Well, this might not seem like your idea of a good time. However, “undertaking” (good or bad pun?) this task may help loved ones to get through a time of grief more easily.

Having a chronic illness like allergic asthma, coupled with COPD and other complications, gave me incentive to think about taking this on. I just completed a shorter version in keeping with the times. Obituaries aren’t published the way they used to be unless you pay for it, and sometimes not even then. Of course, if unlike me you happen to be famous with much news having been written or broadcast about you, well getting obituary facts in order may still be a good idea for the sake of your loved ones, friends and colleagues. A funeral home or burial service, and a faith community, may be greatly assisted by the background your survivors provide, considered sometimes well in advance.

Here are suggestions to reflect on how to go about this challenge.

• • Check out your resume to see what most matters.
  • If anyone has ever written or broadcast about you, that is a good resource.
  • If you’ve done a personal memoir for family and friends like I suggested in another blog post, check out what is most significant from that work.
  • Ask family members, close friends and colleagues what they will most remember about you and take a few notes. You can explain why you are asking. And those you speak with may think this idea is a good one for them as well.

Based on what you collect, figure out a lead description for yourself, what is most important about you. Make sure what others are saying jives with what you want to emphasize.

I really spent some time on this for myself. In my lede I described myself as a writer and publicist who related to seven religiously affiliated initiatives over a career spanning five decades. In the second paragraph I spoke of once visiting a divinity school to consider studying for ordination, but felt “called away” from that direction and ended up working or consulting as a lay professional with Lutheran, United Methodist, Mennonite, American Baptist, Episcopalian, Roman Catholic and Jewish organizations.

I went on to describe that history a bit more, but briefly. Then I mentioned books I have self-published late in life. Don’t omit retirement activities of note. People are often living longer these days, and they may achieve some of their greatest accomplishments in “retirement.” Remaining details can include distinctive interests or activities and need to include reference to survivors of note and hometowns. Of course you won’t be able to write down details regarding your death. Others will fill in the blanks. If someone hasn’t taken a recent photo of you, it’s time to have one on hand.

Good luck thinking about this important step. Thanks for “listening.”

I’ve written probably thousands of stories and articles that have been published, starting with my days at the Call-Chronicle Newspapers in Allentown, PA, when I was first married to my wife, Lynn, of 57 years.  Articles published more recently included stories on the web written while working with American Baptist Churches USA and also writing for Living Lutheran, the periodical of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America. Writers can produce pieces and not get any feedback from them. I think hearing back from readers personally may take place more easily in local reporting. I am not sure.

I’ll relate two occasions when I did get feedback. One occasion was beyond amusing. The second one I’ll characterize as a remarkable outcome I learned about quite by chance.

When I was a young reporter, Lynn and I moved from a walkup apartment to our first house, a small Cape Cod-style dwelling in a village called Lanark outside of Allentown. The garage needed a new roof. Being of modest means, we enlisted two friends to help me put new green shingles on the roof over the old shingles. We had two wives helping by handing shingles up to us. Much to my surprise when we drove past the house quite a few years later well after we had moved away the shingles we had installed seemed to still be in place. That amazed me.

Some drinking was involved during this do-it-yourself initiative bordering at times on debacle. In short, I described a litany of mistakes we made during the effort in a self-effacing humor piece I wrote for Allentown’s Evening Chronicle. The city editor seemed to welcome these pathetic tales, such as when I tried to go through a window after locking myself out of the house. They ran with cartoons by a noted illustrator named Bud Tamblyn. The roofing piece was the first of its kind the paper had published. Readers seemed to enjoy these stories written at my own expense, perhaps because the news, even then, could be — humorless.

The next day a phone call was referred to me from the city desk. The caller identified himself as the head of the Roofers Union in the county.

“I want to thank you,” he said. “That story was the best advertisement for skilled, professional roofers the paper could have carried.” Then he concluded, “Is there any chance the story could run again next week?” I was laughing at my own expense. I had to tell him we don’t run stories like that twice.

The truly unimaginable story result happened after I wrote a piece about how newly independent Zimbabwe was recovering after a horrible war. I was on assignment for The Lutheran, magazine of the denomination known then as the Lutheran Church in America. I had never done reporting and photography out of a war zone and haven’t been to such a place since. It was 1981. I wrote how children had not been able to go to school for five years. Many schools and churches had been reduced to rubble from the conflict. The Lutheran World Federation was assisting in the rebuilding and recovery. But the truth was Zimbabwe simply had not enough classrooms, not enough books, not enough teachers and too many children wandering from place to place to find a school they could register to attend. Some children had been to four places or more, always rejected. But the sense of resilience and determination in the newly peaceful young nation was palpable.

