FOR ALL THAT HAS BEEN
Memoirs - by Ralph W. Loew

About This Collection
Dedication
Childhood
Remembering at Elsie's Grave
Our Childhood
The Peanut Vendor
725 Oakwood Avenue
The Bonfire
One Night of Glory
Christmas
Church
Growing and Learning
College
The Depression and College Graduation
Seminary
Senior Year and Next Steps
Millersburg, Ohio
Being a Pastor
Community, Friendships, Books and Music
Lakeside
Finding Love
Leaving the Village for the City: The Washington Years
Being a Part of a Staff Ministry
Wedding
Settling In
Being a Pastor in Washington, D.C.
Expecting a Child… and War
Confronting Senator Bilbo
The Church in Wartime
Visitors from Buffalo

About This Collection
Sometime in 1992 Dad mentioned that he was writing some memoirs. Would I be his editor? Sure. Shortly thereafter I began receiving large envelopes with his hand-typed manuscripts, often with handwritten additions in the margins, sometimes with relevant “From My Window” columns (his weekly Courier Express column). The pages reproduced the stories I’d grown up with, the what-was-it-like-in-the-olden-days stories, and were titled with the quotation from Dag Hammarskjöld’s Markings which Dad had used on his calling card:
For all that has been—Thanks!
To all that shall be—Yes!
I retyped from his pages, changing nothing but marking what I could not decode. At least we could see how the stories formed into a whole. During visits, we’d work a bit with the text, but mostly we just enjoyed being together, sharing ideas, grandchildren’s studies and dreams, and an astonishing line from a book he was reading (Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ 1995 novel, Of Love and Other Demons, comes to mind). During our last visit (Christmas, 1995), he commented that he’d not been diligent in recording his life. That’s Ok, I said. You are wonderfully engaged in living it.
What you see here is the extent of our effort – just through the Washington years, including the call to Holy Trinity, Buffalo. It’s not a complete autobiography, biography, or analysis. It is, instead, some of his life-stories and a window into his way of being.

Dedication
During our conversations about this text, I asked Dad, “Who’s our audience?”
“Family,” he answered. Jan and I agree—Holy Trinity is family.
Gratefully, we add these stories and pictures to Holy Trinity’s 125th Anniversary celebrations.
Janet Loew Day
Carolyn Loew Engdahl

Childhood
Thinking about it now, it was a remarkable neighborhood. To us at that time, it was the way people lived. The place was 725 Oakwood Avenue in what was then known as the East Side of Columbus, Ohio. Our parents, Will and Minnie Loew, had married in February of 1904 and had begun building their house later that year. Their first child, Elsie, was born in December while the young couple were still living on Lazelle Street. That had been Minnie's home and, after her mother died at the age of 58, she had kept house for her father. The years had gone by and now, at 33 years of age, she had married William Loew. He had come from a farm near Barnesville, Ohio, and had gotten away to college at Valparaiso, Indiana, which was known as the "poor man's Harvard." Students worked for six weeks and went to school of six weeks, thus creating one of the country's first cooperative colleges. After two years and a certificate enabling him to teach mathematics, Will had come to Columbus and obtained employment at the Jeffrey Manufacturing Company. His sister was married to Charles Isaly, who had a wholesale and retail cheese business. On Saturdays Will would help out at their Central Market stand. Minnie's father owned a bakery at the corner of Fourth and Rich Streets and also had a stand at the busy Central Market just across the street. It was there, in that unlikely spot for a romance, that these two met, became engaged, and married. Photographs of the happy couple show happy Wilhelmina Bauer with a coronet of flowers in her hair, standing next to smiling, mustachioed William Loew wearing an appropriate boutonniere. A bright new chapter had come to this couple who were approaching their mid thirties. This was the beginning of the household in which we four boys grew up. The loss of the first child was a tragedy they couldn't have foreseen.

Remembering at Elsie's Grave
The little headstone of the grave was at a lopsided tilt. It was undamaged and the letters were clear: Elsie Henrietta Loew, Born 1905, died 1906. So I had never known her, and yet I'd always known her.
The pictures show a beautiful, dark-haired child with fair skin. In the years of her brief childhood, carriages were usually quite high off the ground, with a version of a seatbelt to keep the child from falling out. A neighbor lady had been in to play with Elsie, had neglected to fasten the protective restraint, and this active little 18 month old had climbed up and fallen out. She had a bump on her head and all of the home remedies were performed. But the next morning she was dead. A possible blood clot had ended the life of this beautiful child. Mother used to tell us that it was the one time she'd seen Father cry. They were devastated.
Another 18 months passed, and I was born. They may have been wishing for another girl, but I was a healthy child and that filled the void. And then there were three more boys. I remember that they really hoped that one would be a girl. After the fourth boy, with mother being 44 years of age at that time, they gave up. So we grew up as a lively, healthy family of four boys. But Elsie was always there, in the stories, in the pictures, in the doll that was always put out under the Christmas tree. We knew her very well and sometimes wondered what she'd look like now at 10 or 12 or 15 years of age. Was she forever a baby? How should we think of her? We pestered mother with questions like that, and she always said, "We'll have to wait and see."
I remember the morning when I chatted with mother about Elsie. I had been a pastor for several years, happily established at a two-church parish in Millersburg, Ohio. I'd come to Columbus for some meeting or other and had come early so that I could visit a while at home. Mother told me of the death of a neighbor, and I responded, "You'll certainly miss her. She must have been over here two or three mornings a week for years."
"Yes," mother responded, "She was a good friend, and I do miss her. And you're old enough now to know. It was she who left Elsie without the safety belt latched."
I gasped. "Mother, you've had her over here for coffee two or three times a week all of these years."
"Yes," she responded. "Poor woman. What a burden she had to carry. I miss her."
The people at the cemetery tell me that they'll set the marker into its place. Mother would be glad about that. And Dad too. Eighty years have gone by. Mother and Dad have long since gone from us, and the three graves are there, side by side. With the memories there is also awareness of the wonder of a love that overcomes the hurts and tragedies. How should we think of Elsie 80 years later? We'll still have to wait and see. Meanwhile, there is the remembrance of healing. No heaving of the earth or settling of the soil can touch that. Walking down the gentle slope to the road, it is clear again, "Nothing can separate us from the love of God, neither life nor death."

