Confirmation Class

 

 

For generations, actually for centuries, Lutheran churches have followed the practice of providing confirmation classes for young people in the church, often studying with the pastor for two years – beginning at age twelve and ending with the rite of confirmation at about age 14.  In my youth I joined a class with Reverand Thorson for a two-hour session on Saturday mornings over the course of two school years.   My dad’s generation called it ‘reading for the minister’.  We studied Luther’s small catechism and were expected to have a thorough knowledge of the Ten Commandments, the Apostles’ Creed and the Lord’s prayer – along with Luther’s explanations for each part of these, memorizing the answers to his famous question, “what does this mean?”. 

At the conclusion of this catechetical instruction, young people traditionally make a profession of their faith in a public ceremony called Confirmation – a rite for Lutherans but a sacrament in the Roman Catholic Church.  The “public examination” portion of this rite was definitely nail-biting time.  We were supposed to be prepared to answer any question thrown at us, like, “what is the sixth commandment and what does it mean?”.  In truth, pastor Thorson usually assigned a particular question, i.e. “this might be the question I ask you, Jerry”. 

We arrived at the service fearing that we would forget what we had spent so much time memorizing when the moment of truth come upon us.  Ours was a fairly large class, I think about twelve, the girls dressed in white “confirmation dresses” and the boys in suits and ties – my first suit, charcoal gray, in vogue at that time, all of us with a white corsage pinned to the lapel.  Indeed, it was quite nerve wracking on that hot-humid June Sunday morning as the pastor moved down the line from one to the next and the whole congregation listened intently.   Two of the boys, including my good friend Jimmy Flom, fainted and crumbled to the floor in front of the alter rail.  They must have revived by the time the pastor got to them with their question and the process proceeded on. 

Many relatives were in attendance at this service and attended the big dinner that followed at our house.  The traditional gift for confirmation was a watch, also my first, given to me by my parents, and in addition there were cards with a couple of dollars in each envelope from assorted aunts, uncles and neighbors.   

I don’t remember catechism class as an intellectual exploration of the Christian faith.  It was mostly the pastor talking. We memorized the week's assignment, but there was not much time for asking questions.  I think in the years since that time long ago, pastors have tried to engage young people in more discussion and debate.  This is most certainly true in the church we now attend.

The author, John Updike, who grew up in a Lutheran home, was influenced by his early experience in Church, though his Christianity as an adult was anything but orthodox.  I know little about Updike from his writing, only some from what I have read about him and a couple of his short stories.  He seemed to have been obsessed with three things - writing, sex and religious faith.   

Updike writes about a fictional boy named David in a short story titled Pigeon Feathers,

“Catechetical instruction consisted of reading aloud from a work booklet, answers to problems prepared during the week, problems like, “I am the __, the___, and the___, saith the Lord”.  Then there was a question period in which no one ever asked any questions.  Today’s theme was the last third of the Apostles’ Creed.  When the time came for questions, David blushed and asked, ‘About the resurrection of the body - are we conscious between the time we die and the day of judgement?’

(Pastor) Dobson blinked, and his fine little mouth pursed, suggesting that David was making a difficult thing more difficult”.

I don’t remember asking any such questions of Pastor Thorson.  I wonder what he would have said to that question – though, in fact, that question has never occurred to me.  Actually, thinking about and asking deeper questions regarding life and faith didn’t happen for me until later when I was in college and when I traveled and lived for a year in Europe.

In a 1999 essay, “The Future of Faith,” Updike recalled what it was like to be in church with his father:

I remember . . . taking collection with my father at Wednesday-night Lenten services, as a scattering of the especially dutiful occupied the creaking Lutheran pews.  I was fourteen or so, newly (and uncomfortably) confirmed.  I felt tall with my father as we walked together down the aisle to receive the collection plates.  Although my head at the time brimmed with worldly concerns (girls, cartoons, baseball), it was nice, I thought, of this church . . . to cast the two of us in this responsible, even exalted role.

