gift, to be allowed to be in academe. Every single day I meet amazing people; I am allowed the possibility to make a difference; and yet often it happens in the daily tasks, the interactions, and the moments where I am placed in a situation that is often unexpected. It most often occurs through the listening to and resonating with the stories I hear from my students. While I lament at time what seems to be a struggle to think critically or analyze carefully, the great majority of these young adults are good people. They are afraid as they begin this journey. They worry just as I did that first fall at Dana College if they are capable of doing this thing called college. Just today I listened to students voice their concerns, their trepidation about whether or not they can do this. As we are at the point where they are on the receiving of their first exam grades, the reality of being unprepared, the veracity of their efforts to this point, are facing them, and it is often frightening. It can be paralyzing. And yet, there are things, possibilities, and people to assist them, but they have never had to ask for help, and to do so is humbling. This was the very word used my one of my students today. They said, they have been humbled regularly in the last month.

I have students who cannot afford their books, but are afraid to make that reality known. I have students who are not sure how to manage writing more than the proverbial 5-paragraph essay. And yet, they are neither unintelligent or incapable . . . so what can we do? How do we help students believe they are capable? How do we assure them they are smart enough, intelligent beyond their own beliefs? What are the differences between the lives they lived a few short months ago and now as they live in a dormitory, eat Common’s food, and share a space for the first time in their lives? It is easy for me to say to them, as I am wont to do, “It is not rocket science.” No matter what I say, it feels that way to them. When I was that first generation student, I could not turn to my parents and ask them how to manage this new world. It is no different for many today. Figures for the immediate past academic year show that 1/3 of PASSHE students are First-Gen (State System FAQs). Almost 1/3 are adult learners, which can mean they are working a full-time job, they have other family responsibilities, or they are trying to be a student on top of other demanding requirements. That means possibly up to 60% of my students come with the possibility of profoundly atypical external complications while sitting in my class. This makes everyone’s experience different than what we might generally expect.

What created that difference for me? I had flunked out the first time I attempted as a student attending Iowa State University. By the time I returned to Dana, I had been questioned by a faculty person about how committed I was. I was both offended, but simultaneously frightened. Had I been outed? Was I that imposter? As I started my time at Dana, it was not others who had to convince me; that was something I had to do on my own. I had to put the work in. I needed to find the discipline to move me beyond anything I had ever done in the classroom, in the dorm room. It required a commitment that was continuous. And it was not an easy thing because I had already failed . . . I had seldom if ever pushed myself beyond what I imagined, and yet, I had done it once before . . . it was accomplished as a 17 year old, underweight, undersized, and clueless Iowa boy who had found himself on the yellow footprints of MCRD in San Diego. The first two nights of boot camp I put my head under my pillow and cried. My father was correct on two accounts: first, I had no idea what I was getting myself into; and second, and perhaps more importantly, it was not like Boy Scouts, there was no quitting and going home. I had little choice other than to buck up and do it. And amazingly to me, sometimes even now, I did it. Even now, and I was in my last week of boot camp 50 years ago right now, it is still miraculous to me. The picture above is even some of the extremes I have had. This is my COVID hair the Spring of 2022. It would be cut about a month later. Significantly more hair than I had 50 years ago. I actually got FB messages from some friends in town telling me I needed to cut my hair. The imposter thing again.

I think I will always have some feeling of being the other . . . it is not completely unconnected to the other that too many feel in our country today. What makes us overcome that feeling of being less than enough? What offers us an opportunity to be honestly proud of what we accomplish? When are we satisfied that we can live that reality of the Lutheran liturgy that states “Well done, good and faithful servant?” I have been blessed beyond measure in so many ways. This past week I had the opportunity to speak with another of my high school classmates. I remember her as a thoughtful, kind, and gentle person. It was interesting to me to hear her remembrances of me. I learned as a high school student to fit in, to get along. I was so small, I often felt inadequate, but wanted to be appreciated. The trait I hear most often is that I was shy. I do not think I realized that. Shy was how I covered what I felt . . . a feeling of being overmatched at most of what I did. Perhaps that is why I am as dedicated as I am to helping others succeed. I do not think I met those people, those who gently pushed me in my life until I got to Dana College. It was there I found the support system, both from classmates and professors, allowing me for the first time in my life to believe I was capable of anything. In spite of that first encounter with one faculty, who was definitely an outlier, there were so many who who supported me to become the professor I am today. I tell those who knew me early in my tenure-track career, I wish you could be in a class today. I am so much better than I once was. To those like the late Dr. Daniel Riordan or Dr. Patty Sotirin, who never stopped believing in me, thank you. As I finish up this last year, I hope the other I have become is something you can be proud you mentored. To my students, this video is what I hope for you . . . imagine the best you can become.

To everyone . . . thanks for reading.

Dr. Martin

Lee and Judy

Hello from the back deck of La Malbec,

I am the only one here at the moment, and it is a bit warm, but the fans are blowing, the music is playing quietly, and I have a moment to reflect on the first week of classes. It was an incredibly busy, but for the first time it feels like we are, to some extent, back to a normal excitement of a typical fall semester. Of course, managing 6 sections of writing will keep me hopping, but the students seem to be more engaged, and the COVID hangover that typified last year is nice to see. We’ll see where we are in Week Four.

During my August travels through Iowa, I stopped in Newton, IA, the city that created the Maytag Man from those childhood commercials. My initial experience with Newton occurred in early June of 1978. I was a member of a regional Lutheran Youth Encounter (LYE) Team named Daybreak. The five of us would travel almost 48,000 miles in the year we represented LYE, focusing our travel in the Midwest, but we spent two weeks in churches in Iowa before we moved on to Carol Joy Holling Bible Camp in the Omaha area. However, our first church in Newton provided my introduction to the most incredible host family I would experience that entire year. A couple, who were in their late thirties with two young children, became the most gracious hosts for my team leader, John, and me. Lee, a former high school math teacher, had moved into the business world, working for an engineering company, and Judy, a woman who would put Julia Childs to shame, made every meal or snack a creation. The interior ambiance of their home was like walking into a magazine, and the barn-board lower level we occupied with our own restroom and incredible down pillows and comforter were stunning. It was like being in a 4 Star accommodation. However, that was just the beginning. Their son and daughter, who are now am architect in Paris and a professor in North Carolina, were adorable, respectful, and as gracious as their parents. Each day we spent in Newton, we were treated as special guests in this little Iowa town by everyone we met, and it was evident should we ever return we would be welcomed with open arms. At the end of the week, because our transportation for the year was being used by another group, our host families met our next destination (which was slightly more than 100 miles) hosts to accommodate and simplify our travel needs.