Our Childhood
So the family grew with Ralph's birth in 1907, Art's in 1910, Elmer's in 1912, and Erwin's in 1915. There were many young families in the neighborhood, and in those less trafficky times we played games in the street each evening—kick-the-stick, hide and seek, various versions of baseball.
Immediately behind our house on Champion Avenue at 927 lived the Thurber family. We really didn't know them and only recalled later that the famous Jim Thurber had lived there for a time. Across the street and down a few houses lived the Campbell family. Mary Catherine Campbell became Miss America in 1926, I believe, and then again in 1927, the only young woman to achieve that honor in two years successively.
We were a half block from Livingston Avenue, and if you went East from Oakwood to Lockbourne, you came upon a little cottage set back from the street. That was the home of Eddie
Rickenbacher of World War I fame. He raced cars at the nearby Driving Park, and we loved to hear the sounds of those races even when we couldn't get in to see them. I remember one Sunday afternoon when Ruth Law, the first woman aviatrix, rode with Rickenbacher and then grasped a rope ladder from a plane just above them and clambered up into the plane to take over the controls. Exciting business.
I remember walking to the downtown library, some four or five miles, to get books. You'd come past Aunt Lizzie and Uncle Herman's, mother's brother and his wife. She was an artist and I loved to watch her paint. Next door, across a double lot, there was another large household and another artist. A man sometimes sat on the porch painting. I had seen photos of his paintings. Aunt Lizzie painted landscapes and painted china. This fellow painted prize fighters, which I thought odd. I learned later that this was George Bellows, later recognized as an artist of the Ashcan School, down-to-earth American realism.
About four blocks away from our home on Oakwood lived Mother's sister Marie—Mame—and her husband Tom Vance. Later they adopted a girl, but in those early years there were no children at Aunt Mame's, and her home on Wilson Avenue became a second home for us. When one of the boys got the measles or some other disease, the rest of us were taken to Aunt Mame's for the duration. I remember the red posters that were put on houses where there was a contagious disease. Just outside the city limits there was a house called the "Pest House" which was really a primitive kind of clinic for communicable disease.

The Peanut Vendor
When we were ten and twelve years old, Uncle Herman would tolerate us as helpers at the bakery. There were jobs that youngsters could do—such as taking the large lard cans filled with fruit cakes that had been wrapped in muslin cloths soaked in rum and opening them. What an exciting aroma. Then, these black cakes, filled with fruits and nuts, assembled now for almost six months, would be wrapped in new cloths and placed in these cans. Next Christmas they would be sold as prize delights for many a Christmas party.
When it began to get dark at about 4 o'clock, you could see the peanut vendor standing on the corner. Watching from the window of the door, you could see the steam arising from the thin metal rod. If you walked over to the little pushcart, you could see that it was a glass box on top. In it there were dancing dolls and balls that skitted here and there, a kind of fairyland of activity. Underneath were the warming bins for the chestnuts and the peanuts. It was a wonderful memory.
Years later I was in the ministry, engulfed by all of the happenings of the church in Washington. There were pages in the church bulletin indicating meetings, seminars, committee schedules. It was a busy place. And I remembered the peanut vendor at 4th and Rich Streets. Did all of these activities have something to do with roasting peanuts? Or did they have only to do with catching the eye, as did the dancing dolls and bouncing balls? Did this bulletin listing of so many events enhance the Gospel or divert us from hearing the Gospel? It's an unanswered question. I've done my part in originating and sustaining busy schedules. No complaints then. Still, I remember the peanut vendor. And I hear the piping whistle. And I see the slender stem of steam. Are we here to roast peanuts? Or attract attention? Or—mayhap—to keep them in balance.