That memory of doing a serious thing with his dad was a reservoir of fuel that kept a flame of faith burning in Updike. Later he tried to stoke the fire by reading Barth and Kierkegaard, but he knew that faith distilled into ideas would not have remained without the memory of those early church services. He wrote in that same essay, “It is difficult to imagine anyone shouldering the implausible complications of Christian doctrine . . . without some inheritance of positive prior involvement.” [i]

Without some positive prior involvement, indeed.  That positive early involvement for me was Sunday school, weekly worship and confirmation classes.  But I had to move beyond the unquestioning juvenile faith of my youth to a more mature and sustainable faith in order to find meaning in life and a genuine faith in Jesus as my savior for the rest of my life.  I came to love the church, even with its blemishes and sins, and now I believe it is practically impossible for one to be a Christian outside of the church.

I am reminded of what St. Paul wrote:

. . . work out your own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God at work in you enabling you to will and to work for his good pleasure. Philippians 2:12-13

To me this means a continuing effort to live faithfully, even as I constantly stumble and miss the mark.  It does not mean that I depend on good works for salvation, thank God!

I have seen many for whom their early faith formation experience did not stick.  They get stuck in the juvenile stage that did not serve them well in adulthood.  It is very common for young people to slowly or quickly withdraw from the church after confirmation.  They give it up and don’t move on to a life-long involvement and commitment.

Yet, in the juvenile stage of faith development it is important to be involved and feel, as Updike said, cast into a responsible, even exalted role.  I have observed this recently in my nine-year-old grandson, Colin, as he takes on the role of reader or acolyte in worship services.  He exalts in the responsibility and involvement and feels good about the positive feedback he gets.

I do not know what happened to all of my confirmation contemporaries after I left home post high school.  I have a hunch that their involvement with the church was a mixed bag – I know some became life-long members, some were lukewarm – maybe twicers, attending at Christmas and Easter, and some left entirely. 

Attending confirmation classes and worship as a young person does not guarantee an ongoing faith life or Christian identity. But it is an important place to start.  A theme I have pondered for a long time is why so many of the generations that came after me left the church, and seemingly, rejected the Christian faith.  I have yet to come up with a good answer to that question.  But we must never give up.  Confirmation class is still a good and worthy custom to continue. 

 

 

 

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[i][i] Quote from a Public Discourse article by Gerald McDermott, March, 2015 “A Rather Antinomian Christianity: John Updike’s Religion”

 

 

She Hath Done What She Could

 

Recently, as I was meditating on a familiar story from the Gospel of Mark, the one about a woman anointing the head of Jesus with expensive ointment, I read these familiar words which is the title of this blog post - She Hath Done What She Could (King James version).  The words were familiar from another context though, not from the Biblical story in Mark 14:3-9.  I just had not taken note of this phrase before in the gospel story.  Here is the story: 

And while he was at Bethany in the house of Simon the Leper, as he was reclining at table, a woman came with an alabaster flask of ointment of pure nard, very costly, and she broke the flask and poured it over his head. There were some who said to themselves indignantly, "why was the ointment wasted like that?  For this ointment could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii and given to the poor." And they scolded her.  But Jesus said, "Leave her alone.  Why do you trouble her?  She has done a beautiful thing to me.  For you always have the poor with you, and whenever you want, you can do good for them.  But you will not always have me.  She has done what she could; she has anointed my body beforehand for burial.  And truly, I say to you, wherever the gospel is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in memory of her."

In my recent book, “Interesting Experiences: Stories from the Seasons of My Life”, I wrote about one of my ancestors who is buried in the cemetery surrounding my home church, Holden Lutheran, near Kenyon, Minnesota.  Her name is Sister Anna Huseth.    Here is her story:

Anna was born in 1892, only about 2 miles from the farm where I grew up in rural Kenyon. She graduated from Kenyon High School, attended St Olaf College for three years and later enrolled at Lutheran Deaconess Hospital School of Nursing in Chicago, graduating in 1917.  After serving as a nurse at St Olaf College during the influenza epidemic in 1918 she was consecrated as a deaconess, and in 1919 sent to Teller, Alaska, where she assumed the duties of matron at the orphanage for Inupiaq children at the Brevig Memorial Mission.  Next, she responded to a call from the Eskimo village of Igloo where her services were sorely needed.  The nearest doctor was 100 miles away to the south.