What I did not know at the time was a conversation at breakfast one morning with Lee and Judy would refocus my life. We sat at the table, and Judy, as she can do so thoughtfully, so directly, and yet so kindly, asked, “Michael, what do you want to do after this year?” I answered quite assuredly, “I want to go to cosmetology school and learn to be a hair dresser.” I am sure most of you are just shaking your heads, but that is what I thought at the time. She looked at me wisely and compassionately across the table, and said something along the lines of, “That is not a bad thing to do, but you should think a bit more because I think you could do something more significant.” This is a paraphrase of her words, but the spirit is accurate. At the time, I merely took it as she wanted the best for me, but did not think much more about it. Now decades of life later, I know that this specific moment, along with a conversation with my sister-in-law, which probably prompted me to apply for the LYE team to begin with, are two moments, seemingly innocuous, which changed the trajectory of my life.

Before the Lutheran Youth Encounter year would end, Daybreak would be back in Newton two more times, and I would be there with the Swensons another time on my own when they loaned me a car to drive to Minneapolis, where I was presenting at a conference. At one point, I needed winter boots and as I was living on a dollar a day, they purchased boots for me. Lee and Judy became like hybrid parents/older siblings to me. They came to my graduation from college. Whenever, to this day, I find myself traveling across Interstate 80, up until this last time, I stopped at my home-away-from-home at 721 W 11th Street S. They cared for me after one of my surgeries, and I have spent a 4th of July and even other holidays each time graced by their unparalleled and never-ending generosity. Throughout the years, there are two constants: they welcome me at any moment, and as we have aged our conversations have turned to bigger things than my hope of becoming a tonsorialist. Judy continued to own her own business and manage it for decades, but her ability to host, cater, and create unmatched living experiences in the confines of their beautiful home was as constant as the proverbial Timex watch.

Over the years, I watched as they added on, remodeled, and updated their home. They never ceased to amaze me with the ability to envision and establish yet a new level of inviting character. Every detail from floorplan to wall covering, from furniture to the minutest of accoutrements were considered, but never in an ostentatious manner. You were simply welcomed. And then there were Lee’s vehicles or the other things he loved to manage. To this day he has a convertible, and over the years there have been a string of classic vehicles hid away, brought out for special occasions. He seemed to always find the just perfect auto that offered a glimpse into this somewhat understated personality that hides behind his twinkling eyes and ever-present smile. He is as gracious as Judy is, but they compliment so well. Over the years, regardless my situation, where I was living, if they were home, their open door policy was a welcome respite from whatever was happening in my life. I knew I would get insightful conversation, incredible food, amazing hospitality, and an attitude adjustment that put me in a better place than when I arrived at the Swenson residence. They are both the products of Iowa farms and that work ethic that underpins all they do is there, but it never seems to be obligatory. It is just done without fuss, and with perfection.

What I realized over the years is they became a trusted, admired, and adopted-by-me, but perhaps to their chagrin, older siblings. There is so much I admire about them, from their parenting, their business acumen, their philosophical perspectives, and yet, that is the only beginning. As I have watched their children grow into adults, the parenting that occurred only cemented my belief in how wonderful they were both professionally and personally. Their children have gone off on their own, choosing and managing very different paths, though both with an international flair. I remember visiting once while attending a 4th of July celebration in town. Their daughter, who was a beginning teen ager at the time, asked me how old I was and when I told her thirty, she exclaimed loud enough to drown up the music, “30!!!” Oh my goodness, I remember being a bit mortified. I remember Lee and Judy coming to visit me here in Pennsylvania, and we made a snowy trip to Jim Thorpe. While I did not completely white-knuckle that trip, it was a memorable journey over the 93 mountain. While that is not all that long ago, there is the reality of time. If I am almost three times as old as when I met them, they too have aged, though generally quite gracefully. As I visited them in Newton during my summer travels, they have moved from the home I have considered a haven for all these decades. However, not surprisingly, even their new space, with many of the same accoutrements I knew at 721, one is welcomed into their new space with the same wonderful charm I have always known. And yet, there are differences . . . age will do that, and even though I was 23 when I first arrived in Newton, there is a sort of immortality (there is that word again) to my elder adopted-siblings. They have been there to guide me more than they will ever realize. Their exemplar as two incredible humans has offered a steady and thoughtful beacon that has shown throughout life since my first visit. One of the things more apparent to me as I have grown older is how we continually encounter people or situations, ones which have significant consequence on our life. Lee and Judy have been two such people, and to say they have blessed my life, enriched my life, and helped me become a better person is a profound understatement. I hope I might bless someone someday they way they have blessed me.

Thanks for reading.

Dr. Martin

Immortality Isn’t

Hello on the traditional end of summer,

Queue up your favorite Eagles tune or claim to be a “parrothead” even if all you know is “cheeseburger in paradise” or “Margaritaville,” but the last couple months have rocked (pun intended) my musical world. While other members of the Eagles had already passed, the weekend news, informing us that Jimmy Buffet had succumbed to a type of skin cancer was quite a shock. The number of Facebook posts from every corner of the country (and not-surprisingly into the Caribbean) continue to multiply. What seems to be most common are two things: in spite of being worth a billion dollars, he seemed to be genuinely kind and generous, and much like the immortality of parents or grandparents for their children or grandchildren, James William Buffet seemed to establish a sort of immortalized cult following for anyone who enjoyed his music, his well-known brands (be it Margaritaville – restaurants or lodging, and Landshark beer – and reviving the Corona brand also), or his themes of “fins up” or the Coral Reefer, which I read he wanted to establish as a particular strain of weed. Quite the empire for a Mississippi boy, who after being rejected by multiple recording labels founded his own. And yet, while the recognition, the economic empire, and even the seemingly unparalleled generosity have created quite a legacy, and tributes either on Facebook or other bands covering his music will continue, mortality has happened. Mortality is something we admit readily, but avoid even more quickly.