725 Oakwood Avenue
Recently, a brief item in the news from Columbus, Ohio listed a homicide at 725 Oakwood Avenue. There had been a dispute between a teacher and a friend, and now the teacher was dead of stab wounds. The record of that address left some of us wounded also. That was the house in which we'd lived as children.
This sturdy, square brick house had been built in 1904, shortly after our parents had married. As the city's population spread eastward, comfortable homes were built—like this home with four bedrooms. It was a fine middle-class neighborhood. Three of us boys were born in one of those upstairs bedrooms, only one, the youngest brother, being born in a hospital, for mother was then 44 years of age.
At the far end of the backyard there was a great elm tree and a small shed or chicken coop, with a roof that slanted up to the alley just beyond. That was a great place to lie, just peeping over the edge as Ku Klux Klansmen gathered on summer evenings, riding back and forth on their horses and giving us boys the excitement of actions which our parents deplored.
Later, when our parents decided to have a garage, they found it necessary to build two small garages in order to keep the elm tree. There were fruit trees, also—cherry, plum, and quince. The quince tree was something of a conversation piece. The squirrels were always making off with the fruit of that tree before the tart quince was ripe. So mother ordered us to tie small brown paper bags over each quince. It was a marvelous idea if you wanted good fruit. But it made a fascinating picture, sprouting its brown bags and causing visitors to exclaim, "What is that?"
The garages had displaced the chicken coop and its yard, the elm tree was attacked by elm blight and had to be removed very carefully because of all the surrounding structures, and now our backyard became a garden of fruits and vegetables. My brother Art took clippings from nearby hedges, rooted them, and designed small markings for the gardens, giving it all a reminiscence of an English garden. Many of our boyhood memories were tied up in that backyard.
In the house itself there was a large kitchen which was really our family room. We'd run downstairs in the early mornings to dress by the stove, the window of the bedrooms being opened for the supposedly healthy outside air. A large table served for the family meals. There we ate, we talked, we worked on our school lessons.
Now there had been a murder, violence, a way of life so foreign to all of these memories. Life had changed. A world had disappeared. We drive past the old house, and I see something foreign, outside my memory. The number of the house says 725. I go away to reconstruct in my mind's eye the former existence—the family, the activities, the brothers, the neighbors, the life we knew.
Looking back on those days reflects a pre-industrial revolution landscape. We bicycled out to Alum Creek. We could play games in the street without being interrupted with much traffic. We carried newspapers each evening in the neighborhood. On Sunday mornings at 6 o'clock, Dad would get out the Hupmobile, our first car, and, with boys standing on the running boards, we would deliver the heavy newspapers. When all four of us were carrying papers, there were as many as 350 to 400 papers to be delivered to individual homes before we came home in time to get ready for Sunday School and church.
Sunday mornings were always busy, but there was usually a large Apfel Kuchen. There was a dish of scrambled eggs, often with calves' brains added. There was the traditional Sunday noon dinner: a rump or chuck roast of beef, potatoes, carrots, onions all put into the wonderful fireless cooker. That pre-microwave wonder was a large chest with two wells. For each well there was a series of pots and pans consisting of one large kettle and four tricorn pots. There were four rounds of stone much like a soapstone which were heated on the top of the stove. The food to be cooked was put into the appropriate kettle, with a heated stone at the bottom and another at the top. Then the lid was fastened down, and when we came home from church 3 or 4 hours later we had a well-cooked meal ready. After Uncle Tom died, Aunt Mame and Helena were usually with us at dinner.
The fireless cooker was the center for Mother's vegetable soup, always a two day preparation. Various pieces of meat were boiled and prepared on the first day and all available vegetables, or so it seemed to us, were gathered and scraped, sliced and cut. There were no electronic gadgets to do all of this. Finally it was all put together on the stove, the proper amount of water added, and then those containers that fit into the cooker were filled. All of that brewed overnight, and on the next day the quart-size tricorn pots were filled, and we boys would be told to take them to various relatives and neighbors. We boys sometimes grumbled about that chore.
Yet a few weeks ago, some 75 years later, I received a letter from a gentleman in Tennessee asking if I were the Ralph Loew who had lived on Oakwood Avenue. A successful businessman, he had become the president of a corporation. He had read a paragraph in a local newspaper concerning some honor I'd received. That triggered a memory in his mind and he was inquiring, wanting to know if I had lived on Oakwood Avenue in Columbus. He had grown up in a little family just around the corner from our home. "Your mother had the uncanny knack of knowing when we had gotten down to our last bit of food. I remember you or your brothers pedaling up on your bicycle, bringing a pot of that wonderful vegetable soup." I can hear mother saying, "Soup is as good to share as bread cast on the waters."
Off the kitchen was a wondrous pantry with shelves, a chest of drawers, a food grinder at one end, usually with a salt bag hanging from a handle dripping from the soured curds, thus making what we called schmierkase, or cottage cheese. Everything was stored in that pantry and we used to laugh later at the organized confusion which yielded all sorts of treasures. Now I look at some of my storage areas and know that I'm guilty of the same chaos.
The house had a coal furnace and I remember helping to wheel coal into the basement each spring or fall. When you woke up in the mornings in wintertime, you could hear Mother down in the basement shaking the ashes, shoveling in coal and stirring the fire. One time shortly after she'd put in old papers, she quickly reached into the flames to retrieve a package of neckties she'd bought for Christmas gifts. They'd been lost and now she found them about to be burned.