Sister Anna became the village doctor and nurse, and in that role, did much traveling by dog sled. During the first two winters she traveled more than a thousand miles in this manner, often alone.

There were serious emergencies for the doctor-nurse-missionary.   Sister Anna helped bring many babies into the world.  There were epidemics of influenza which laid a whole village low. This deaconess sister moved from village to village and cabin to cabin, alleviating pain and bringing comfort to the suffering.

After four years in that remote area, she was placed in charge of the orphanage at Teller.  Here she was stationed when Roald Amundsen, the famed explorer, landed the dirigible Norge after his trans-polar flight. Amundsen was so impressed with her work that he later spoke of her as the “Heroine of the North”.

Sister Anna’s next objective was the establishment of a mission station at Shismaref, a settlement far to the North. She returned to Chicago in 1928 to raise support for this work and was planning her return to Alaska when she was stricken with a heart ailment and died in April 1929 at age 37.  She is buried in Holden Cemetery, in the community where she was born, her grave amidst many others of the Aaker family. 

Now, when we visit the graves of my ancestors in the cemetery we always pass by Anna’s grave and read the inscription on her gravestone, almost illegible after all these years. 

That old headstone has these words:

Sister Anna Huseth – 1892 - 1929

And then these interesting and poignant words:

“She Hath Done What She Could”

Did she do all she aspired to do with her life? No, but she did what she could with the time she had. And she served well, which is the calling of a deaconess.

Have you ever thought about what you would like to have etched on your gravestone?  Indeed, that would be a good summary statement about a well lived life, a life of service.  Anna’s was a life in service to others in the name of Jesus.  I didn’t personally know Anna Huseth, of course, but I have been inspired by her story. 

I have long wondered where those words came from, and now I know. 

 

Interesting Experiences: Stories from the Seasons of My Life

 

Recently I published a short book with this title.  I have not tried to advertise it nor do much marketing.  Mostly the book is for my family and friends, and I have given out quite a number of free copies, and several people have commented on and said they enjoyed reading it.  Mostly I haven’t gotten much feedback.  I thought it might be time to put some information about the book on this blog, so here is the introduction to the book.  It is available on Amazon, but also from me at a much cheaper cost – in fact pretty much at no cost.

Introduction to the book

When I was in (about) the fourth grade in Dovre Country School in rural Kenyon, Minnesota, my teacher, Miss Hjermstad, gave me an assignment to interview someone in my family.  This was a pretty common grade school exercise; one that gives a young student a chance to write their first story.  Her instruction was to ask about interesting experiences.

Years later I found this poorly written “manuscript’ penned in the same pitiable hand writing I have had my whole life.  I was glad I had kept this paper, but it is sort of embarrassing to look at now.  I guess you have to start somewhere.

It brings pleasant images to mind of my grandparents.  I can picture this conversation in their retirement home in Kenyon; grandpa sitting in his rocking chair and grandma nearby, quietly chuckling and nodding affirmatively as he responded to my questions.    Alas, I should have also asked her about her interesting experiences.

I doubt my grandparents would have thought of their lives as interesting, but given the rare opportunity to have a grandchild show some interest, he reminisced, and recalled some events from his life that I would not have known except that I asked a few leading questions.  I now have many more questions I wish I could ask, but my grandparents are long gone.  

When oral historian Donna Grey approached pioneer ranch women in Montana asking for interviews to record their stories, she wrote:

 “Almost every one of them protested that she had ‘nothing to tell’, that her life had been unremarkable…. but in the end, their stories all proved worthy of telling.” [1]

When I stretch my memory and imagination to recall some of the interesting people and experiences in my life, writing about them revives to some degree the feelings, relationships and lessons of life I learned through those experiences and from those people.