After the story appeared in The Lutheran (circulation nearly 300,000), I took a train from Philadelphia to New York City for a meeting. During the trip a colleague introduced me to a couple she knew, Gail Altman and Fred Noll, both teachers from downtown Philadelphia. Fred and Gail told me they were glad to meet me. They had read my story and been deeply moved by it. Now they were on their way to the church’s national headquarters to receive training to devote a year of their lives teaching children in a little Zimbabwe town called Masase that I had written about. I was flabbergasted and deeply thankful that God had empowered me to write a story producing such a result. It was truly a remarkable outcome.

I have considered Neighbors Revisited to be a legacy book. What has made it so?

First of all, in researching the particulars for the book I “revisited” the meaning of “neighbor.”

The pure dictionary definition is someone who lives next door or down the street. As I contemplated the writing of some theologians, however, I got a different picture of the definition. Our neighbor is everyone really. No limits according to geography, race or religion. No limits at all. So the book title seemed to fit, even when I was writing about people halfway around the world. (Indeed, in my trip to the Philippines, Papua New Guinea and Indonesia, I flew completely around the world.)

A neighbor is one who serves as well. We are meant to serve and be served. It is a neighborly form of exchange. Reformer Martin Luther alluded to this in his pamphlet, Freedom of a Christian.

So when I used to have Homeland Security credentials to call on seafarers visiting the Port of Philadelphia and bringing us “stuff” we need (including bananas, automobiles and rock salt mined in Brazil), the crew members I visited were neighbors, often Filipinos, serving people like me living in the U.S. And because I came to learn of all the hardships they endured at sea to help people like me, I found it an honor to serve them back, with a dose of hospitality. They were so far from home and many had been away for a year. We truly live in a global “neighborhood.” We need each other. Each one of us is a piece in Almighty God’s holy and humongous people puzzle. If any piece is missing, the puzzle isn’t complete. Everyone matters to God. It’s as simple as that. I enjoy sharing that puzzle story with children.

Then there were the voices of folks from six African and Asian places who had taught me so much. I did not want those voices to be lost. I wanted them to speak once more on my book’s pages. And so I revisited them once more, writing about them — again.

We live in such a time of polarization, of divisions between cultures. I have tried throughout my life to embrace people different from me and learn from them. I believe God wants us to embrace each other that way as we strive to be good neighbors. As I approach my 80th year and draw closer to departing this earth, I want to celebrate the meaning and importance of diversity as an opportunity for learning from and teaching each other. Knowing the folks I have met on these pages has been such an incomparably rich blessing. And if any words I have written have made a positive difference, it is only because God gave them to me to use.

 

I have been blessed to work as a photojournalist in a dozen countries and 30 U.S. states. Memories abound.

For example, in anticipation of the 400th anniversary of the Augsburg Confession I visited more than a dozen sites connected with the life of Reformer Martin Luther. I crossed from West Germany to East Germany in an experience that was especially emotional.

But one day in my journalistic life stands out — so much so that I think of it almost every day. It was a pivotal factor in deciding to write my book Neighbors Revisited, a church journalist’s life lessons learned from people of other cultures.

It was the 22-hour period of time when I visited a village in Papua New Guinea called Nomane in that young nation’s Central Highlands.

We live in a highly transactional culture. For example, when I used to visit a drugstore to purchase shampoo (I don’t need it anymore), I would pick up what I wanted and, often in a preoccupied state, pay for it at the checkout counter while barely noticing the cashier.

On the Papua New Guinea day in question in 1985, burdened with a heavy camera bag to take black and white color photos, I flew with a mail plane pilot in a single engine Cessna to Nomane, landing on the side of a majestic peak on a muddy airstrip.

I had plotted out my schedule over 22 hours ahead, some of which would be spent sleeping (hopefully). As a deadline-oriented writer I wanted to get a jump start, meeting the village evangelist Manape Nokul and telling the story about how, counter-culturally, he had persuaded his neighbors to move their village from high terrain (where you could be more protected from your enemies) to lower, more fertile ground especially suited for farming. I learned from a pastor who grew up in Papua New Guinea that moving was a special problem because villagers feared spirits that they believed would hang out near the river they were moving toward. In the book I titled this chapter “How faith moved a village and how a village moved me.” Years later the title still seems especially fitting.