The Bonfire
I must have been seven years old. I'm not certain of the date, but I have a vivid memory of what happened. Dad took me downtown on the street car and we stood at the corner of Broad and High Street. There were great crowds. On a lamppost an effigy of Kaiser Wilhelm was hanging. In the middle of the street intersection there was a bonfire that grew bigger and bigger. People came throwing books—the poems of Schiller and Goethe, the writings of Freud and Lessing—and papers—sheets of music of Brahms, Wagner, Beethoven. A wave of anti-German hysteria had swept the nation, and it had engulfed Columbus, Ohio.
Yet because German settlers had come to Columbus during the 1840s and 1850s, Germans were among the political leaders of the city. The large Lutheran, Evangelical, and Roman Catholic churches in town were enclaves of German immigrants. Capital University and Seminary were supported by German Lutherans. The Josephinum was a Roman Catholic institution supported by the Germans.
Grosspapa, my mother's father, had come to Columbus in 1850, a 17 year old son of a baker from Alfdorf bei Stuttgart in Germany. He had served in the Civil War, baking bread for General Grant in Arkansas. Coming home, he had founded his own bakery at 4th and Rich Streets, just a few city blocks from the bonfire, and there he sold German pastries, German breads such as pumpernickel and German rye bread. His Christmas cookies such as pfeffernussen, lebkuchen and all such wonderful goodies were known far and wide. His recipe for Zwieback was also famous and was later sold to Nabisco.
But since the war had started in Europe, German was disgraced. It had been taught in the schools of the city in the early grades, even 2nd and 3rd. Now it was banned. Sauerkraut now became Liberty Cabbage. Zwieback was Liberty Toast. And now they were burning the evidences of German culture in the main streets of the city.
I don't remember what my father said to me that day. I only know that even as a boy I knew that this was wrong. The years would pass, and there would be other book burnings. A fundamentalist church in Buffalo burned rock music and records and magazines. I wrote a column about the event, urging the church to condemn or criticize the music and the writings, if they thought that wise, but not to burn the records. The fire next time might be started by those who didn't like the teachings of that church. It's a dangerous business, banning books or burning sheets of music. Even a 7 year old boy knows that.

One Night of Glory
When I was a boy, August or early September was the time of the night-blooming cereus. It was an enormous cactus bristling with flat, rubbery leaves and housed in a lard can. By no possible standard could the plant be regarded as beautiful.
At our home it spent the winter in an entrance hall as a kind of foil to one of those large, medieval coat racks—the kind with a mirror framed with various metal hooks. At its side the night-blooming cereus looked all right. In the spring it lived in the backyard under the cherry tree. From time to time mother would report on the buds. They were insignificant little nodules on the large flat leaves, but they indicated the promise of a flower.
As the weeks passed, the buds became long spikes with bulbous ends which rapidly swelled in size. Finally the night arrived when my mother had decided that the night-blooming cereus was going to bloom. Dutifully we would load it on our coaster wagon, pull it out front, run an extension cord out with a light on it, and we were ready. For this flower would bloom at night and only for one night.
At dark the long petals began to open until by 11 o'clock the large white flower, sometimes 10 inches in diameter, was at full beauty. It revealed stamens and pistil which mother thought reminded her of a star over the manger. In one year there were 50 of these flowers blooming on the plant on the same night. Relatives, neighbors, and strangers came to see the remarkable sight. The night-blooming cereus became a kind of focal point of an August evening. It always seemed disrespectful to this plant, which was having its brief hour of glory, that we would have to turn off the light and go to bed.
By the next morning all the loveliness was gone, and there would be the usual head-shaking at the brevity of such splendor.

Christmas
Of all the memories of our home, I think that Christmas for us four boys was paramount. The preparations actually began with the first Sunday in Advent when the door of the entrance room into our home was locked. For the next weeks until Christmas, visitors would have to come to our side door. The entrance door to that front room was just beyond the stairway from upstairs. We knew that the "Christkindchen" had come. I remember one morning finding a note saying, "Ralph didn't hang up his pants last night." What a genius Mom was to keep 4 boys in line for a month.
On Christmas Eve there was supper in the dining room. We'd then go into the living room, say our pieces, sing some carols, and, always miracle of miracles, we'd hear the tinkle of the Swiss music box playing “Silent Night” or “O Come Little Children.” Dad would open the doors, and there was the tree, turning round and round in the holder of that music box and our gifts in neat piles all over the room.
One year Art had a train and tracks at his pile. It was a gift from Uncle Tom. Since Art had been born on St. Patrick's Day, and Uncle Tom was of Irish background, and Art was named Arthur Thomas, Uncle Tom always had some handsome gifts for him. Of course, the train was for all of us but that was of little comfort. There were tears and complaining. In the midst of that un-Christmas-like moment, there was the sound of the doorbell. Dad opened the door and there was Santa Claus. He came in, demanding what was the meaning of these tears. We ceased crying and Santa gave us a lecture on how to behave. We said some of our Christmas pieces and he departed, leaving us properly chastened.
Years later we were all home for Christmas, and we remembered that moment saying to Dad, "That was a clever idea, having Santa come in. Who was he?"
Dad smiled and said, "I don't know. You were frightened but I was more ill at ease. I didn't know who he was. Obviously he had been looking in the window. But whoever it was, he brought you to attention."

