Christmas was. . . that one searing moment as I stood with 70 other choristers singing, with the heart of a little boy. . . or the heart of the old shepherd that I am, from Bach's Christmas Oratorio:
Here I stand at Your crib
I give you all I have:
Take all of me, I have no more to give.
Late flight from Berlin, Schönefeld. Stuttgart airport brightly lit but hardly anyone inside. Short heartfelt goodbyes to Nikolaus, our gracious host, then walked away buoyed up. Mechtild and I headed for our Black Forest havens. Got into deep snow. Autobahn restaurant for coffee. Smoking forbidden. It was 3 a.m. when we finally arrived. Sat in the car and talked. What a trip! And there was still such a lot more to talk about.
A Saturday morning. We breakfasted and went to the Sony Center, Berlin's spectacular new meeting place at Potsdamer Platz. Then for a change we all went our separate ways. I walked. And walked until I was out of the great city. Maybe it was too much for me, I thought. It felt good to be where kids were playing in the street. But I felt lonely. Like a stranger. All the pictures of Berlin in W.W.II came back, then the daring Airlift and the DC-3s flying overhead to keep the grandparents of these Berliners sustained. The Soviet presence so mightily stated in architecture and monuments. The Wall. The Reichstag and the shimmer of swastikas, the cafeteria where we had lunch, where outside in the courtyard the Graf Stauffenberg, after his unsuccessful attempt to assasinate Hitler, stood before a firing squad and was shot down. The bewildering burden of history during my own lifetime was suffocating.
I had walked so far that I had to hail a taxi and be driven back into the City Center where the group had planned to meet.
Markus was the instigator of our trip. He wanted to get us together again after that great weekend last May in that quaint Black Forest hotel. In Berlin he is looking out for us, finding restaurants, subway connections, sites. He is the heart of the group. A great conversationalist, always delving into a interesting subjects concerning old school days. Open and frank, genuine; not shying away when a matter gets delicate. I marvel at my old student . . . but think I saw the man he is today in the teenager of yesteryears.
His children were always calling on the cell phone. Can't wait till he gets home. I understand. . .
Christmas 2008
I hung the decorations that Markus's daughter Johanna made for me on our Christmas tree. 
Stephanie, our Black Forest girl who ended up living and working in Berlin, joined us at this restaurant that evening. We knew she was very busy and might not make it. She had just had the unsavory task of handing out 15 notices to employees where she works. That done, she came.
What a charming young woman she is! She attracted our attention with her stories about how she had tried to cushion the bad news and reach mutual settlements. While telling, all her old warmth and heart came back. . . just like in the old days in the Senior class when both Nikolaus and Markus had had a crush on her. . . Didn't I see some light sparkling in their eyes again?
Approaching the theater Nikolaus extended his arm saying: This has been my living room ever since I've been in Berlin! We went in, had cocktails, saw a remarkable Brecht play. Appreciative applause, scene for scene.
Afterwards over wine, Nikolaus surprised us with news that he will be making his first appearance in a Berlin cabaret next month.
Next day he took me to Brecht's house in the Chauseesstrasse for a private guided tour by a charming actress who was on stage the night before. The cemetery was near the house and we stood for some minutes at Brechts's unpretentious grave.
It was evening and dark when we walked through this field of granite slabs. Eventually we were submerged and could not see out over. It seemed as if there was only one orientation to get my bearings from: Auschwitz.
Next morning Mechtild and I headed for the National Gallery. We stood there looking at the sculptures outside around this building, especially this Henry Moore piece, for at least half an hour. Mechtild is a sculptress herself and it was wonderful to exchange views with her. Going inside, looking intently, we managed only four or five works, all sculptures.
Over coffee I leaned over, looked Mechtild in the eye told her how she could run rings around me as a teacher. What a smile she gave me!
. . . and you're coming with us, they said. So here we are catching the evening flight from Stuttgart to Berlin. Already Nikolaus is waiting for us at Schönefeld. When you get here I'm taking you up to the restaurant on top of the TV tower at Alexanderplatz, he says. The visibility is great. We're going make a toast to Berlin . . . and to you!
It must have been a bitter awakening for President Chávez to have to hear that his people didn't want a dictator. That they would prefer democracy to him.
I sit here thinking of the myriad possibilities of where I might be at this moment: in hospital bed or in a casino in Vegas, in a prison or in a shack on the Mexican border. But here I am in in this church rehearsing the sublime choral music of Johann Sebastian Bach for a Christmas concert.
How fortunate I am. . . And my heart soars toward You in gratitude.
For Tamara
When the light breaks through,
when our hearts beat with yours
Tamara dear,
then we know that we too
have been refined by the fires
of Auschwitz you knew
for our lives have changed,
having learned from you
and your hands' work
what faith, hope and love
can do.
