Almost Home

Here's a book worth a read!  I say that not only because it is a fascinating story and well written memoir, but because Filipp Velgach, a fine and intelligent  young man, is the future husband of my granddaughter, Leslie. 

I usually think of a memoir as the reflections an older person puts in writing in an attempt to review (and maybe justify) a long and interesting life and spiritual journey.  It is not something a person so young would have enough experience to write!  Here is the blurb about the book posted on the publisher's promotional website.  

In March, 2013, with Ukraine on the brink of civil war, the crew of the award winning documentary Almost Holy travels into the country’s crossfire for a final round of filming. Along for the ride is Filipp, the crew’s Russian translator, who hasn’t been back to the former USSR since his family fled from it twenty years earlier. For Filipp, it is a wayward homecoming, his father’s worst nightmare. As he and the crew track the documentary’s hero Gennadiy, an iconoclastic pastor and vigilante, Filipp spins into an alternate universe, tasting the life that, if he never immigrated, could have been his own. But as the crew is met with the danger and unrest of the city, Filipp must re-color the memory of a world he once called home.

As a history scholar and a Russian immigrant whose family settled in "little Russia" in urban Chicago, Filipp ably weaves his personal story into his encounter with Gennadiy, a Ukrainian pastor whose life is dedicated to the fight against the darkness of corruption, injustice and suffering in post Soviet Ukraine.  

Fil's personal story is a metaphor to help explain the long difficult process of  integration experienced by immigrant Jewish Russians who made the difficult decision to leave their homes and cultural identity, and the nostalgia they feel for their homeland that lingers on in their Russian community in America. 

Fil incorporates into his life story and this trip back to as close to Russia as he can get, a realistic perspective on the geopolitical thrust of Russia into Ukraine and Crimea (so fresh in the news).  The film crew's brush with death in the middle of a hot war in Eastern Ukraine is a central part of the book.  

Fil makes creative use of his relationship with his dad, who carries within himself a visceral anger about the corruptness of Russia and what that does to average people.  Fil has become Americanized and educated in this new culture while his extended family remains a bit stuck in a semi-assimilation into America.  

Fil's strong sense of justice drives him to "get the story of Gennadiy right".  Both he and Steve, the director of the film, "Almost Holy" strive to make the film an honest depiction of this "iconoclastic" pastor who has gained fame throughout Ukraine for his fight for justice for the poor and downtrodden, especially children.  They aim to  be authentic and not propagandistic, as they struggle with the question of whether or not Gennadey is real  and authentic.  In the end Fil finds authenticity and strength (manliness) in a way not often seen, a man of faith who does not wear his Christianity on his sleeve, but lives it out in the face of real danger.  

As a well-educated Russian American secular Jew, Fil forms a bond of friendship with and respect for this Ukrainian pastor who the rest of us have never heard about before this film and book.  Both the film and the book are compelling to watch and read.

Here is a website for ordering the book, if you are interested in the rest of the story…

http://www.animalmediagroup.com/shop/almost-home/

Leslie and Filipp in downtown Chicago

Sometimes Mountains

How can it be that 35 years have passed since I first read this poem by my good friend, John Workman?  

On Saturday mornings in Little Rock John and I took  bike rides and enjoyed good conversations as we peddled out of town along undeveloped roads that have long ago disappeared and become streets of upper class suburbs.  We talked of many things - and laughed a lot... 

John, a religion editor for the local newspaper, had both thoughtful insights on life and faith, as well as a good sense of humor.  Many readers would get the Saturday morning paper and go directly to John's article even before looking at the front page headlines.  

Besides riding his bicycle on long trips, in later years he got a motorcycle and took a long trip to Montana.  That is when and where he may have gotten the inspiration for this poem.  

These days I can look out the window of our house in Butte, Montana and see mountains.  I am blessed by mountains, not just sometimes, but every day!  A few days ago I went with my 87 year old neighbor, another John, up to a mountain lake and caught a dozen cut-throat trout.  With no one else around on that spring day, I enjoyed the serenity and a rushing in my soul that John writes about. 