Church
Dad had been raised in the Missouri Synod but had later joined the Knights of Pythias and the Masons. Those were forbidden by the Missouri Synod and the Ohio Synod. Old Dr. Schneider at St. Paul's told Dad that as a Lodge member, he could come to communion but he couldn't belong. So Dad would come to church with the family but was an outsider. At First Lutheran Church there were no such restrictions.
On the following Sunday we were all enrolled at First Lutheran Church, which became our happy church home in our growing-up years. Here we were confirmed after three years of study. We went to Sunday School, youth groups, belonged to choirs. Pudge Lombard and I were asked by our pastor, Dr.Holl, to carry the American and Christian flags in the choir processional each Sunday and to serve as acolytes. We were both the same small size. and looked as though we were cousins. And we faithfully did that for years. Remembering back, I blush realizing the inconsistency of walking ahead of choirs with national flags. These were the after-the-war days and there was a prelude to the nationalism and patriotic binges of the present. Years later there would be discussions about having a flag in the front of the church on a standard, and I never really tackled that problem, preferring to let it be unnoticed background than to engage in heated debate. When we became involved in World War II, the moral problem was obvious. Would we have appreciated having a Nazi flag up front in a German Lutheran Church? And what's the difference? We subsume our ethical choices under custom and tolerate symbols which sometimes eviscerate our moral fiber. All through High School, Pudge and I walked faithfully to the tune of the processional hymn and deposited our flags. When we gave up our responsibility, we were also giving up a pattern of thinking, although I don't think we realized that at the moment.
With Allen Meyer as teacher, I studied organ, practiced regularly at First Church, and found an outlet through music which obviated some of the problems of finding myself. Today we have enrichment programs and special avenues for gifted children, all of which are far more meaningful than having youngsters skip grades and get into social situations which are difficult.

Growing and Learning
These were busy days. I had now become a newsboy for the Ohio State Journal, which meant getting up at 5 every morning and carrying papers. It meant collecting for those papers every Saturday. So my schedule brought me to the church almost every afternoon at 4 to practice. Then there were various activities, usually centered in music or youth groups of the church, plus homework for school.
As a result of all of this, my high school record, and later my collegiate record, was not all that sparkling. But I did get through and when graduation from East High came, we all went up to the Fair grounds for the ceremony. There all of the Columbus high schools assembled, and in the arena where cattle and horses were judged at the time of the Fair, we aspiring young people and our families gathered. All of the usual recognitions and speaking occurred and, at last, we walked up to the platform and filed past the President of the Board of Education, the Superintendent of Schools, and the principal of each of the high schools. When I came by, the President asked, "Well, little boy, where did you come from?" I was angry and embarrassed. Years later there was a marking of the centennial of the Columbus School system and a special booklet was issued. It listed a dozen of the distinguished graduates of Columbus schools and included a photo and paragraph concerning me. How I wished that I knew the name of the Board President and wondered whether he was still alive. We never know when we judge a situation what the long term possibilities can become.
Along the way in my education, Dad had considered entering me in the Columbus School for Boys. We went out to look over the situation, had an interview, and talked about the exciting possibility. In the end, the idea was given up, largely because there were three other boys in the family and they had achievements and aptitudes and needs. Years later we would be discussing the same situation with our girls but they had no desire to attend a private school and we agreed. For any number of reasons we had become convinced of the value of public education.
The interest in music expressed by our parents was more than just having us take music lessons. There were concerts to attend. We sat in the balcony, halfway back, and I have no memory now of how much the tickets cost. I do remember with joy the concerts of John McCormick, Enrico Caruso, Jascha Heifitz, Mae Galli-Curci. I remember one of the many farewell tours of Schumann-Heink, the great contralto. She had a song about fighting in the American Army and in the German. The night we heard her, she came back for two encores. When the audience still persisted, she came back, lifted her floor-length gown, and revealed that she had on her bedroom slippers. In her heavy German accent, she said, “I am going to bed.” Whereupon a voice from the balcony shouted, “Stille Nacht,” except he pronounced it “stylie Nacht.” She stamped her foot, pronounced it in correct German, and then sang unaccompanied. She could have continued for another hour. There are many reasons to value a heritage and we are blessed to have had this interest in music as a natural part of growing up.
We also had trips to the Hartman Theater, located at Fourth and Mound streets. I recall going there one night to see an Agatha Christie show. I believe it was “The Cat and the Canary.” In any event, it ran long, we had to come home on the streetcar, and it must have been after 11 o’clock. The house was dark, the lights were out, the doors were locked. We had to ring and ring, even pounding on the door. Mother had been awake all of the time but she felt we had been out too long and was determined to give us a lecture. We got the point.
Meanwhile, Dad nailed down some mattresses on the upstairs attic floor and introduced us to wrestling matches. We called it the Oakwood Avenue Athletic Club. From time to time, we had some of the neighborhood boys in and we’d take off our shirts, sometimes just wrestling in our undies and learning some of the principles of pinning down the shoulders of a rival. Memories such as these are a relic of a bygone time, hardly understandable in the time of knives, guns, and violence in those same neighborhoods. It is a time to mourn at what has happened to neighborhoods all across America.

