A Wittenberg Moment: Looking Back and Moving Ahead

Every few years the Wittenberg University Choir passes through town as part of a tour through the northeastern United States. Andrea and I saw them perform this past Saturday night at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church in Ardmore, Pennsylvania. For those who have never seen or heard the Wittenberg Choir, they are world class, as good as any university choir you are likely to see, on a par with St. Olaf and Concordia and many of the other great college choirs.

I have seen the Wittenberg Choir perform several times over the years, and every time I leave feeling blessed, spiritually uplifted and culturally enriched. The collective sounds of these young people’s voices are beautiful, a mosaic of harmony and acoustic perfection. And while they always sound glorious, on Saturday they were really quite spectacular.

The music on this night was mostly religious and traditional, with classical and spiritual overtones. They performed three songs – Ubi Caritas, O magnum Mysterium, and Sanctus – in Latin, singing Still wie die Nacht in German, and Bogoroditse Devo in Russian. During their performance of When I Survey the Wondrous Cross (arranged by Gilbert Martin), I turned and noticed Andrea overcome with emotion, struck by the beauty and power of the moment. At the end of the concert, the choir enclosed the audience in a large circle and sang The Benediction by Knut Nystedt. Although each choir member stood alone, together they formed an elaborate sound of quadraphonic wholeness. Earlier that evening, in Calling My Children Home (arranged by Joseph Jennings), they sang the words with such deep feeling it could not help but penetrate one's heart:

Those lives were mine to love and cherish, To guard and guide along life’s way./O God, forbid that one should perish, That one alas should go astray./Back in the years with all together, Around the place we’d romp and play./So lonely now, I often wonder, O will they come back home some day?/I’m lonesome for my precious children, They live so far away./O may they hear my calling And come back home someday./I gave my all for my dear children, Their problems still with love I share./I’d brave life’s storms, defy the tempest To bring them home from anywhere./I lived my life, my love I gave them, To guide them through this world of strife./I hope and pray we’ll live together In that great glad hereafter life./I’m lonesome for my precious children, They live so far away./O may they hear my calling And come back home someday.

For someone like me, who grew up listening mostly to folk, pop, and rock music, the sounds emanating from this modest amalgam of young voices was impressively diverse and expansive. The night was in part a tribute to Dr. Donald Busarow, who is completing a journey enveloping 28 years as choir director and 35 years as a professor of music theory and composition, and who is stepping down as only the fourth director in the choir’s 80-year history.

I left Wittenberg nearly 30 years ago, though in many ways it never left me and continues to occupy a warm place in my heart. Founded in 1845 by German immigrants, Wittenberg sits on a stunningly beautiful campus in southern Ohio, spreading its wings over 120 acres of lush grounds. The biggest negative to Wittenberg’s draw is its location in the city of Springfield, a once proud industrial town of the old rust belt, formerly home to a major International Harvester plant, but now host to unemployed factory workers and a stagnant service industry. Surrounded by farmland, the area is a mixture of northern Kentucky and central New Jersey. There is very little to do in Springfield, but that never mattered much during the four years that I was there. Wittenberg was everything to me then, its grand brick buildings and majestic trees overlooking its rolling hills of green grass, brick walkways, and well tended flowerbeds.

Perhaps I so appreciated the Wittenberg Choir on Saturday night because I have often considered my time there as among the best four years of my life. As I think back on it, I have difficulty remembering a single bad day. Life was fun and fulfilling, the days vivid and fresh, friendships came easy, and I never felt alone. On the night of graduation, while others celebrated, I quietly cried, anguished by the thought that life would never be as free and easy again. I loved Wittenberg and knew even then that it was an experience never to be replicated in life’s subsequent stages. Yet as I sat in the pews of St. Paul’s church, I could not remember once having seen the choir perform during my years at Wittenberg. Sometimes we appreciate only later in life the things we so often overlooked in the past.

In reality, there has been so much more to life since I left college. I headed to Washington, D.C., and later to Philadelphia, places full of history and culture and excitement. I became an accomplished lawyer and prosecutor. I have met sons and daughters of important people, worked alongside men and women who hailed from the best schools, and involved myself in interesting and fulfilling work. I have been introduced to the worlds of politics and law, art and theater, differing cultures and religions, things I had overlooked or not been exposed to in humble Springfield. I embraced a larger world, which in its splendor sometimes fails to acknowledge the simple and gentle confines of places like Wittenberg.

I have few regrets over the paths I have chosen and choices I have made, and I realize that, in some respects, I may have outgrown Wittenberg – when I graduated in 1981, I was ready to move on – but part of me never left. When I spotted the Wittenberg banner upon entering the church narthex on Saturday night, and set my eyes on the bright red and white gowns of the Wittenberg Choir, I felt a rush of pride about where my Wittenberg journey has led me in life and my connection to this grand place. I felt at home.

To this day, when I think of Wittenberg, I feel an occasional twinge of sadness, a longing for the days of my youth, when my whole life stood before me, my dreams unlimited, and my ideals untainted. I know now that constantly looking back serves no useful purpose. If I had the chance to live life over again, I would certainly do some things differently. I would, for one, not take time and relationships for granted, and I would be more open to new experiences, to travel, and to taking risks in life. But there is very little I would change about Wittenberg and my experiences there. Living in the present is healthier and more productive, the only way truly to live. I know that I am blessed – with my health, my family, my children, with Andrea, my career, and my faith, however tenuous and imperfect it may be.

It is due in no small part to my days at Wittenberg, the things I learned, the growth I experienced, the confidence I gained, that today I am so blessed. If my children can experience in their college years even half of the joy, the fun, the learning, and the sense of fulfillment that I found during my four years at Wittenberg, I will sleep soundly knowing they are on the right path, journeying forward to a life complete.