The accounts in this short volume vary widely, starting from childhood to reminiscences in old age.  Included are several fictional stories drawn from memories and based on true events.  As an Irish priest once told me, “All stories are true, and some of them actually happened.” 

Both joyful and challenging experiences make up the substance of our lives, many of which we might not think of as particularly interesting at the time. There was a time when my future was more interesting to me then my past.  Now it is somewhat the opposite; I suspect my past is more interesting than my future will be.  In these stories I am looking back at the past, but you never know, there may well be more interesting experiences ahead.  I remain hopeful.  My mantra in old age is, as it has been for many years, to stay active and alive in mind, body and spirit.

I have a great nostalgia for the community and church where I grew up and an appreciation for the simple values transmitted to me and my generation by family, church and community.  Later, in all the stages of adult life, I was privileged to have interesting experiences with people and communities in many countries and cultures, having lived in eight different countries and worked in more than three dozen over the course of my forty-year career. 

I have been a nomad most of my life, but perhaps paradoxically, also one who cherishes the stability and happiness that arises out of my roots.  As I learned from people around the world, the values forged in family, community, faith and vocation are the foundational pillars that give meaning to life. 

 

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[1] Donna Gray, Nothing to Tell, TWODOT Book, Helena, Mt, 2012

 

 

Septology: A Norwegian’s take on Art, God and the Meaning of Life

 

When my son Bret told me he was reading a book by the Norwegian writer Jon Fosse, who won last year’s Nobel prize for literature, I was intrigued.  He was reading “Septology”, one of many works by Fosse, (pronounced Fossah in Norwegian), who has written many plays, poems and other books that are especially popular in Europe.  Maybe I should read it, I thought.  Bret warned me that it contains seven parts in three volumes of about 700 pages.  What’s more there are no periods in the whole book, making it one very long sentence.  One reviewer says it has 5 or 6 sentences.   Whatever!  Many of the reviewers say they have never read a book like it.  That’s true for me, too.

The last Norwegian to win the Nobel for literature was Sigrid Undset in 1928, for her body of work - the best known was “Kristin Lavransdatter”, a trilogy about life in Norway in the middle-ages. Judy read all three of those books several years ago and I read one of them, also long books.  Undset is a very good writer about day-to-day life, social conventions, and political and religious undercurrents of the period. 

Septology reminds me a bit of Marilynne Robinson's “Housekeeping” and Virginia Woolf's “To the Lighthouse”.   These are the kind of stories where at times you wonder ‘where the heck is this going?’, trying to imagine how it will ever end – you might even get a bit boughed down in the repetitious details at times.  Robinson’s novel treats the subject of housekeeping, not only in the domestic sense of cleaning, but in the larger sense of keeping a spiritual home for oneself and family in the face of loss.  There is a lot about loss, the traumas of ordinary life, and the spiritual journey in Septology.  Woolf’s book is mostly written as thoughts and observations, and that is certainly true in Fosse’s writing - lots of thoughts of the main character, Asle.  The words, “I think” are repeated hundreds of times within a stream of consciousness about his present and past life.  Perhaps these words are a substitute for a period.

The narrator, Asle, says things like, "all my thoughts are sort of jumbled together, it's like they don't exist in any order but sort of all at the same time" (p.569).  Sound familiar? I go through most days with many thoughts and wonderings going through my mind, some of which are comforting and some a great distraction.  

Christian faith, especially the Catholic version, pervades the book like a ghost.  The book is considered to be quite autobiographical, as the main character, Asle, experiences a conversion to Catholicism in this story, as did Fosse earlier in his life.  The writing captures both the essence of Roman Catholic spiritual practices and the challenges belief poses to the adherent.  Devotion and doubt are woven into Asle’s thinking throughout the few days when the story takes place during Advent, leading to its culmination on Christmas eve.