College
While my social education at high school was difficult, I was blessed by the friendships of the crowd at church which had become a large part of life. We had a drama group, attended concerts together, went to numbers of activities. Grace Mitchell, one of the girls in the group, was also a piano student of Allen's, and we found ourselves becoming a 2 piano team. There wasn't any individual dating. It was just that we were paired together in our group. When I could get the family Hupmobile, our first car, Grace and I would go to these events. However, much of that came in my college years since I was only 15 when I was a senior in high school and that was too young for driving alone. So now, at 16, I was out of high school and planning to go to college. I'd thought of Ohio State, but Mother and Dad thought that was all too big and too complicated for this little boy. Coincidentally, Mom had belonged to a little supper group that had met through the years in various homes. In that group was Otto Mees, President of Capital U. So I was taken out to meet with him personally. I remember sitting on an ottoman, at the feet of Prexy, as he talked to me about coming to Cap. I don't recall now what we really talked about. I just know that when I left his home, I was going to attend Capital U. I continued to carry morning papers, continued to study organ with Allen, continued to play at the church from time to time, continued to be a part of that church group—all of which made me a commuter student with few campus friendships.
Capital's campus was a tightly knit unit and really not prepared for commuter students. There was no place to store your clothing or books, no lockers, no student union. I finally linked up with Herb Knopp, one of the freshmen, who allowed me to use his room in the daytime as a landing place.
In the first weeks after registration, and at the beginning of classes, we received notices to appear at a certain hour in what was then the office of the Theological Seminary across the street for a physical. I still remember that trauma. There was an entrance office where you were checked in and told to go to the next room and strip. I remember three men in the next room who looked me over and did the physical check-ups. At the other end of the room there were windows, and students who were next in line for this ordeal were peering in, smirking, and making gestures. Once again I felt defenseless, stripped, the little boy among men.
When I entered Capital, I was just 16 years of age, short of stature, looked like I was 13 or 14, and was still wearing knickers. I fact, I learned later that, since there was a preparatory school on campus, it was said that I was one of the preppies. I lived at home, got up at 5:30 or 6 to carry papers, changed clothes and had a hurried breakfast and walked from our house to Main Street to get a streetcar which I needed to get to the campus for a 7:30 Greek class. When I came to a Philosophy 101 class at about 1 o'clock, I was sleepy.
At about 3 o'clock when classes were over, I spent an hour or so at the library. Then, riding the same Main Street car, I would go to First Church most evenings at 4 for organ practice. There was no time for socializing at college. There was no opportunity for participating in college programs. There was not nearly enough time for study and any research. It was a rugged schedule.
As a result, I never had much beyond an average, lackluster academic record. It was, therefore, an amazing surprise to my colleagues when I came back for the 50th reunion to have me called up front for the Alumni Achievement Award. Nice things were said, a fine Hitchcock Chair was presented, and eyebrows were raised. Looking back on those routines, I never wanted Carolyn or Jan to have such schedules. And yet, in a sense, I learned much. I was active in the group of friends at the church who were talented. We presented a variety of musical programs. I remember one musical which was presented at the East High School Auditorium. I played the piano in the orchestra, accompanying the chorus. In one scene there was a gypsy dancer. I had inveigled Dr. Conrad Rhodes, our history professor, to attend. The next day he said that it was a good show. But that dancer, "You could see clear up to her crotch."
When I presented an organ recital at the church, I gave an invitation to Waldemar Doescher, my philosophy professor. He was a badly crippled person but a brilliant man and a fine teacher. I had suffered through my first course with him but then had taken every course I could fit into my schedules. So I was happy to invite him to this organ recital. He expressed surprise, not knowing that I had been studying the pipe organ. "Can you build an organ?" he asked.
"No, I think not," I replied.
"Then I won't come. You can't really play an instrument unless you know how to build it."
"But you drive a car and do you know how to build it?"
"I've not built a car but I know all about its construction. Too many of us know nothing but where the accelerator is located and the gas tank."
I still persisted in inviting him. But he didn't come.

The Depression and College Graduation
The Twenties were a time of relative financial security in the country. When I entered college in 1924, the candidates for the Presidency were Harding and Cox. That was a strange event since Harding came from Marion, Ohio, and Cox was an editor in Dayton. The two towns were not only from the same state but were located almost next door, about 50 miles apart. Harding was a handsome man who conducted a front-porch campaign, traveling very little. But what I remember most was how it affected our home. Mother was a Democrat and Dad a Republican. These designations never seemed to merit more than passing interest. One day during the political campaign, Dad came home with a large poster proclaiming Harding's candidacy. When Mother asked what he was going to do with it, he said he was going to put it in one of the front windows. I heard some discussion about it, and then the matter seemed dropped. The poster went up. But the next evening when Dad came home from work, there was a poster announcing Cox's candidacy in one window and across the porch there was the Harding poster. Twenty minutes later both posters were down. I never heard what happened when the folks discussed the matter.
So Harding was elected and was an immediate failure. His lack of presidential savoir was followed by the Tea Pot Dome Scandal. When he died, Calvin Coolidge filled out the remaining two years but refused to continue. That brought Herbert Hoover into power in 1928. It was also the time when the financial markets crashed with the resultant losses of enormous amounts. Banks failed, stocks plummeted and not only the wealthy suffered losses. It was the small investor, folks like our father, who lost. I think Dad had about 30,000 dollars invested in stocks, a considerable sum for that time. It was the nest egg needed for retirement in those years with no social security or pensions. Everything seemed lost. It was gloom and doom time.
It was in that year I graduated from college and had to make decisions about the next step. I had considered being a history professor, but that meant graduate school. I had been admitted to the Graduate School of Ohio State and had taken a couple of courses in Reformation History. And what of music, which was my first love? That meant more study, rigorous discipline with no assurance of success. Dad was getting older, Art was now in college, Elmer wasn't interested in going to college, but Erwin was certainly going to be a collegian. In fact, Art went on to get his Master's in Engineering at Ohio State and Erwin, after graduating from State, went on to Michigan U. to secure a Master's in Forestry.