Here is John's  poem which I found stuck behind the back cover of a book of poetry we've had on our book shelf for years.  Judy, my wife and mountain lover, had saved it.

Sometimes Mountains 

Sometimes when driving the plains -

those long, rolling interminable spaces -

I think for a fleeting moment

that far off in the dim, distant horizon,

shimmering through heat waves,

I can see mountains.

Mountains!

Abrupt, rugged peaks

rising to where the air is thin

and the tree line is far below

and the snow lies in undisturbed serenity.

A rushing in my soul.

Sometimes when sleep comes late at night

and through my open window

the breeze hums her lovely melody,

I think for a passing moment

that I can hear the wind

racing over the high mountain pass.

I hear it changing key from spruce to aspen

and rushing on

to ruffle hues on the mountain meadows

and dapple the face of solitary snow-watered lakes.

A quickening in my chest.

Sometimes when the meetings are long

and the speakers drone on and on,

I close my mind and open my heart and think

that I can feel the trail under my boots,

my pack deliciously heavy against my back

and my legs straining on the zig-zag climb.

And I look up and know that the summit is over the ridge above.

A smile on my face and in my heart.

Strange it is with mountains

They are so very much more than they are.

 John Workman, August, 1981

I'll Pray for you

Some years ago as we were finishing a hearty meal with a group of friends, one of the guests, an elderly gentleman and beloved member of the congregation, said, "Well, now I have something to say."  That caused a  pause in the lively banter and conversation of the meal and we all became silent, awaiting and curious as to what announcement Martin was about to make, as Martin was not one to waste words.  Then he said, "You don't have to pray for me anymore, I'm fine",  and he said this quite emphatically.  

Martin was living with the reality of cancer and his name had been on the prayer list and included in the prayers of the Church for the last several months.  We were somewhat dumbfounded at this request to "not" be prayed for, rather than a more usual request for and thankfulness that he was being prayed for. 

It turned out that Martin was embarrassed to hear his name mentioned publicly in the prayers.   I supposed this was at least partially a reflection of an ingrained humility which was almost bred into him from his Norwegian Lutheran heritage and upbringing.  So we just continued to pray for him "in secret".

More recently we experienced negative feedback from someone for telling her we were praying for her.  Judy told this person she had been praying for her and found out that this was taken as an insult, a sort of indication that we thought there was something wrong with her.  

So is there a risk in saying  "I'll pray for you" to someone?  I have always thought there is, but more along the lines of my own failure to remember to pray.  Like in, "Oh no, I said I would pray for Jim, but the truth is, I haven't thought about Jim nor prayed for him for days now"!

Of course, I suspect I also have creeping doubts that my intercessory prayer will do any good!    Yet, I try!  Try to remember to pray daily for those who are most beloved and closest to me, especially my children and grand kids - though they generally don't know that I am praying for them.  It is done in secret, so to speak.   

Occasionally   we also find ourselves praying for people who themselves don't believe in prayer.  Well, Jesus did say something about going into our closet and praying in secret…  so we can be a bit subversive about it all - no need to tell the other that we are praying for them.  

Douglas Steere, a Quaker, wrote in his classic book, Dimensions of Prayer,[1]

 "Intercession is the most intensely social act of which the human being is capable.  When carried on secretly, it is mercifully preserved from, in fact, almost immunized against, the possible corruptions to which all outer deeds of service for others are subject."

I sometimes feel like I am coping out by saying "I'll pray for you", because there is so much the other person (s) may need that I can do nothing about but to pray.  If I am moved to pray for Syrian refugees, for example, I am tempted to wonder what possible good my little pittance of a prayer will do.   But then I am prompted to respond with about the only action available to me… i.e. write a check to a trusted relief agency like Lutheran World Relief.

Douglas Steere also wrote, "If we want to stay out of personal involvement, intercessory prayer should be instantly scratched from our list; there is nothing that brings us into the scene like intercessory prayer, even when it is done entirely in secret."

What happens when we pray is that our souls are interconnected …  and, in turn, we are connected with God.  I don't always know what the deepest need of the other person is, but God does, so I can simply pray for him or her…. "according to their need". 

Tennyson, the poet, wrote… "More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of…."