And yet, those jolting moments come. Sometimes too soon; sometimes when we are snapped into reality by a changing circumstance; sometimes, like this weekend, when reminded that even those who seem larger-than-life aren’t. For me, there’s been both the human-family reality of those loved who have passed before I was ready. On the other hand, as a parish pastor, I remember occasions when whether expected or not, helping others face the inevitable morality of a loved one was never easy, even when death was compassionate, ending the suffering that preceded that passing. Even now, there is one death I know occurred, but I was not there to either witness it, nor did I have any interaction beyond an Emergency Room visit. It occurred the summer I completed my Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) at St. Luke’s Medical Center in my hometown. I was assigned to Pediatrics, Pediatrics Oncology, and Pediatrics ICU. Yet, this did not occur in any of those spaces, but rather in a room in the Emergency area of the center.

This was in the day of beepers, and I was beeped to call my supervisor, who informed me I needed to go to the ER section of the complex to speak with a 23 year old mother whose 2 year-old had received a quite dire medical diagnosis and even more tragic prognosis. I was to go meet her and her son, and offer pastoral care as one of the summer hospital chaplains. At the time I had finished one year of seminary, believed I had a solid faith foundation, and yet, I needed to explain how God might work when a toddler had little chance of living and a mother was facing the imminent death of her first child. I was just a student, but I could say none of that. The shirt I wore telegraphed that somehow I understood God, that I could interpret scripture as well as the why senseless things occurred. To put it accurately, I could not do any of that, and the shirt did little more than corner me into an untenable situation. Perhaps it was that I was in my late 20s; perhaps it was I was more of a realist than I knew; perhaps it was the loss of a brother and my grandmother, and hero, in my early 20s, providing some foundation that supported me beyond scripture. And just maybe it was the prayer of desperation prayed as I walked toward that room that guided me through that 15 minute visit.

The mother greeted me upon my arrival, shaking my hand firmly, and offering the following greeting, “I don’t believe God causes bad things to happen . . .” What an incredible gift from her lips. She did not blame the God she trusted, and it took all the well-meaning, misguided, bullshit platitudes of God choosing to take her child. She made my life exponentially easier before she even knew. And yet the second half of her statement was as much of a Psalmist lament and cry as anything I had studied thus far in my classes. She continued, “But tell me what good comes from this?” I am not sure I thought this at the time, but as I write this now, the word that comes to mind is DAMN!! What to do with that? I looked at her son, who was asleep. He seemed peaceful, and yes, angelic.

I remember swallowing hard, but hopefully not detectably, and I began slowly, “ I not sure what might be positive because it is unfair; it is unreasonable; and it is tragic.” And then I continued, “Two possible things that might be positives are first, we take time for granted and you will not. You will treasure each moment with your son. Second, as a mother, who loves unconditionally, you might find strength you never knew you were capable of. Beyond that, I cannot think of anything. Again, I think it is unfair and unfathomable.” I paused, looking to see her response. Her eyes welled up and tears began to stream down her tanned, but saddened face. I continued a bit further, mostly because of her initial statement. I offered, “I believe in a compassionate and caring God. I believe God hurts as we hurt, and cries as we cry.” I paused, adding, “At least, I sure hope so.” I remember praying for strength, a sense of calmness, and for a promise of as much time as medically possible. I shook her hand, holding it in my own, and I left the room. I had survived that gauntlet, but I felt saddened and inadequate. And yet, I lifted my eyes and whispered thank you. Facing mortality with a two year-old is a tall order for anyone, regardless their piety. That summer was a crash course in living and yes, dying. Weekly, I crossed paths with patients and family members who face their mortality, at times with some advanced inkling, but at other times with a brutality and unexpectedness that would (and did) bring people to their knees. There are no classes; there are no recipe cards; and there are no preparatory vitamins that offer some kind of inoculation from the moment life ends and we face our mortality or that of a loved one.

While the loss of well-known people receive incredible press, and there is the sort of obligatory medical explanation, as well as some additionally information about their particular malady, there are losses as of loved ones daily that go mostly unnoticed, but are as profoundly affecting as when the loss of someone famous occurs. Twenty-six years ago, the world stopped at the tragic loss of the Princess of Wales, Diana Spencer. Her passing caused another musical duo (Elton John and Bernie Taupin) to revise his classic piece “Candle in the Wind.” And yet a quarter century later, our lives continue, and people both enter and exit our lives. While I have noted the occurrence of my 50th high school reunion, I am not sure I noted almost 150 people have passed. Each of them had a family, people who loved them, others they affected. Life is an incredible gift given, and yet fragile and fleeting. I realize clearly my days are numbered, and the promise of tomorrow is no promise at all. .

While I too am saddened that my bucket list line that was “see a Jimmy Buffet Concert” will go infilled, I am forever grateful that my Dana classmate, Michael Keenan, introduced me to the incredibly original and unapologetic Jimmy Buffet. While the beer I will raise is not a Landshark, I will raise a Moosehead, the other thing Mr. Keenan introduced me to. To that Raiders floor on Four North Holling Hall the fall of 1979. The changes in attitudes and latitudes have been many since then, but on this Labor Day, fins up and to another day in this mortal world.

Thank you for reading.

Dr. Martin

A Lifetime or 50 Years and Counting

Hello from the Acorn Cabin,

As I complete another visit to Decorah, I have been blessed by the gentleness, the depth of caring, and the genuine love that characterizes the amazing Pilgrim ladies and the incredible families which have been created from their parent’s beginnings at 313 Ohio Street. The humility and goodness that characterized Don and Virginia is evident from every angle in their girls. There is a simplicity and elegance melded together in a manner that leaves you in a sense of awe from the experience of being in their actual presence. And yet, in their sense of merely being who they are, such praise would seem unwarranted, and perhaps even embarrassing. They go about their lives living out the very goodness they received. I am sure their eldest sister lives through each of them as she was both the kindest, and perhaps the toughest of all of them. I remember Suzanne’s voice as a sort of true-to-life angel, and as I was always in awe of my barely younger cousin. She was stunning in every way.