Tamara Deuel : Auschwitz Survivor, Poetess, Sculptress.
We corresponded, each encouraging the other to focus on Auschwitz in our art, to keep Auschwitz alive in people's memory, especially in the young.
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+ June 26, 2007
Do the stars shine friendly down at me tonight blinking through such small radiant eyes, or are they cold? They seem to be holding back all the glory that is behind, dispensing of it in miserly measured portions.
I look into faces and find that the most beautiful are those that have suffered most.
The Archbishop of Baltimore has ordered Father Ray Martin to resign as pastor of three churches and sign a statement apologizing for "bringing scandal to the church".
Father Martin was cited for the liturgical offence of celebrating a funeral Mass with several clergy including a very close friend of the deceased, Rev. Annette Chappell, pastor of the Episcopal Church of the Redemption. She read the Gospel.
He was also cited for the administrative offence of hiring a maintenance man who had criminal charges on his record.
My Lord! . . . we Catholics!
I heard on the radio that the Russians have developed the most potent bomb in existence. It spreads less pollution and does less damage to the environment. Did I hear that right?
It was dark this morning and foggy. With my coat collar up around my ears I felt hugged and somehow protected. Walking across the fields I could see nothing but the path passing under my feet. In the distance the sound of cars rushing to their urgent destinations. Oh darkness, stay! . . . How will I ever be able to face the bright, glaring days of spring when everyone is so happy and dancing blithely around the maypole?
Deus, deus meus est, sollicite te quaero. Te sitit anima mea, desiderat te caro mea . . . Ps. 62
God, my God, I search for You with a disquieted heart. My soul longs for You, my flesh yearns for You . . .
I went to the old monk and asked him where I should look for my obscure God Who is always hiding from me. He turned to me, smiled and said: Everywhere.
I often wonder if I would have had the inner strength and courage, had I been here in Germany then, to stand up against the omnipresent subtle magic and brutal terror of Hitler's seduction. I wonder. . .
With oil pushing $100 a barrel today, Love is still for free.
Never liked sports or games where the point was to triumph over the other person. But often I heard them saying there must be something wrong with me.
It happened this evening. I was sitting in concert listening to a Haydn String Quartett when I felt the music changing everything around me, the sounds full of secrets and mystery. It was as if a door were opening into a white room and there was harmony and tranquility there and the feeling that everything I had ever hoped for had come true. And for a short moment I felt as if I were so much more than myself.
In restaurants they took away all the ashtrays. And now even forbidden smoking in the bars. Have heard no complaints.
Gasoline sells for $7.10 a gallon. Everyone drives, and pays.
The railroads and subways go on strike once a week. Commuters take it in stride.
While driving this morning I listened to an inspired Clara Haskil play a Piano Concerto by Mozart and couldn't help but think how flabby my emotional equipage is in comparison with theirs.
Mama was still in bed. We gave him a picture of her but instead of eating his breakfast he spent the whole time kissing her behind the picture glass.
The red ball of rising sun shone across our lawn this morning to a bowl of geraniums at the dining room window and lit them with a soft, heated glow. During breakfast we felt their warmth and couldn't help but marvel at their radiant beauty.
Where has the summer gone? I see it now in the brown fields . . and feel it as I walk on the carpet of damp leaves under my feet on my path.
My son, Martin, and his Barbara just had a baby. We sped to them. I held the little fellow in the palm of my hand and fingered his black hair. Overwhelmed by the fresh arrival from heaven.
At the same moment I had to think of my father's head which I held for ten minutes in the palm of my hand until the heat had gone out . . .
Francis, the man who wanted to possess nothing . . . so that he could better love.
My sister Nancy phoned to tell me that her husband, Rick, had died suddenly.
I thought back to our jaunt on a sunny Saturday just six weeks ago in his red convertible when he said: Come on, I'll take you to see your Perry Como. We were both in such high spirits.
"Too late have I come to love You, O beauty so ancient and so fresh; too late have I come to You", you said.
And centuries later I learned to love Him early, Augustine, sitting there as a teenager, reading your words, in the seminary chapel.
I stepped onto the train in Frankfurt and it sped off to the south. The people seemed different, I heard the first sounds of German again. They were not Americans, they were going other ways, thinking other thoughts. Nevertheless, somehow I knew that I belonged here with them. It has become my home. . . Those whom I love are here. That, I know, is everything. What more could I want?
Ready for the new day I looked at the wing of that stalwart Boeing 777 and paid my thanks and respect to her for what she had done. Somehow I felt one with her. Descending slowly now, I knew she had brought me back.