Seminary
When we joined First Church, Dr. Adam J. Holl was the pastor. Now he had gone to Pittsburgh and Lewis Speaker had succeeded him. Dr. Holl was a beloved pastor, but Lewis now became more of a companion. He and I began to take some walks together.
We had long conversations, and I realized later that he played an influential role in guiding me toward the Theological Seminary. Along the way, I received a telephone call from Rees Edgar Tulloss, the President of Wittenberg and also the President of the First National Bank of Springfield. "Would I have lunch with him at the Deshler Wallick?" Of course. He also talked about coming to the Seminary. I told him that I had struggled with the idea but couldn't confess to a great sense of call. "Come and try it out," he countered. So we talked of the advantages of coming to Wittenberg, of the opportunities to pursue music, if that was in my horizon, and of the possibility of fellowships and student loans. All of this went into the serious consideration and the decision was made.
So now, at 20 years of age, I had the luxury of living in a schedule free of outside work. There was no more getting up at 5 o'clock to carry newspapers. I could sleep in until 6 or 7 o'clock. I was living away from home for the first time. I was living in a dormitory with other young men of varying backgrounds but all united in that we were all students. Those years at the Seminary were halcyon years. I became the organist for the Chapel, playing an old pump organ but enjoying the fun of having some musical involvement.
Hamma Divinity School had a small faculty: Larimer, Flack, Keyser, Krueger, Neve, and also John Olaf Evjen. Evjen was obviously the scholar and the individualist. He marched to a different drummer than the other profs. Our class in church history came immediately after a Systematic Theology Class with Lreander Keyser. Evjen would publicly scoff at Keyser and then set us straight. His classes were graduate studies. The others were more as training or vocational school. I enjoyed Larimer and Flack. But it was Evjen who excited the mind. There were evenings in his home when we would sit around the dining room table and he would talk extemporaneously—the master and his disciples. Years later I would feel this sense of awakening which Evjen brought.
However, his disdain, openly, of other members of the faculty created tensions and was, on his part, an unnecessary rudeness. It all came to a climax at the end of the middler year when the graduating class asked Evjen to be the commencement speaker. It had been the custom for the president of the college to recommend a speaker to the graduating class. In other words, the students were to rubber stamp the president's selection. In this instance, Paul Kraus of Ft. Wayne, Indiana, had been selected. The class voted this idea down and chose Evjen. Unwisely, he accepted. That brought the final denouement, and within days he was asked to leave the faculty.
The ruckus caused much discussion, even resulting in Tulloss coming to Columbus again to talk with me about coming back for my senior year. I really had no idea of leaving, but he had known of those of us who were particularly fond of Evjen. It was an episode which would be paralleled later as the politics of the church invaded the idealism of the faith.
At the end of my first year, Lewis Speaker invited me to come and be the interim preacher for the summer so that he and Mary could go to Copenhagen for the convention of the Lutheran Churches. I had left the church the year before as the acolyte for so many years and then as a substitute organist. Now I was back in a kind of revolutionary change overnight as the preacher. It was heady stuff and gave me my first feel for the pastoral ministry. It was also a field day for the family and the relatives who came to observe and to wonder. I appreciated, most of all, Jessie Doersam, an English teacher at Cap. She would come each Sunday and give me a folded piece of paper which she charged me not to open until Monday. She would indicate split infinitives, grammatical errors, faults in logic, suggestions in development of ideas. She was a valued friend!

Senior Year and Next Steps
The stock market had crashed in 1929, and we had fallen from the roaring twenties' to the beginning of the Depression. Herbert Hoover's presidency was suffering and we were beginning to hear of the candidacy of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. There was much unemployment, men were selling apples on street corners, there was a general malaise over the land. All of this was hardly an exciting time to be coming from a theological seminary to the beginning of a career.
During my Senior year at the seminary there were various opportunities to preach at some church on the weekends. I was assigned to the church in Millersburg one Sunday. I took a bus to Columbus and then went on the train to this little village. I stayed at the ancient Hotel Millersburg, preached at the little Benton Church on Sunday afternoon after the morning service in Millersburg. In the evening I took the train back to Columbus and riding with me was Harry Krieger, a member of the Millersburg Church who had been visiting his mother. As things developed and I was a frequent rider of this train, he and I became good friends.
Dr. Larimer called me into the office and said that the Millersburg Church wanted me to return the next week. And so, on frequent occasions I was filling in at these 2 small churches. There was a very real advantage—they paid me $25.00 for each Sunday. That was big money in those days and, around the Seminary, I was the only one who could boast of $25.00 a sermon.
In April, Dr. Larimer stopped me on campus and said, "I think you're going to be the Bishop of Millersburg."
"Oh no," I replied. "Not there. I want to go to a city."
To which he responded, "You'll do very well in Millersburg."
On my next Sunday visit, Frank Snyder, one of the church councilmen, spoke to me at the hotel urging me to accept a call. "You'll love it here," he said. "You'll have a free membership at the Country Club and there aren't any negroes in the county." What a come-on for the eager young theologian to begin a ministry.
Thus, after some sleepless nights, I accepted a call and then discovered that the $25.00 a week was all I was going to have for full-time service. I was better off, financially, just supplying on Sunday.