One reviewer describes Septology like this: “For over 700 pages, Asle meditates on his life as he drives back and forth between the town of Bjørgvin (that seems to be the city of Bergen), and his home in the countryside, near the village of Dylgja.  Sometimes he visits Bjørgvin hoping to check in on another Asle, whom he refers to as his “namesake” and whom he has recently helped check in to a rehab facility. (this Asle had a much more tortured life of drinking and failures).  Other times he visits Bjørgvin to deliver his paintings to a local art gallery for an upcoming show. During these trips, Asle looks back on his life’s relationships and his journey to become a successful painter, but his story is often messily intertwined with his namesake’s, so much so that sometimes it becomes almost impossible to distinguish between the two men. This confusion is by Fosse’s design, as the series attempts to explore themes of personhood, individuality, love, art, and religion all through the lens of sameness”.   Quoted from Spectrum Culture by Miyako-Pleines. 

The two Asle doppelgangers bring to mind what if questions, like “what if life had gone this way rather this that way because of choices along the way?  There are also two women in the story, both named Guro; or is it really just one person? 

Asle is quite successful in selling his pictures, and he does much thinking about them, especially one with two simple lines crossing each other, which his only friend and neighbor, Asleik, calls the St Andrews Cross.  Asle talks of the “inner pictures” inside himself that he must get out onto a canvas. Through his meandering thoughts he tries to work out what he thinks about art, God and life and death.  The other Asle is also an artist, but his destiny ends up much differently. 

He prays at the end of each of the seven parts of the book, using the rosary to say the Lord’s prayer, Ave Maria and other prayers in Latin and Norwegian (translated of course to English). His favorite mystic is Meister Eckhart, and there are several quotes in German I wished I was able to read and understand.   

He thinks about God a lot and tries to put in words what is unsayable, like this quote,

“God is so far away that no one can say anything about him and that’s why all ideas about God are wrong, and at the same time he is so close that we almost can’t notice him, because he is the foundation in a person, or the abyss, you can call it whatever you want,”

Asle sometimes falls into a kind of contemplative silence such as that which I have read about as described by an anonymous mystic of the Middle Ages in “The Cloud of Unknowing”.  But Asle’s active mind, with constant thinking and remembering, seems to be a distraction from pure silence – not an uncommon occurrence for those of us who have tried to practice contemplative prayer.

I don’t think I would recommend this book to everybody, unless your interest is piqued by some of what I tried to describe here or in reading other reviews.  I read the first book and listened to the audio of the second and third.  It can be downloaded on Libby, and if you have the time to listen, the reader Kyle Snyder is excellent as is the English translations by Damion Searls.  I kept thinking it must take tremendous perseverance and patience to translate 700 pages of this kind of narrative.  There are many reviews online, and most are overwhelmingly positive. 

 

Courting in the Olden Days

 

In the rural Minnesota Lutheran culture where I grew up in the 50s and 60s, it was a sign of serious intent when we came home with a friend of the opposite sex to meet the family. 

In my case Judy was the only girl I ever brought home.  We were serious by that time and my parents were probably relieved, given I was already 25 years old and had never had a steady girlfriend – the common age of marriage was the late teens or early twenties.  Was time getting away from me?  I met Judy, a girl from far off Montana, when I was working in my first job after college.  All three of my siblings met their future spouses while attending Luther college.  They were all from mid-west states, of sound Norwegian stock, and Lutherans.  Being Christian, preferably not a Catholic, was for us an implicit criterion for choosing a life partner.

Lois remembers bringing her boyfriend Jerry Lerum to the farm for the first time and dad asking where his ancestors came from in Norway, checking out his pedigree.  “From Sogne” said Jerry, to which dad replied, “I’ve never heard of anything good coming out of Sogne”.  Of course, he spoke in jest, but it was a bit of a shock for Jerry, and we all laughed about it later, appreciating dad’s wry humor.   Our parents were very pleased and accepting of all our spouses, though grandma Ellen Aaker once got a bit confused telling uncle Maynard about Jerold Lerum.  She said– “he’s a catholic, you know”.  Maynard clarified for her that Jerry was not a Catholic, but indeed he was a democrat – almost as bad!