This trip I was fortunate to experience a simple family bonfire and s’more-making event. On a warm summer evening, extended members of three of the original six’s gathered at the now eldest’s farm. The number of children, grand- and now great-grand children are more than two people’s fingers and toes. And that is only three of the six girls. In spite of such a number, I did not witness a single moment of discontent or an acrimonious emotion from anyone. That is stunning, but speaks to something more profound. The love and care that epitomizes the cousins and their spouses continues through, and to, their generational prodigies. Last evening I had the opportunity to speak more with two spouses, and while I am sure their are moments, as with any couple married for decades, the goodness on the opposite side of their unions is also evident. Furthermore, I have experienced the same loving kindness with the third of the remaining sisters and her spouse, both who treat me with such love and care. The only reason I cannot affirm the expected similarities with the another is because I have not been fortunate enough to be in their physical presence, but I have spoken with them on a number of occasions. What I see in each of the daughters of Don and Virginia is a sort of blending of their parental personas. Each of the girls brings an beauty to everything around them, which was their mother, and yet they have the attention to little things that I suspect came from their mathematician father. Certainly there is some conjecture in that assessment, but I will go with it.

Coming back to Iowa, I notice a beauty I did not always realize as a child, or even into my 20s. The geometric rows of soybeans or corn, the hues and different greens that color the hills and valleys, particularly here in Northeastern Iowa (and yet across the state) are quite a sight. As I drove over on Sunday, the practice of strip farming was particularly apparent in one farm as there was a patchwork of beans and corn terracing the hillsides, which is simply thoughtful farming, both to manage erosion, but also to provide different nutrients for the rich Iowa farmland. I am returning for a 50th high school reunion, as noted in other places, but during those high school years, I worked on my best friend’s farm, where we walked beans, chopping weeds in the morning dew. I did not really appreciate what was happening as it was a summer job to put some spending money in my somewhat bare pockets. Looking at those same fields now (or at least the same type of crops), it is amazing how differently I view what the hard working people of these fly-over states do for the entire world. There is still nothing like Iowa sweet corn to me, and I have learned that soybeans have so many more uses than what I believed as a teenager. As the last couple days pass before I see people I have not seen for half-a-century, I am trying to imagine what will happen. I did have the opportunity to speak with one of my classmates by phone this week, and I will meet with him on Friday afternoon. I am glad to be doing that because as I look at the people coming, there are not all that many I remember. Additionally, there is the reality that I have not really spent much time in my hometown since I graduated as the first class of Sioux City West High School. In fact, the two schools are having a joint reunion because the larger of the two eventual West/North student bodies had come from the enormous school in our town of 100,000, Central High School. In fact, that is the school from where my mother graduated. I have reached out to one classmate who was from my smaller school, which was the second combined body to create West, but I have not heard back. She dated a friend in high school, and I appreciated both of them a great deal. Of the people I most associated with in high school, some have actually passed, some seem to be unaccounted for, and some seem to not be able to attend. So, there is some nervous anticipation on my part. And yet, I am glad I have taken the time to make this trek. Sioux City was a wonderful place to grow up in. It had everything we needed to be content, but it was not so large that you felt swallowed up by its enormity. I see it now as the ideal. And considering I am coming back for my 50th, I realize all these years later that I had profoundly strong, capable teachers. From Ms. Barker for English to Mr. Flom for history; from Mr. Erickson for economics to Mr. Littlejohn for science, there was no where I was not tutored and taught by incredibly talented and committed instructors.

There was no inkling that as I might return to this event a half of century later, I would return as a professor in both a liberal arts college and a medical school. I was a capable and smart student I now realize, but I was an uninspired student. I was an undisciplined student. As such, when I chose to do well, that was certainly within my grasp, but I was inconsistent at best, graduating with a 2.8 or so. Nothing that would turn other’s heads to notice, particularly when it came to going to college. I was a confused 16/17 year old high school senior with no sense of what I wanted to do or where I might do it. I had a group of friends, mostly in band or in my church youth group, and they were important to me. They helped me manage the struggles of my daily life that were more profound than I ever let on. And being in a new school my senior year allowed me to disappear even a bit more, which was probably both good and problematic. Physically, I was smaller than most; I think I was more immature than most; and I was certainly more unsure than most. I often say it took me until the age of 25 to grow into my ears. And now as I return, I look little like I did as that seventeen year old. My growth spurt occurred after high school in Marine Corps boot camp, and now I am probably in as good of shape as I have been most of my life. I doubt most will either recognize or remember this little squirt from Riverside. It will be an interesting weekend.

And yet, there are other reasons to return to my roots as a Northwest Iowa boy. All of my relatives are laid to rest there, and I want to see those resting places. While there were certainly those who had preceded my life, so many of them have passed in these past 50 years. So it is a lifetime ago for some of them. As I was surrounded by family from the Olsen side of the family this week, last night’s conversation returned to the 10 children that my mother, the youngest, was part of. I cannot imagine having 9 sibling, but yet, in my own biological extended family, I do. It is just I have never really been around them. When I go to Graceland Park Cemetery, both my biological and adopted family (which are distantly related to a point) are there, and within yards of each other. When I gaze out at the various markers, the stone edifices that commemorate their lives, they seem to say so little because there is so much more to what they did. I am reminded of the line from Phantom of the Opera, when Christine Daáe is walking through the cemetery singing to her father. “You were once my warm companion . . . wishing I could hear your voice again . . . passing veils and sculpted angels, cold and monumental; seem for you the wrong companions, you were warm and gentle . . .” Certainly there are those laying there who fit these words perfectly. My father and my grandmother are the two individuals for whom I still believe I have the most affinity if I might understand the person I am. When I go home this time, I will work to find two new graves that are in yet a third cemetery. Jim and Joanne Wiggs are also cousins, but more like parents to me. They were beyond kind and gracious to me, and they were my home in Sioux City when I returned during the 2000s. They both passed in the last 5-6 years, and I have not visited their burial place. Joanne was an elegant, beautiful, and living June Cleaver. Jim did more to support me when I was struggling with a second marriage than anyone, providing both perspective and a moral comfort that allowed me to continue on, eventually receiving my PhD. Furthermore, I know the the town I refer to as home has changed profoundly since I grew up here.