I quickly learned from the German missionary who hosted me that jump-starts wouldn’t work in the village. “You have to spend time with the leaders first. You have to have a meal with them and let them ask you questions,” Phillip Hauenstein explained. (“But that will take so much time,”) I said to myself.

But I yielded. I ate meal of tinfish, as they called it (tuna in a can, a delicacy saved for feasts) and baked potato. The questions to me poured forth. “Where did you come from? How did you get here? What is your home like? Are there farmers where you live? What is your family like? What do you think of our village?” Around 11 p.m. the questions and answers ended. Except for one. “What would you like to do here?” they asked. I said I wanted to meet and talk to Manape. I wanted him to tell me the story of the village and talk about the faith of the villagers. I wanted to take lots of pictures. I knew they had just started farming with a water buffalo. They had only had metal tools for 40 years. Especially, I said, I would like to take a photo of the villagers together.Would all of this be OK? I asked. They all nodded.

Phillip and I said our good-byes and headed off for bed in his bungalow. It began to rain — very hard. I thought that the persistent rain might wreck my plans for the next morning. “Don’t worry,” Phillip told me. “It often rains here at night. It will be a beautiful day tomorrow.” I listened to the rainfall on the bungalow roof as I tried to sleep — fretting.

As Phillip predicted. the next morning dawned with a clear sky. We made our way to the village.

No-one was there. I panicked. What is happening? “I think I know,” Phillip mused. “Follow me.” We walked up a curvy ribbon dirt trail to the top of the village. There, positioned perfectly for a photo before a picturesque hut were all the villagers. Dear friend, you have probably taken photos where you have to arrange the subjects suitably, move them closer together, tall ones in the back etc. Especially if you are photographing a lot of people.

I needed to do nothing of the sort. They had listened to me so carefully. Everything was perfect. I took out my cameras and began to shoot. I had tears in my eyes.

The whole day went like that. The additional pictures took half the time they would have because the villagers had planned for me. Manape’s interview worked efficiently because he had heard my questions the night before.

These villagers some would describe as “primitive” were not at all transactional. Because they had come to know me so well first my assignment was easily and completely fulfilled. I had learned a special lesson about hospitality and the embracing of a total stranger. The experience changed me.

As I said good-bye to the village at 2 p.m., boarding the Cessna once more, I found myself asking “Who are the primitive people anyhow?”

 

 

When I speak to groups I often suggest that folks write a memoir for family and friends.

To view my memoir take a look here

OK, so you might be saying, “I’m not a writer” or “I don’t know what to say. Why should I consider doing a memoir? Who would publish it?”

Good questions. But remember, what you don’t write down for those you care about to see may be forever lost. Too often when we gather for family occasions ideas you might want remembered don’t get talked about.

So you may say, “I’m not important enough to write a memoir.” But you ARE important to those who love you, who care about you. When I wrote my memoir during the pandemic I had time on my hands to think about writing one. And, I thought, telling multiple stories of my life frankly might be of interest to family members after I’m gone and they want to remember me. I never thought it would ever be published. After all, the only name recognition I really have is on signs that appear on the front of certain office supply stores!

I suggest that folks begin by sitting in a quiet place and thinking about your life. Is there a theme to your life story? What stands out? How do you want to be remembered? What stories might you share by writing them down in a way you might never converse about during your daily life routine?

Here’s a funny anecdote from my life. I’ll bet you have one too to include in your story.

One of my first summer jobs was working for my homeowner newspaper in Melrose, MA, a little suburb outside of Boston. My mother knew the editor, and so I was hired. I wrote obituaries, playground news, and I pored through wedding forms brides and grooms would fill out for me to write a news story for the weekly paper following their weekend marriage ceremony.

The last day of work, the matronly editor of the paper asked if I would drive the newspaper’s panel truck about nine miles into Boston to pick up some rolls of newsprint. I had just gotten my driver’s license. I had never driven a large panel truck before. I remember the editor, Dorothy Raymond, patting my shoulder as she said, “You can do this…”

Getting in the truck and starting it was the last uneventful thing that happened on the trip to Boston. On the way from the parking lot I steered too close to a corner of the building, sheered off the side mirror and listened to it crash in the driveway. I decided to just keep going.

Next, I needed to cross the Mystic River toll bridge. Unfortunately I did not maneuver the the narrow drive entrance to the toll booth successfully. Rather, I drove the vehicle over the left curb. Horrified, I was heading toward the toll booth itself. I can still picture how the collector ran for his life out the booth side door. Fortunately, I was able to maneuver the truck back onto the drive entrance. I nervously handed him the toll money. We were both really sweating.