Sister Jean brought Bill Berg home at Christmas when he had the opportunity to partake in our tradition of a full Norwegian meal with lutefisk, lefsa, and all the trimmings.  As the family sat down to the table dad said he supposed that Bill surely liked lutefisk, being that he was of Norwegian heritage.  Bill was not especially fond of this delicacy, but wanting to fit right in, so he said of course he did.  He took a small portion when it passed by and was able to consume this small serving without gagging, but when dad saw how much Bill “liked lutefisk” he heaped Bill’s plate with another large helping as Bill sagged in the chair.  He made it through the meal like a good sport, but with his belly rumbling through the sleepless night, he wondered if he could avoid another Christmas meal and still stay in good stead with the family. 

While courting is an ancient practice, dating is a relatively recent term which falls into the broad category of courtship and consists of specific social events carried out by the couple when (in those days) the boy asked the girl to go out on a date.  

The earliest usage of the noun "date" is in 1896 by George Ade, a columnist for the ChicagoRecord.^[1]  who used the term "Date Book" - a type of ledger system a cashier might use to track dates with suitors until she married.  “A young man lamented that his girlfriend is seeing other people that are "fillin' all my dates," as in ‘the dates on her calendar’."

In previous generations in our family courting was somewhat different then today and certainly more local.  My father, Arnold, as well as his three brothers, found their future spouses in neighboring towns not more than a dozen miles from home.  My folks met at a “sociable” – a kind of neighborhood gathering with food, ice cream and games, often organized by a church that invited other church communities for an evening of good socializing with friends and neighbors in an outdoor setting in summer time.  Dad’s brothers said that Arnold was infatuated with mom from the beginning.  Being a shy man, I can imagine the time when he got up the nerve to ask her out for the first time; “I spose’ you wouldn’t want to go out with me, would you?”  

They enjoyed going to dances, social events and church together.  They might have gone to movies too, a common dating activity in succeeding generations, but I doubt it. There were a few silent movies in the 1920s, but not many opportunities given that there was no theatre in Kenyon. 

Dad was working in the local gravel pit on a stone crusher and had enough cash to buy his first car – a 1930 Ford model “A” coupe.   Once he came home from work and rushed into the house to get spiffed up for a date with Inez.  In his hurry he forgot to set the hand brake.  When he came out of the house all dressed up, he found the car had rolled down the hill, through a fence, and into the river.   Coming out of the barn his father, Olaf, roundly scolded him (in Norwegian) for being so lovestruck and foolish.

Although there were strong taboos in many cultures throughout history regarding premarital sex, this has become increasingly common with the onset of the sexual revolution.  In movies, television and music, sex within dating has become increasingly accepted as a natural progression of the relationship.

For sure, social mores mitigated against pre-marital sex during the time and place of my youth, but in every graduating high school class there was at least one couple who “had to get married’ – sometimes meaning the pregnant girl would drop out of school and not graduate at all.  However, co-habitation before marriage was very rare and frowned upon.

Looking back another generation, my grandparents, Olaf and Ellen, grew up on neighboring farms and knew each other from childhood.  Though the concept of dating may not have been common in the last decade of the 19^th century, certainly some kind of courting took place. Both born in 1880, Olaf and Ellen would have shared much time together in school, church, neighborhood activities and family meals throughout their growing up years.  Uncle Maynard, in answer to the question about how they ended up marrying supposed, “it just seemed to be the natural thing to do”.  Knowing those fine people in their later years, none of us grandchildren could imagine a hot romance, but it sure would have been interesting to know that story - one that it never occurred to us to ask.  We are not sure if there was a party after their wedding on June 7, 1904, or if they went on a honeymoon – doubtful as it was haying season.  There is a bit of lore that there was a barn dance on the Solberg farm, where Ellen grew up, the same farm where my siblings and I were raised.  Olaf and Ellen Aaker were a wonderful example to their children and fifteen grandchildren - a devoted couple in a marriage that lasted 58 years. 