It is now Saturday evening and I am back in my motel room, after attending events over the last two days. How amazing to connect with some people I have not seen face-to-face for 50 years. Two of the women in my class in attendance have been delightful to speak with and listen to. The one I knew better than the other, but the quieter one of the pair was always quiet; however, she seemed incredibly intelligent and extraordinarily kind. Sharing with her the last two days has been a wonderful treat of reconnection. The second was the daughter of my piano teacher. She was a bit more outspoken then, and I am grateful to her for the way she shared so much about her memories, working as a catalyst for some of the rest of us. Four other classmates who spent time last evening were all significant in my formative years, but each for different reasons. One continues to be in a band that was an important element of the Riverside band scene. Their eventual lead singer was my best friend. One was in choir with me and an important part of my group of friends in that space. He was outgoing and remains to be so. The third is sort of the glue who holds us all together, and continues to be such a wonderful connection; he married another classmate and she was (and I believe remains) to be one of the most gentle souls I knew. The fourth, being one half of childhood sweethearts who are a significant part of my high school experience. He continues to be as kind and amazing as I remember. Each of them brought a different piece to the tapestry that is the foundation of who I am. Most simply put, it would have been wonderful to have some more Cavaliers there, but I am blessed beyond measure for the last 36 hours or so. I will see a couple more before I leave my town once again. There is a comfort to driving the roads where I learned to drive. There is a comfort to sharing names of people that we all remember. Tonight at the more formal event, there was a slide show in memoriam, and the number of people who have passed number almost 100. That is a sobering reality of a 50th reunion. Names that were surprising, names of some of the more seemingly-significant members of that class of 1973. And yet, a stern and forceful reminder that death is an incredible equalizer. I was also blessed to have some people set at our table tonight who would have been Central students had there not been a new set of schools, but they were gracious and kind, which was more important to us Riverside people than they might have realized. I believe Leeds students probably felt the same. Riverside and Leeds were the small high schools in our town, and I am not sure if Leeds has the same dedication to their former school as I believe is evident in those who walked the quadrangle of Riverside Jr/Sr High School. There is a strong school spirit in the Cavaliers of RHS, of that I am certain.

Tomorrow and Monday, I will meet up again with some classmates, and some life-long friends. All of these things remind me that the people I have spent time with the last two days have been friends or in my life since kindergarten. That is over 60 years. That is, for all practical purpose, my life time. So indeed, the title of the blog is apropos. Riverview as a building does not exist anymore and the school where I spent most of my childhood living across the street from is no longer a school in the same way. So much has changed, but returning for the reunion is a poignant reminder that some things persist. Last night, listening to the stories about classmates was both enlightening and surprising. As one of our classmates noted at the banquet this evening, take time to reach out to those who matter. I have spent the evening looking up the passing notifications of those whose names and pictures were shared in memoriam. A number of them passed in their 50s, but some even earlier. Life continues and when we are not in their immediate circle, their passing goes unnoticed, but shocking when it comes to those still walking a journey. In 1973, we were wide-eyed, as most are at 18. We had little idea what the world would hold, but now I find myself realizing I grew up in an opportune time and in an amazing city. I had little idea how fortunate I was. I am pretty sure I do not want to wait 5 or 10 years to reach out to some of the people who were not in attendance this weekend. There are a number of people I realize had more consequence for me than I comprehended. Indeed, it has been a lifetime, but I am still counting. Praise God for that opportunity. The video is a 50th anniversary video of a song that came out when I was that high school student in the senior year of 1972-73. Indeed, we were Northwest Iowa kids, but American kids who loved American Bands!!

Thank you as always for reading!!!

Michael (Dr. Martin)

Wondering the “Why”

Hello on a steamy July afternoon,

As the global sizzles from the Southwest to the European continent and beyond, it is increasingly apparent that we are facing temperatures and heat that is beyond what we are used to, climate events that have cactuses in Arizona dying from the heat. That is stunning to me. Since when does it get too hot for a cactus? And yet, there are daily examples of how serious our climate crisis is, and I do not believe the term crisis is hyperbolic. I struggle with such a reality because I believe my generation is guilty of squandering/overusing resources in ways we never imagined. Certainly, it was living that American dream, but there is so much of our innate national identity of profound individualism that fosters this consumerism, this over-usage; it seems the proverbial chickens have come home to roost and the coop is over populated.

Earlier today I was speaking with my Dominican amigo, my brother-of-sorts, and our conversations are always thought provoking. In spite of his being in the states for over 25 years, he is still a Dominican, and one trying to understand why Americans do what they do. His questions vary from why do we seem content to simply continuing to use resources as we do, to why do we have politicians who seem too old to govern (and that is on both sides of the aisle), to what do I believe will happen in our next elections. Of course, I have no definitive answers, and more accurately, I have the same questions. What I think about more frequently, and with more fear, is what have we done to our children, grandchildren, and future generations. When I read we are currently as hot as we have been in 120,000 years (how this is determined I am unsure) that is beyond startling to me. What are the chances we might stave off such dire predictions, prove consequences? To say it might take drastic measures seems a bit beyond the obvious, and yet I am still driving my little beetle around. I am seriously trying to figure out how to move to an EV for my next transportation, but the realization that our country does little to promote or support such an option is readily apparent. From infrastructure to connectivity, be it the actual charging or supporting it across models and makes, there are significant issues to navigate.

One of my FB friends, a person I’ve known since what is now called middle school, is lamenting living in the American Southwest. The record temperatures both in terms of temperature as well as number of days is unbearable, and yet moving everyone out of the desert we’ve attempted to make into an oasis is not going to happen. I remember reading a book by Marc Reisner titled Cadillac Desert in the late 90s. It is a history of our development of a desert and how there would never be enough water to support such a population. In 1960 Las Vegas had a population of less than 100,000 people, and by 1994, it grew tenfold and continued a 6% population growth yearly for the entire decade of the ‘90s. All in a place that averages about 4 inches of rain a year. Stunning! The average individual consumes 130,000 gallons of water a year, and 90% of the water in Las Vegas is sourced from the Colorado River, the same river that now dries up before it reaches the ocean. And yet, how much do I conserve when it comes to my own usage? The reality of what has happened in the American Southwest is a problem for all of us. I am forever aware that 20% of the fresh water on the earth is contained in the 5 Great Lakes, and my time on the shores of Lake Superior have provided first-hand experience of that astounding reality. The value of water has long been discussed, but the majority of us pay little to no attention to that looming catastrophe. Some of my academic colleagues from Africa or other places are certainly cognizant of the scarcity and political potential of something I take for granted.