Next stop, Clarendon Street at the newsprint warehouse. I backed the vehicle too close to the loading dock, slightly damaging the rear doors. The warehouse foreman came to the driver’s side window and said sarcastically. “Do you want to load newsprint rolls into the truck? If so you are going to have to pull forward.”

The rest of the trip proceeded uneventfully. As I drove into the parking lot of the newspaper, I noticed someone had cleaned up the side view mirror mishap.

Ms. Raymond was very nice to me. “Don’t worry,” she said, “we can fix the truck. I’m glad nothing happened to YOU.”

I wonder what my mother and Ms. Raymond talked about after the truck incident. Or if they hired an intern the next summer.

Suggestion. Think about sitting in a quiet place each day. Think about the stories and events of your life you want to leave behind as a legacy to your family and friends. Make a list. When you are ready, begin to put your story together. Take a little time each day to develop your ideas. Don’t worry about how long it takes, but be disciplined. I like to write in the morning. I sometimes spend an hour or two at it before thinking about breakfast. Storyworth, a new initiative, can help you with a memoir. They send out weekly questions for would-be memoir writers to answer. But you can do the kind of self-storytelling on your own. Honest.

Sometimes reading the stories of others in a memoir they produce may inspire you. But don’t worry if lack of fame is a concern of yours. Remember, every life matters. Especially yours. Write me if you have concerns or questions. I’d be glad to chat with you electronically.

How Bronson came to be

 

The idea for Bronson’s Flood originated in a Pennsylvania campground.

The Bucks County setting got me thinking about creatures I was seeing in the woods. I started to work on a series about animals, each with special gifts worth celebrating. At the outset of the stories the animals were sometimes sad because they couldn’t do something they wanted to accomplish. But in the end each creature was able to engage in understanding and using their special gifts in some way. Success!

The problem was I wrote these intended stories using adult language. The stories were also too long!

Then, in June 2024 I discovered a children’s book editor in Minneapolis — Kellie Hultgren. Kellie suggested a path to successful editing. She also suggested adding a “near calamity” that caused the dam Bronson was building to begin to fall apart. She wanted me to add a bit of “tension.” Yikes! But Bronson and his friends didn’t give up. Together they saved the day. The dam was built just high enough to stave off a flash flood.

Kellie did a page layout for a picture book amounting to 32 pages plus cover.

Enter Dennis Packard, an illustrator I had kept in touch with over many years after he and Susan moved to Western Pennsylvania from Lansdale. Would he illustrate my first picture book? Dennis had never done that, but he agreed to take it on.

Then, my special friend, John Kahler, used his technical wizardry to create a final version of the picture book using a software called InDesign. It was all done according to Amazon’s specific requirements for a picture book, size 8 1/2 x 81/2.

Amazon did a spectacular printing job using high-gloss paper we preferred.

It’s important to note that many self-publishing authors like me are small business types. Amazon has a population of about 65 per cent of small businesses altogether.

Another part of the inspiration for Bronson was my history as a long-term recovery volunteer with Lutheran Disaster Response. Some two decades ago I worked with others along the Delaware River to help aging survivors overcome floods by undertaking repairs in their simple homes. I worked alongside members of Trinity Lutheran Church, Lansdale, PA, our congregation, and sometimes with seminarians from The Lutheran Theological Seminary at Philadelphia (now United Lutheran Seminary). Pastor Bill Rex, who stars as Garth Grizzly in the Bronson audiobook, was part of all that work. That’s how I met Bill. Then, my wife Lynn and I worked in Mississippi after Katrina. Some of the proceeds from Bronson’s Flood are being donated to disaster response initiatives.

 

 

 

Bronson ‘sponsors’

Sponsors L to R: Carole Rasmussen, Roger and Linda Williams, Jeannine Fallon Anckaitis, Julia Frank

Carole Rasmussen bought 39 copies for Preschool at Trinity Lansdale.

Roger and Linda Williams bought four books for children attending 10:45 a.m. “Sermon on the Steps” at Trinity, March 23, 2025.

Jeannine Fallon Anckaitis of Swarthmore bought 15 copies of Bronson for children in her youth networks. Jeannine is executive director at Youth Development United and Chester Upland Youth Soccer and claims the author as a mentor.

Julia Frank bought 10 books for her Lutheran Disaster Response network.

Thank you, sponsors!