Reaching farther back into my ancestry there is a story about the wedding of my great grandfather, Nils, to his bride Martha Follingstead, as told in a letter from his father (my great-great grandfather) Knut.  Knut and Mari Aaker are the patriarch and matriarch of the Aaker family in America.  Born in the late 1700s in Telemark, Norway, they emigrated to the wilderness of Wisconsin with six of their seven children in 1845 when Knut was 48 years old and Mari 46. Ten years later they moved to Goodhue County Minnesota, to settle on a farm where a fifth generation Aaker, my cousin Paul, lives today. 

In 1863 Knut wrote a letter to his daughter Asbourg and her husband who remained in Dane County, Wisconsin.  In the letter he mentions his youngest child, my great grandfather, Nils.

“Now comes the news you should have been informed about earlier- namely that Nils was married this winter to a young lady from Vardal, (Norway) - Marthe Maria Olsdotter Follingstad.  She is a quiet and gentle young lady and the most we can say about her yet is that we have good hope, since she has been very inoffensive thus far, and complies with everything according to what we desire.  Yet, we do not know her further; we had not seen her nor she us before she moved home to us on the evening of 26^th February; (1863).  They were married on the day after, and the wedding took place at Lars’s home, since he has larger house space and, moreover, I could not stand the noise.” 

The Aaker Saga says that they were married at Holden church, but a party was probably held at his brother Lar’s house. It was easy to get the whole Aaker clan together on short notice as they all lived on farms within five miles of each other.

What?  Nils brought his fiancé home to meet the family for the first time and got married the next day!  Of course, the first thought I had was to check out the Aaker Saga, our genealogical record, to see when their first child was born. Her name was Malina, born in December, 1864 – so, almost two years after Nils and Martha’s wedding.    

All we know about Martha is that the Follingstads were in the Holden community, as her parents’ graves can be found in the cemetery.  But even if the two families were acquainted, she was apparently completely unknown to his parents when this young lady came into their lives.  What was courtship like back then?  We can only imagine.  I can see my great grandpa Nils, who was 34 years old when he married, feeling as if time was passing him by. He had been eying Martha in a pew across the aisle in Church for some time, and finally got up the courage to ask for her hand in marriage – and he might have said, “and let’s do it tomorrow!” 

All couples have their courting stories.  Just ask the question, “How and where did you two meet?” and follow up with…. “And then what happened?”  And be ready to write it down.

The True Beauty of a Person

 I never knew Gloria Anne Redlin, but I wish I would have.  In 1969 or ‘70 she was sent to Vietnam by Lutheran World Relief to serve as a nurse with Vietnam Christian Service, the same organization we had worked with. We did not meet Gloria because we left before she arrived.  She worked in a VNCS health project that served tribal people who were severely affected by the war.  They say she had a beautiful singing voice, and was a joy filled person to be around.  We recently ran across a VNCS newsletter from 1971, which reported on the tragic circumstances surrounding her death.   In that story, like other deaths that happened in Vietnam in the fog of war, the details and circumstances remain hazy.  There are also bits of information about her death and a memorial to her in her hometown on the internet, as well as a controversial theory about the death of the soldier who was shot at the same time as Gloria.  Here is some of the story of Gloria’s death. 

In the central highlands town of Kontum, on the night of October 13, 1970, she was giving a ride on her moped to an American soldier, returning him to his base.  It was late at night and dark, and as they crossed what was probably a check point, guards from the local Peoples Self Defense Force called out to her to halt, or so they said later.  Apparently, for whatever reason, Gloria did not stop and was fired upon.  The soldier was killed instantly, and Gloria was mortally wounded.  The soldier’s name was Sergeant Louis Janca.  For nearly a week Gloria struggled for her life at the US military hospital in Qui Nhon.  The surgeon who performed surgery said the bullet hit the spine just below the shoulder, meaning that had she survived, she would likely have been paralyzed.  For some days she was conscious and able to talk, and was visited by VNCS friends and colleagues, including close friend Zelma Lewis who was a nurse in the VNCS hospital in Pleiku, as well as Dr. Pat Smith, Pat Niska and Dean Hancock.  On October 20 her condition worsened, and she passed away on October 21, 1970.