At the moment, another month has begun, and I am back in my home state of Iowa, presently residing in the Acorn Cabin, on my cousin’s farm in Decorah (if you go to the summer of 2021 in my former posts, you can learn more about this special place). As I make my way across the Hawkeye state once again, this time I am attending a 50th high school reunion at the end of the week. I have repeated noted this summer thinking those venerable reunion attendees were “older-than-dirt.” I had little idea that someday I would be doing the same thing. There is a connection to this and the “why?” In the title of this post. And the connection is both profound and of imminent significance. While we imagine the future, we seldom consider it carefully, intentionally. We simply wonder where we might be or what we might be doing. I have noted from time to time I had little idea or intention about my life. Am I the only one to be able to say that? While I might be different to some extent, I do not believe my path or thoughts to be so outside the norm. And then there is the reality that I am in my late 60s, and I wonder what difference I might make. Moving toward a more sustainable life and practice is certainly something to aspire to, something that might make a drop or two difference in the ocean of humanity, but to what collective benefit? I do realize the proverbial finger-in-the-dike possibility, but then I ponder if it is only a sort of works righteousness reality or practice. I want to believe in n something more efficacious, but I am struggling to do so. It returns me to the question that titles this blog. Is it possible for anything we do to be altruistic? Are the actions or thoughts that precede the question ever done for the simple goodness of something? My more pessimistic self would say certainly not, in the Pauline perspective of μη γενοιτο. And yet that should not stop individual decisions to be more prudent in our practices. There is so much that I realize I have been selfish about. Is it because I have never really experienced the reality of scarcity? It is because I am someone who falls into the individualism that is such a foundational thread of our American psyche? Is it because I am overwhelmed if I take the time to consider what we have done, and I consequently throw my hands up in despair? It is because I am really thoughtful on one level, while simultaneously to some degree (pun intended) lazy when it comes to actually making the changes necessary? Is it because I am about ready to retire and feel I can focus on something I perhaps should focused upon much earlier? When I speak with my students or read about their concerns, climate is at the top of their lists. Perhaps that provides some glimmer of hope.

As I sit here in the middle of the corn fields of Iowa, the reality of nature is all around me, and yet I have been exposed to much of that my entire life. Even in my travels, I have been on islands, which are certainly affected by climate change. I lived on the peninsula that juts up into the largest of the Great Lakes. It is awe inspiring to stand on the breaker walls of Lake Superior out by Calumet. I am aware that 1/5 of the world’s fresh water comes from those 5 lakes. When I was in Norway earlier this summer, it was impressive to see the number of electric vehicles on the road. I also realize they have a different size country, a different perspective on how the government interacts with their people. And yet there is a collective appreciation for the world that I do not experience in America. Our individualistic propensity for entitlement because of our understanding of freedom, of manifest destiny, has been consequential, but in many ways we perhaps failed to anticipate. The notes about Las Vegas are an example of that very idea. Water will soon become more and more about politics and power. That is unavoidable.

I wish I had made changes earlier in my life. While I have been environmentally conscious, I am easily lulled into apathy or passivity. Why? I think there is too much of that lack of immediate consequence for me. So why now? I do not have a clear answer to that question, but I guess I believe it is how I want to move forward. Do I think it will assuage my struggles with guilt and shame? Probably not, but it might make some small change in how I believe my own footprint might affect others. I know as I traverse across this home state, I will see more of those enormous three winged windmills than anywhere else I have ever traveled. I do not find them ugly; and in fact, quite the opposite. Sort of like huge birds of white on a sea of green. So, I am committed to making some changes over the next year and beyond. What will that mean for me next summer. I have some ideas, and those ideas have to do with EVs and other options. It is the bucolic feeling that being on the farm brings. Not entirely, but it most certainly contributes to it. There are so many things to consider. And yet we have considered for decades and done little, or so it seems. The song below, a version of Joni Mitchell’s 50+ year old admonishment seems appropriate. I am not sure how I will manage it all, but I will let you know how the process goes over the next year.

Thank you as always for reading,

Dr. Martin

One Clear Voice

Hello from the kitchen counter,

It is nice to experience new things, visit new places, imagine different possibilities, and then again, it is nice to be back in my own place, in the quiet of my home. As I return to Bloomsburg, my little town of 12,000 residents, it seems so removed from the world I have just traveled. It is like any place, people go about their lives, managing their daily tasks, but how often do they (or even do I) ponder the larger world around them. The demands of daily living consume our immediate attention, pushing aside the issues that should, perhaps, demand a much greater level of concern. During the past week some of those areas might include a continuing frequency of catastrophic weather events, the debating of individuals and powers at the NATO meetings in Vilnius, or daily shootings throughout the United States, regardless size or city, location within the city, or seeming irrational reason to shoot-first-ask-questions-later mentality that has become the country norm.

And yet, in spite of my raising these concerns, I too feel helpless in believing I can make much difference. And yet, I contemplate these things because of relationships, because of actual experiences in those places, and because I do have more of a gestalt understanding (thanks Thomas) of our world than I perhaps realize. For me there is both a clarity and a complexity that dialectically pulls me, like stretching my arms in two opposite directions, all the time trying to figure out which side will win. Or more likely will my body simply ache from the duress? While I was in Scandinavia, it was impossible to not feel the sort of contentment that permeates daily life. Denmark was just again voted as the happiest place on the planet. The commitment of the Norwegians to EV was stunning; I observed that many of the same brands of vehicles on the American roads are in Norway as EVs. I do realize that you are not comparing apples to apples when you are speaking about 375 million people to 6 million, but I learned about how the Norwegian government created the Government Pension Fund in 1990. Take the time to look it up on Wikipedia and see what it has done. Think if we might do such a thing here. Again, I am speaking conceptually, but might it turn our debt around, giving our children a stronger footing for their futures? The point of this is to consider the long-term viability of our world, of our country, and yes, of our individual existence.