---

[1] Douglas V. Steere, Dimensions of Prayer, Upper Room Books, Nashville,1962

What will you be doing when you are 98?

We received many greetings and Christmas letters from friends and family this past season, but none quite as interesting as one from Brynhild Rowberg, a cousin (several times removed) on the Aaker side of the family.  Her letter got me to think about how to relish and enjoy life - way into old age.

Margaret Mead said, "If you associate enough with older people who do enjoy their lives, who are not stored away in any golden ghettos, you will gain a sense of continuity and of the possibility for a full life."

I thought I would share Brynie's letter here.  She wrote:

In August, I observed, not celebrated, my 98th birthday at three successive, cheerful luncheons with friends and relatives.

But, you may ask, what does one do, at 98, with the waking hours?

When I asked this question of my colleague, Roberta Meyerkort, retired to her home town of Port Gibson, MS, she replied" "I go to funerals."  So do I.  This sounds lugubrious, but at age 98 it is not.  Almost all of the deceased have lived long, happy, productive lives.  I remember the wisdom of the late actor, John Gielgud, and another expert, my dear mother.  The former once observed:"Memorial services are the cocktail parties of the geriatric set".  

My mother, having attended the funeral of her friend, Henrietta Larson, remarked: "It's not a nice thing to say, but I had a very good time at the begravelse".  (Norwegian for funeral or burial).  Henrietta had gotten a Ph.D from Columbia in the 1920's, rare for a woman, gone on to be the first woman on the faculty of Harvard School of Business.  No wonder mother enjoyed herself talking to Henrietta's many friends!

I help provide programs for the entertainment and, we like to think, enlightenment of our fellow residents at Parkview.  I've spoken on the history of Northfield (Minnesota), using lectures I prepared some years ago for a course I gave at the Northfield Elder Collegiums.  Notable people with a Northfield connection:  John North, abolitionist and founder of a least three cities; Thorstein Veblen whose phrase "conspicuous consumption" was never more applicable than it is today, Jesse James, who, alas, needs no introduction, and Gen. Adelbert Ames, Civil War general and Reconstruction Governor of Mississippi, as well as grandfather of the late George Ames Plimpton of the Paris Review. 

Other lectures were on the eleven months in 1968 which I spent involved in the negotiations which freed the crew of the USS PUEBLO, on living behind the Iron Curtain (Prague, 1950-52) and on spending Easter in Macedonia in 1954, etc.

A third devourer of time: being one of four moderators of a weekly discussion of current events.  Attendance is never below twelve, often above twenty.  I prepare for this by reading "The Economist" and "The New York Times".

Fourth Occasional trips.  No airplane travel anymore, alas, I don't really drive out of town these days.  But relatives fill the gap.  We've visited the Minneapolis Institute of Art and the Museum of Russian Art, the latter has had amazing shows on the Romanovs, Russian in World War II, icons and samovars.  (she goes on to tell of other day trips around the area of Minnesota and Wisconsin)

Fifth: Reading just for fun.. one is "The Shepherd' s Way, by James Rebanks.

Last Christmas Eve the Petersons took me to the service at Valley Grove Church, a truly picturesque church set on a hill, surrounded by fields and forests.  We enjoyed candle-light, music of organ, flute, violin, all played by retired professionals, a glowing tree and a church full of people whom I know or wished I knew…..

Note:  Brynie, as usual, also voiced some opinions on the current political scene..  (she is a life-long Minnesota liberal), but I will stop with this…  Enough to think about as I proceed through my 70s, and maybe even into my 90s.  She gives a hint on how to prepare for our own lives in advanced age… Indeed, we often hear that we should live to it's fullest to the end!

 

I am not there yet, but I hope my brain and heart are as alive and actively enjoying life when (if) I get to 98 as are Brynie's…  What about you? 

Aaker family members gathered at the farm where I grew up near Kenyon, Minnesota. The picture was taken in June, 2009 and was the last time we gathered at the farm, which had been sold.  Seated are my uncles Leonard, then age 98, Maynard, 92, Brynhild, 92, and aunt Minerva, 91.  All are now deceased with the exception of Brynie.