There was a large gathering for a memorial service at St Christophers Anglican church in Saigon, and a funeral at Peace Lutheran church in Oshkosh, Wisconsin.  At the funeral a passage was read from Gloria’s diary, which had been previously sent home to a friend for safe keeping. It was a poignant message and testimony to the person she was.  She had written:

“The true beauty of a person is seen in what they say and what they do for others.  The beauty of a word – a smile – a thought – the radiance of a loving touch, a sincere look of devotion; this is beauty, this is loveliness; this is God shining in and through us. 

I must put you away little book.  I have filled your many pages with my hopes, dreams, fears, memories and observations.  Keep them safely and accurately for me, please.  If I send you away, please take along with you the love I have for my family and friends.  I shall be united with you in less than two years.  But if I don’t keep that appointment, please make very sure everyone realizes that what I came here to do is worthwhile, and after my labors, God’s finger touched me.  And I slept, and nothing is more beautiful or worthwhile than that.”

Brother to a Dragon Fly, by Will D Campbell

 

I’ve checked off another book on the list of those I should have read long ago.  “Brother to a Dragon Fly” published in 1977, should have been on my list of the 50 books to read before I die, but I was not aware of it until Pastor Wayne announced he was leading a discussion of it.

I was pretty much a bystander during the civil rights movement in the South which started during the time I was in high school back in the 1950s, though like most Americans I have learned much about and have great admiration for those who gave themselves to the movement, especially those courageous “front standers” who died in the struggle.  I suspect many others have not heard much about the role of this white Baptist preacher from the South named Will Campbell.  After finishing the book, I wanted to learn more about him, but in searching the name on the internet several NFL and college football players and other celebrities with that name popped up first.  Even the internet keeps him a bit obscure, and apparently Will Campbell would have liked that just fine.

I found a wonderful piece about Will Campbell written after he died by a friend of his, Ken Sehested, who wrote, “John Lewis, an icon of the civil rights movement said on the news of Will’s passing, ‘He never received the recognition he truly deserved’.  Hearing such I can imagine Will pausing his heavenly choir rehearsal of Red Necks, White Socks and Blue Ribbon Beer, long enough to grouse, ‘Yes, John, that’s just the point. Mr. Jesus didn’t say, blessed are you who find fame for your trouble!’

This book, one of sixteen he wrote, is a memoir filled with stories of the role he had as a trouble shooter and representative of the National Council of Churches, stationed in Nashville during the civil rights movement.  He went wherever there was trouble.  For example, he accompanied the nine black students who walked through angry crowds to integrate Central High School in Little rock in 1957.  He was the only white minister asked by Martin Luther King, Jr to attend the organizing meeting of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. 

But the heart of the book is about his relationship with his brother Joe, growing up in a small town in Mississippi during the depression in a family that really was ‘dirt poor’.  Will became a Baptist preacher at a very early age even before any Bible school or seminary.  Joe became a pharmacist, and led a life plagued by demons of addiction and mental illness.  Some of the most poignant stories in the book are about the interactions between Will and Joe, literally through many highs and low of Joe’s tragic life. 

Though Will was on the forefront of a movement supported by many liberals, especially clergy in the North, he did not consider himself a liberal, and did not avoid relating to and trying to understand the Southern red necks of the same culture from which he came.  One story tells of a kind of re-conversion to Christ brought on by an interaction with a profane and honest non-believer who challenged him to re-orient his own faith to see that “if you’re going to love one, you gotta love them all”.  He credo was to understand the difference between belief and faith.  “Belief is passive, faith is active”. So, when he went to “minister” even to Ku Klux Klan members and also questioned the hypocrisy of the white church, he was lambasted by both liberals and conservatives.  There were not many of whom it can be said they were a Southern white supporter of the black civil rights movement who talked to KKK leaders. 

Later he settled on a farm in Tennessee and was a mentor, writer, and advocate for other human rights causes, and he seems to have left the organized church but never his faith.  He was the kind of guy my dad would have called, “common as an old shoe”; someone I would have liked to sit down with for a cold one and just talk.