There is an irony that the investment in or use of a petroleum asset could be something to help us out of the very thing that petroleum has created: climate change, and I can appreciate some much get disagree, but if you speak to many of my students they raise two significant concerns more readily than other. Climate change is one and our polarization as a country being a second. As someone who studies argumentation, I believe in diverse opinions; I welcome spirited debate; and I yearn for consensus. There is common ground, always, but finding it requires listening as well as speaking. Consensus is never about one side winning; it is about both sides making some progress, thereby believing and feeling some sense of accomplishment. Polarization, acrimony, and stubbornness, simply because one can has little to do with progress or working for the people. Somewhere in the midst of our current disharmonious atmosphere, it is possible we could find one clear voice, a John, the Baptist, crying in the wilderness of our broken country? What might that voice sound like or how might it effectively call out so people of all persuasions might listen? These are things I ruminate on, lay awake at night considering. I do not believe this is some simple idealism, but rather it is a matter of necessity, particularly if we are to create a more sustainable world for those who follow us.,

I do believe in progress, in the human spirit of ingenuity, but if all progress or creativity is first about the money, we have little change of sustaining an inhabitable planet. And before you think I am simply naive or foolish, let me offer an example. When I was in graduate school, I took an incredibly insightful class titled “Business and the Environment” from a brilliant professor named Dr. Christa Walck. I researched the recycling processes and costs incurred by that recycling in the Keweenaw Peninsula of Michigan. I traced collection, the transfer, and the monetary remuneration of various recyclables. What I learned was at the point of monies received, some recycling actually lost money. To be sure, that was not the case across the board, but much like various stocks on one’s portfolio, not everything ends up in the black. What I was forced to consider from my research was simple: is money the only factor to consider when deciding what to do? Too often this is what we focus upon, the free enterprise philosophy that looks to be profitable at every turn. If profit is always the first consideration, or more likely the only consideration, it seems the clear voice that shines through, in spite of our disregard, in spite of our avoidance, is greed. How much can we make versus what are the consequences of our actions. As I have pondered this post over the past week, the war in Ukraine continues to rage, and Russia has pulled out of the UN negotiated grain deal. Politics is about power; war is about power; and certainly, economics is about power; as noted in the lyrics of the Linkin Park song, “Hands Held High,” – “when the rich wage war, it’s the poor who die.” This has always been the case. Even now, in spite of our National (and for the most part global) position, many of those dying on either side of this Eastern European conflict are ordinary people. The platitudes of patriotism, and assertion of those who talk about sacrifice for the cause, or the idea of giving all – each has their rationale and their apropos place, but behind that there is a wife, a husband, a parent, a sister, a brother who mourns that loss of life. There are the questions of did it have to happen? Did that death make a difference to the cause? There is no clear singular voice able to answer those wails or cries asking for an answer. Patriotism has its place, but seldom is the pain of loss easily replaced by some belief that the end of life, the absence of one loved is validated by a sense of a meaningful death. And I say all of this as a veteran.

In the clutter of our current world it is difficult to find a quiet space where we can listen to that singular voice, the clear and simple declaration of direction. As I consider my life, there are many times I wished for that time when somehow clarity would ring forth, telling me what path to choose. Seldom, if ever, has that happened, and yet I must ask why? It is because I could not hear it or is it because I did not take the time to listen? I am not sure I have an answer, and it seems too simple to believe it is some of both. As social media permeates every nook and cranny of our lives, and as the daily concerns of AI push us to question if anything is real, where might we turn for that voice? I believe we all have that inner voice; it is the voice of self-preservation. I remember my cousin, Jim, looking at me earnestly and lovingly, admonishing me, “Take care of Michael.” He would say this to me daily. I was separated at the time, eventually to divorce, but I struggled at every turn because I still loved my wife. In spite of my failures, my missteps, I wanted to make things work. I did not blame her in spite of anything she did or said. Regardless her responses, I tried to make excuses he said. At that point, he was the voice I needed to hear. Most of my life the voice I heard were words that easily blamed myself. Indeed, I deserved some blame, but I was willing to shoulder more than was mine to carry. It seems that it often takes me a quarter of a century to figure some things out. It takes a persistence from both my world and beyond to realize how most of my life is connected by a couple of significant events. Those events have created a person who is resilient, primarily optimistic, and yet tempered by a degree of melancholy. Sometimes those voices combat each other, but it is that battle that has created the person I am. Perhaps I simply need to slow down and listen as the voices work through their ideas, their concerns, or their hopes. Can I find that one clear voice? It seems that somehow I generally do. Perhaps Peter Cetera has it figured out better than I imagined.

Thanks for reading,

Michael

Larger Voices Calling

Hello from about an hour from Oslo,

I am in Norway, a country significant to my family heritage and childhood memories, but for the first time. It is a place I have read about, a country I have spoken about with both academics, classmates, or relatives – a country, which has intrigued me. That intrigue occurred for multiple reasons as long as I can remember. So being here as I write this is both a check off that proverbial bucket list, but also something that offers me an opportunity to put so many dreams and thoughts into the space my former classmate and friend refers to as gestalt. While I certainly have only a beginning perception of what Norway is both physically and experientially, the sum of what is happening each day has been beyond everything I could possibly imagine.

Mr. Kjos-Kendall seemed somewhat larger-than-life to me when I arrived for my Dana residency the fall of 1979. He was formidable (but not pejoratively) physically because of his height; he was captivating because of his personality and ability to influence the campus ministry elements, and most anyone with whom he interacted. He was more conservative than I was theologically, but as clarified over the last 10 days or so, the influence of his home congregation, which had a significant presence at Dana, and particularly in my own specific class, had a different albeit Lutheran practice. Our conversations reminded me of how our piety is shaped by external forces and seldom by our own inidividual thoughts. How ironic!! Specifically, the thing that became abundantly clear to me while visiting Tom and Ellen, as well as meeting two of their three children, was the profound effect our advisor, Dr. John W. Nielsen, had on both of us, but that influence was (and it) nothing that has disapeared. It has been life-altering. His sagacious care for his students changed who we were, but has intensely affected who we are. At some point in each day, whether it over a cup of morning coffee, or a toast with a raised ounce of Akavit, “The Pope” has been an integral part of our conversations and our recollections. I think I can say with complete confidence that we both believe it is how he pushed us to question, to ponder, and to imagine that has been most efficacious as we have continued with our journeys beyond those Nebraska bluffs on the Missouri River. From the Introduction to Religion class to the class on Christian Thought, from our Humanities sequence to both of us traveling on an interim (we went different years), this incredible Minnesota native, steeped in his Danish heritage and an Oxford education, exhibited a profound dialectic between the conservative and liberal which changed lives. His probing way of working with students pushed them to explore their limits both intellectually and experientially, continually offering support in their educational as well as their maturing processes.