Reflections on My Grandfather: Memories and Lost Opportunities

We stood at the door of my grandfather’s house, a country rancher on a horse farm in north central Ohio. My parents had been driving all day, three children and a dog in tow, so that we could make our annual summer visit to my mother’s father and her stepmom. It was dark outside and no porch light was on, when we rang the door bell. We stood there waiting, and waited some more, until it seemed like five or six minutes went by. Are they home? They are expecting us, aren’t they? Finally, my grandfather came to the door. “Oh, hi Janie,” he said to my mom impassively, “How are you?”

As a young boy, not more than eight years old, this was confusing. I was excited to arrive at my grandfather’s house. I knew that my brother and I would have a great time there, running up and down the long dirt-drive that connected the two horse barns; petting the horses while sneaking them sugar cubes and carrots; and hitting fly balls to each other in the open expanse of grass behind Grandpa’s granite back porch and goldfish pond. But Grandpa never seemed very glad to see us. Maybe he loved all of us and simply had a hard time showing it. He was not a man who expressed emotions freely; a lawyer and shrewd businessman, he had made good money in construction and real estate over the years, had two oil wells on his property, and at one time owned more than 30 thoroughbred race horses. Despite his wealth and good fortune, he did not share much of it with his family. When my father asked him for a small loan shortly after marrying my mom in the early 1950’s so that he could purchase a car, my grandfather declined, stating that his money “was all tied up.” When he died, he left my mom and her two brothers very little, instead passing almost all of his net worth onto his second wife, my Aunt Jean, a woman of independent means who would eventually leave it all to distant relatives (she had no children of her own).

He was not much of a father to my mom nor much of a grandfather to her children. Only once in my lifetime did he ever visit us. When I was six years old, he stopped by our house in southern New Jersey wearing his custom bow tie and fedora, said hello and sat on the living room couch for ten minutes, then continued to Atlantic City, where he was entering one of his horses in a stakes race. I sensed that he never greatly valued my mom as a daughter, though perhaps this was a reflection of his old-fashioned tastes and outdated, traditional views on the inferior roles of women. My mom and he had very little in common; she had long since expanded beyond her days as a boarding student at the prestigious Hathaway Brown School in Shaker Heights, where Grandpa sent her throughout her teen years. She had developed into a liberal Democrat and devout Christian, while he remained very conservative in his politics and had little connection to whatever semblance of faith he may have retained. He was a country club Republican who viewed the world from very narrow lenses, with little sympathy for the less fortunate and little tolerance for people different than himself.

Despite this, now that he has been gone for nearly three decades, I sometimes wish that he had lived longer, so that I could have talked to him as an adult and gotten to know him better. I would have liked to have discussed areas of mutual interest – the law, politics, and even horse racing. He and Jennifer, my oldest daughter, might have bonded over horses – maybe he could have helped make real her dream of one day training race horses. I could have learned a lot from my grandfather, despite his significant shortcomings. As with so much of life, we can only wonder.

In reality, I know very little about my grandfather’s life. Although he graduated with a law degree in the early 1920’s and used his legal training to assist him in his business endeavors, he died during my first year in law school. I never had a chance to talk with him in depth about the law as a profession. Had he lived longer, maybe he would have been proud to have a grandson who became a federal prosecutor. I would have liked to have talked to him about my courtroom experiences, about the art of cross examination and arguing to judges and juries. I have always been a little envious of my colleagues who had family members in the law, who could turn to fathers and grandfathers, brothers and sisters, as professional mentors and guides.

Grandpa and I would not have agreed on much politically, but I would have enjoyed debating him. And had he lived longer, when I developed an interest in horse racing – a sport to which I am attracted for its speed, beauty and rich history – I would have loved accompanying him to the track, gaining insight into the business side of racing, and listening to his stories of hope and heartbreak, disappointment and exuberance. My favorite room in his house was always his study. I recall spending hours there examining his collection of trophies and pictures from the winner’s circle that lined the dark wood paneling and built-in book shelves. It was a room of someone important, of an accomplished man who had succeeded in life, or so I thought as a ten year-old child that knew little of life’s realities.

Whatever deficiencies he may have had as a man, Grandpa was the only grandfather I ever knew. My dad’s father died long before I was born. I know now, as I enter into my sixth decade of life, that those fortunate enough to have had a loving grandfather or two are very lucky, for grandfathers have a lot of wisdom and life experience to offer. Having lived through history, they have the benefit of hindsight from which to talk of the present. Grandfathers can teach you what they have learned in life, including mistakes made along the way. A grandfather’s perspective, formed from years of experience, can guide, inform, teach, and influence.

My grandfather was born in 1901 and, by the time he died in 1983, he had lived through the inventions of the automobile, the assembly line, airplane travel, television and the computer; he saw the growth of the interstate highway system and the development of space travel; and he experienced two world wars, a great depression, and the social and sexual revolutions of the sixties and seventies. Just when I was old enough and ready to learn from him, he was no longer around to talk to me. Would he have been there for me had he lived longer?

I don’t recall any truly meaningful conversation that I ever had with my grandfather. I am sure he is not fully to blame, as I was too young or too limited in my own interests – too focused on baseball, or girls, or basketball, or school, or football – to understand the importance of grandfathers. My grandmothers, not surprisingly, paid much closer attention to their grandchildren and made clear their love of us. I have few regrets about them. Grandmothers historically and universally perform their tasks much better than grandfathers. My grandfather certainly failed in this respect. But I do not want to judge him too harshly. I’d like to think he tried his best. I just wish he and I had tried a little harder.