Purring through the night across the ocean at an altitude of 12,000 meters and speeding at 850 km/h I sat in stillness writing these impressions. When morning light came I looked out across an endless majestic carpet of clouds on which landscapes of hills, towers and mountains were formed, all energized by a bright light only seen up this high. I thought the psalmist must have imagined a sight like this when he was composing his praises to God for his wonderful creation. With him I thanked God for all the beauty that He had allowed me to see.
The two ladies that sat behind me spoke with such a charming, lilting Southern accent that I had to cock my ear and listen. They talked until late into the night. All the while it seemed as if a gentle music were coming from behind.
While flying over Canada and Newfoundland I had a little bracer — a Jim Beam on the rocks. Then, a short time after, a delicious meal along with a California red.
She was 87, the lady beside me, heading for Raleigh, North Carolina. Grandchildren there, and elsewhere. She could drive it, she said, but likes to fly. Gets me around faster, she whispered, with a twinkle in her eye.
Stayed overnight with Nancy, my sister. We took our morning walk together. It was raining. Under umbrellas we walked in silence but each of us knew what the other one was thinking. We had breakfast, a little extended agape. Talked about Mother and Dad. The way things were. It had stopped raining when we walked out the driveway. I looked up at the trees. Then we got in the car and were off to the airport.
My brother Jack's house on Washington Street. I stand here looking. Jack's Ann is fighting her battle with cancer. When Jack dies the last of us will have been taken from this spot on the globe, our earthly home. Oh, dear little town of Butler where my fondest memories lie entombed . . . it is hard, ever harder to leave you, not knowing whether I'll return.
She invited us for drinks, Catherine, whose husband Bill, my teaching colleague at Point Park College and golfing friend, left her five years ago. She talked lovingly about him. Showed us the rooms she since has redecorated. Bill's too. I noticed she still had his bathrobe hanging there on a shiny brass hook.
Sunday Mass at St. Paul's. Sang with the choir. Looked down at the sanctuary where I spent my boyhood serving at this altar. Through younger eyes I saw only green marble steps, candles, the Gothic arches. But then I thought I was standing in the modest church in our little village in Germany where, through older eyes, I would now be gazing down upon an altar and see surrounding it, the great wonder and the mystery.
Found a quaint little restaurant where delicious homemade cherry pie sells for $1.00 a slice.
A few people still know me at home, but I notice how the memory of my parents is fading as the younger generations coming on.
Drove by the beautiful home we lived in for so many years. What is it like inside now? Does Mother's, does Dad's spirit still linger there? Should I knock at the door and see?
Stood at gravesites of mother and father. There are no flowers. Just grass. They are alone. Nearby, our obelisk. There is room for me and my family. The question arises: Here? Or there?
She pranced across the street that morning, a stand-out beauty, elegantly dressed in black, postured high above the others it seemed. She walked briskly, exultantly. I watched her turn the corner, disappear. First class Philadelphian, for sure.
My brother and I walked through Washington Park and then on to Walnut Street on our way to City Hall when I happened to see her again, sitting on a bench close to the street curb, her smooth, bare legs crossed, leafing, blasé, through a magazine, waiting for a pick-up.
Stopped at the University of Pennsylvania on our way back home. A wonderful sprawling campus in a valley surrounded by woods. 43,000 students. All on vacation. But the football team was practicing for the upcoming Notre Dame game. We walked in to Arts Museum. There in the entrance, a Chihily, fulgent with color. I walked over to it like to an old friend.
My brother was celebrating his birthday so I took him to one of Philadelphia's oldest restaurants, Bookbinder's. Sedate oaken dining room, excellent food. The maitre d' treated us as honored guests. Recommended German wine. The couple at the table next to us were celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary. Asked what had held the marriage together for all that time: I like his shaving lotion, he likes my perfume!
At the motel I refused to watch television. In America you are bombarded with commercials. They are insidious, yes, a curse.
Caught in the swirl of throbbing Philadelphia I thought about the quiet peace of my Black Forest village where, devoid of distractions, I feel myself so much closer to those things in life that really matter.
Christmas was. . . that one searing moment as I stood with 70 other choristers singing, with the heart of a little boy. . . or the heart of the old shepherd that I am, from Bach's Christmas Oratorio: 
Approaching the theater Nikolaus extended his arm saying: This has been my living room ever since I've been in Berlin! We went in, had cocktails, saw a remarkable Brecht play. Appreciative applause, scene for scene. 
Mama was still in bed. We gave him a picture of her but instead of eating his breakfast he spent the whole time kissing her behind the picture glass.
Stood at gravesites of mother and father. There are no flowers. Just grass. They are alone. Nearby, our obelisk. There is room for me and my family. The question arises: Here? Or there?