And yet as Tom and I reflected on our mentor, his exceptional intelligence was perhaps second to his incredible humility. The effort and care he put into his classes, into the humanities program, which was one of the top ranking programs in the country, and groundbreaking in its unique approach, was about his students. He wanted to prepare us for the world we would enter by providing an unparalleled and integrated understanding of the world that created the foundation we stood upon. That is a tall order, but he understood both the reason for doing so as well as how to accomplish it. There is seldom a week that goes by in my own teaching that I do not think about both what he taught me and the method he used. To say that he lived what he taught cannot be overstated. His quips either in front of class or during individual conversations still stay with me. While visiting Sande, Tom recounted the process of building the clock that he and Jim Borden did for a senior project. If you know this clock, you cannot help but be astounded by the workmanship and the size of this wooden masterpiece. Our conversations about the Panassus edifice reminded me of the day it was unvieled. I remember being as speechless as Dr. Nielsen himself was. They designed, created, and toiled in secret on their masterpiece as a labor of love for what the Humanities and Dana had given them. What an incredible repayment for something that cannot be repaid, but if anyone ever did, I think the two of them probably top the list.

My traveling over the last month has been my own sort of interim travel, but during the summer rather than during a January term. Visiting Anton in Humlebæk to see him graduate was wonderful, but considering the possibility of hosting a student returns me to Dana. It was there I learned the value of culture and visiting places in the world. To be in Osterport 42 1/2 years later when spending the day in København with Anne Marie and Hans Christian could not help, but recall memories on that night with Dr. Nielsen’s nephew. Visiting the Viking Museum, Kronberg, or the Domkirke in Roskilde reminded me of how we followed Dr Nielsen around to the Danish sites he believed important for Dana students to experience. Likewise, going to Norway was significant because of my own family heritage, but also because of my cousin who taught at Luther College, leading the math department for many years. It was ironic as I was in the airport in Copehagen I saw a young boy with a Luther College t-shirt on. His mother told me she had graduated from Luther and they now lived in Montana. Connecting those Lutheran roots on various levels are significant to me. Once again conversations about Luther, Bonhoeffer, and other things significant to my faith journey with my Dana classmate was important to me as I still try to understand my own evolving piety. As I write now, it is a couple of days later, and I am back in Northcentral Pennsylvania, trying to create some semblance of order, both to the last month of experiences, but to a summer than is already half gone. There is so much to ponder, and presently I feel like I am in about three different worlds.

When I think about my time at Dana, it is a mixed bag of things, and 40 years can blur some things, but one of the things I do remember is spending a lot of time with my guitar. I loved working on and learning new things, and music has always been an important part of my understanding who I am. Duing my senior year, Crosby Stills and Nash released a new album, and still one of my favorites, titled Daylight Again. I remember being quite excited when I learned to play “Southern Cross.” The chorus of the song included the phrase that is the title of this blog. There is a power and strength in time. It can heal the wounds of our life; it can help us redirect ourselves towards something more helpful. Perhaps I love the song for the implicit message that there are always “larger voices calling” if we will only listen. It is often after the trauma of something we need to retreat and sit quietly, believing that the Spirit can still use us to accomplish something positive. As I drove earlier today, I found myself pondering what the next year might offer both as a sense of closure on a significant portion of my life, but also what it might do to prepare me for what could happen on the other side of my teaching. Further, I considered what imagining a possibility of being a vagabond of sorts might say about me. I can already hear or perceive what some of you are thinking, but I think what I realize is quite simple. There is a continuous thread from my childhood to what I imagine now, and it is not a fragile or fraying sort of thread, it is an incredibly strong perhaps central piece. That thread that when you pull it allows an entire garmet to unravel, but this is not an unraveling it you will, it is that larger voice, that Spirit. And yet it is, at times, a lonely space, a melancholy tone. It is something that I believe most of us have, but often push aside. Somehow, I choose to embrace it. It is the thing that connects my entire life, and perhaps creates a foundation that makes sense to me. It is the thing that was thrust upon me from the outset, and yet nothing I asked for. It is an experience that I dealt with differently than my sister. It is something that, believing I am incapable of escaping, I have chosen to make the best of.

The summer travels connect the pieces of the fabric, like many of the fashions worn throughout my life; the places visited, the people experienced again, or for the first time, reminding me of the Hegelian dialectic that seems more and more apropos as I age. There is always something new to learn, to experience, and to weave into my daily life. From visiting with Pattie, David, Barb, and Nancy, spending precious time with them back in Omaha, from seeing Amy and Charles, Tom and Elaine, Becky, and her wonderful children, from a quick dinner with Jennifer and John and surprising Brandon, from visiting my sandbox buddy, her husband and sister for a quick breakfast, those threads of my life were strengthened. The beautiful handweaved rug that graces my kitchen is a reminder of an incredible person who first taught me more about relationships than I could ever fathom. I am blessed by that to this day. Indeed, “I think about how many times I have fallen. Spirits are using me, larger voices calling. What heaven brought you and me cannot be forgotten (I’ve been around the world).” Little did I know this small Iowa boy would travel the world. Little did I know that I would learn from one of the most incredible travelers by spending a January interim class with him. Little did I imagine perhaps the road is my home. So much yet to learn.

Thanks as always for reading. Additionally, I am pondering the creating a book of excerpts of my blogs. If you remember a particular blog you appreciated, would you get in touch with me? Thanks for that too.

Dr. Martin