How I Learned About America the Beautiful and Pike's Peak

How I Learned about America the Beautiful

Society of Pediatric Radiologists 1994

“America! America! God mend thine every flaw,

confirm thy soul in self-control, thy liberty in law.”

—Katherine Lee Bates

Sometimes we have a patriotic hymn sing-along at church before major holidays such as the Fourth of July. One of my favorites is the music set to Katherine Lee Bates’s poem, “America the Beautiful.” “O beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain.” Bates wrote the hymn after arriving in a prairie wagon atop 14,000-foot Pike’s Peak near Colorado Springs in the summer of 1893.

I connected with the poem and the hymn while helping plan a pediatric radiology meeting in nearby Colorado Springs in 1994. I took a six-month sabbatical from Children’s Hospital to prepare for the international pediatric radiology meeting. I received much help from people all over the world, but I also had a touch of what Parker Palmer calls “functional atheism,” believing I was the “only” one who needed to do most of the work.

After a year of planning, everything was finally ready. I vividly remember sitting in a board meeting at the event hotel in May, just before the conference began. I looked out the wide bay window and, to my horror, saw the last snow of the winter falling in May! I had meticulously planned a multitude of outdoor activities that would now never see the light of day. I now keep a beautiful picture of snow on the tulips in front of the hotel to remind me how little I can control in life.

Society of Pediatric Radioloigists 1994

There were a multitude of other hiccups. We recorded speakers for a video of the meeting. One speaker did not like his recording and required us to redo his filming at least five times. I will always be indebted to Marilyn Goske, whom I had casually asked to watch over the speakers’ video. She patiently stayed with the speakers and missed the entire meeting to complete this task.

Another hiccup came during our evening entertainment after dinner. We had scheduled the Air Force Academy Cadet Choir, but without warning they were called to maneuvers. Our meeting planner booked a local children’s chorus. I worried it would be amateurish and poorly performed. But, as you might expect, they were the most charming, talented, and poised children performers I have ever seen. They ended their concert by approaching individual members of the highly educated, sophisticated audience, holding their hands, and singing directly to them. We all gave them a standing ovation through our tears, remembering that the children we serve as physicians can teach us so much about life and the beauty of America, as expressed in “America the Beautiful.”

Another lagniappe at the meeting. Two pediatric radiologists, who lived on different continents apart, decided to get married at the meeting. Overnight, our meeting planner arranged a beautiful ceremony for them. To date, there has never been another wedding at that annual meeting!

I also learned from this meeting that, no matter how hard I try, I am not in charge, and that God provides me with fantastic people around me who will take over in overwhelming situations. I especially learned at dinner that when a door unexpectedly closes, the next door that opens is often surprisingly magnificent.

Joanna https://www.joannaseibert.com/

The Remarkable Reunion of Union and Confederate Veterans at the 50th Anniversary of the Battle of Gettysburg

 Pickett’s Brigade Reunion

“And who is my neighbor?”—Luke 10:29.

Ken Burns’ television series on the Civil War describes a remarkable scene on the fiftieth anniversary of the Battle of Gettysburg, July 3, 1913, when the remaining veterans of the two armies stage a reenactment of Pickett’s Charge. The old Union veterans on the ridge take their places among the rocks, and the old Confederate veterans march toward them across the field below—and then something extraordinary happens. As the older men among the rocks rush down toward the older men coming across the field, a great cry goes up—except that instead of fighting as they had a century earlier, they throw their arms around each other, embrace, and openly weep.

In 1914, during World War I, German, British, Belgian, and French troops in the trenches along the Western Front mingled during a brief Christmas truce, even singing “Silent Night” and other carols in solidarity. Recently, we have seen something similar at World War II memorials, such as Normandy, where German, English, French, and American soldiers have wept together and shared their stories. We have also seen it when American soldiers return to Vietnam to share stories with those they once fought bitterly.

This repeated act of shared love and storytelling can tell us something about war. So many who have fought on foreign fields can be our strongest advocates against it. They know what they—and those once their enemies—have lost. They share a common, life-altering experience that only those who have been through it can truly understand.

Those in recovery of any kind also know how awful their life of obsession was before healing from addictions to alcohol, drugs, sex, food, etc. They can relate to those who remain trapped in their addiction. Most of all, they can minister to those still suffering and offer hope that their lives can be different. They do this by sharing the story of their life in addiction, contrasted with what it is like now in recovery.

Those who have overcome mental illness can become advocates for others who suffer from this common disease. People who were once homeless can offer restorative hope to those on the street. Cancer survivors can encourage and pray for others recently diagnosed, giving them strength and support.

This story goes on and on and on. We are healed as we reach beyond ourselves, share our stories, and listen to those who suffer in situations we know all too well. We realize “who IS our neighbor.”

Some call this being wounded healers.

Joanna. https://www.joannaseibert.com/

What I learned when I became an Episcopalian

         What I learned when I became Episcopalian.

Guest Writer: Mary Hines

Mary Hines 3

There had been so many unusual events I couldn’t understand. I was young, about to get married, and very happy about my future. My parents did not share my excitement. I had been raised Catholic and was about to marry a Baptist. We had resolved our conflict over religion, but my parents had not. So, one August summer evening, we were married by a justice of the peace, with the immediate families attending. My mother was too upset to attend.

We didn’t try to find a church immediately. There was too much hurt and anger to think about it. So Sundays became a day for sleeping late, going fishing, or whatever. Two years later, we were expecting our first child, and I knew I wanted to raise my family in a church. More time passed, and we were finishing our studies at LSU and moving to Shreveport to continue his internship. We also had another child, a son, and we would be there a year. Perfect time to look for a church. A friend suggested the Episcopal Church and thought we might find it a good fit… she would ask a neighbor about it. A few days later, a tall, balding Episcopal priest knocked on my door. Fr. Wallace Garrett came in
and invited me to visit St. James, a mission church in the neighborhood. We did, and loved it immediately. He was so helpful, giving us instructions and sometimes coming to our home to help us. We wanted to be confirmed and have the children baptized as a family.

During some of our sessions, he said we needed to get our baptism records from our former churches. My husband had no problem obtaining his, but I knew I couldn’t approach my parents for this. Instead, I called the Catholic Church where I was baptized. I gave the young priest who answered my name, date of birth, and when I was baptized.
He came back in a few minutes and said he couldn’t find it. So I gave him a few more possible dates. This time, he
said, “I found it, you’re the adopted one!” I was 30 years old, married, mother of two, and just discovered I had another name… My birth father was my uncle, whom I rarely saw, and my birth mother was a woman I never saw.

We joined St. James Episcopal Church that summer, and our two children were baptized at the same time. We were thrilled to become part of a church family. Fr. Garrett came up to me at the reception and said, “Mary, I hope you find much happiness and peace in the Episcopal Church. I hope he knows just how much his wish has come true…”

 Mary Hines 92 years young

Joanna  joannaseibert.com