Millersburg, Ohio
I was surprised to be the pastor of a church anywhere. Especially, in Millersburg, Ohio, a village of about 2400 persons. They had said that there were more than 2500 residents. But when the politicians in Washington determined that any community with more than 2500 persons had to observe regulations established by NRA, Millersburg discovered happily that they had only 2400 residents.
In that community there were a half dozen churches, including the Lutheran Church. About seven miles to the north of town, up hill and down, there was the little community of Benton, and there was a Lutheran Church there also. I learned later that in the community of Monroe, south of town, there had been a church also. Now there was but a remnant of members and a cemetery. Finally the legislature of Ohio decreed that all cemeteries would come under the jurisdiction of the state government, saving those remnants from abandonment. That enabled the Monroe church to give up the ghost. Two churches were enough for a 23 year old, fresh from the Seminary.
The Church owned a parsonage nearby, a two-family house and one side was to provide a residence. But I had no furniture, had no idea of how long I'd be living in Millersburg, had little money, and the thought of furniture, linens, and stuff was frightening. Meanwhile, Chet DeWitt, the pharmacist, told me that his widowed mother had a big house and would love to have someone living there. So I rented a bedroom and a small room which could be used as a study. The bath was downstairs, a real inconvenience, but at least it was inside and not outside. Later I was to take the other upstairs room, which gave me a living room that became important for my fellowship entertaining.
During the first few months I was troubled about going out to Benton at 2 o'clock in the afternoon. These rural folks, good people, had been up early for chores, had had a big noon meal, and now had come to church. Many were asleep before we had gotten past the opening hymns. I talked it over with some of the members, suggesting that I come to Benton at 8:30 in the morning. "What will you do about Sunday School in town?" they asked.
"The teachers can handle that and I'll meet with them during the week." So we began a schedule that went on for the six and a half years that I stayed in Millersburg. Any suggestions of merging the two churches was checked off at once. But now, years later, the merger occurred. From the vantage point of cities, seven miles isn't much of a trip. Psychologically it was a long way off in those days. There were times when I barely made my schedules, thanks to weather, to rutted roads that thawed and then froze. I remembered Harry Emerson Fosdick one time telling of such roads in Canada where a thoughtful farmer had placed a sign saying, "Friend, if you're traveling this road, be careful of the rut you get in. You'll have to travel it for the next 25 miles." And then Fosdick would challenge his listeners to be careful of the habits and thought patterns. You'll have to follow the rut for the next 25 years!
As it turned out, the experiences I enjoyed in those Depression years in Millersburg were a godsend. And memorable. Especially the first funeral.
In the house just across the street from Mrs. DeWitt’s lived a widow and her only son, a fellow about 40 years of age and always moving—or staggering—in a fog of alcohol. The undertaker, Otto Elliott, phoned one day to tell me that the widow had died and I would have the funeral. We set the hour for the services, which were held in the funeral home parlor. Then, the little group of us, not more than a dozen, went up the hill to the cemetery and gathered at the open grave. I read the committal service, pronounced the benediction, and stepped over to the somewhat under-the-weather son to express sympathy. Whereupon he reached into his pocket, whipped out a small roll of bills, peeled off two one dollar bills and gave them to me saying, "There. If you’d have worked harder, I'd have given you more." I was, to put it mildly, astonished. Really, flabbergasted. I stammered, "But, sir, I didn't care for your mother's funeral for pay. Here, keep your money." He turned and left, and by this time I was angry. At that moment I heard laughter. There, about ten feet away, was Otto Elliott, the undertaker, completely convulsed over the embarrassing incident. So I tried to recover some humor. And that was that, or so I thought.
Six years later I was concluding my ministry in Millersburg and the Rotary Club, of which I was President, had a farewell dinner-party for me. The gift was a diamond-studded Rotary emblem. And who was the presenter? You guessed it. Otto Elliott made a nice little testimonial presentation, ending with "Ralph, if you'd have worked harder, we'd have given you more."

Being a Pastor
In between those two events, there had been not only six years; there had been experiences which in themselves were the seedbed for a ministry to follow.
When I arrived in Millersburg, the young people of the church were going to the Christian Endeavor Society at the nearby Presbyterian Church. After all, the Lutheran Church had been without a pastor for a year, with only preachers there on Sundays. I felt that I couldn't go to those young people saying, "Now I'm here. Come home." They had friendships beyond denominational lines, their programs were beyond such lines. So I spoke with Darwin Haynes, the minister of the Presbyterian Church and he readily responded. We formed the Presbyterian-Lutheran Christian Endeavor Society. It was an immediate success. Within months we had formed a Junior group which met at the Lutheran Church. Membership grew significantly with young people coming from all over the county.
This kind of ecumenicity was rare in the Lutheran Church, caused some eyebrow raising here and there, and excited some questions. Yet, everyone seemed to recognize that in these times of severe depression, with young people stranded in this little town, this was an exciting adventure.
At the very beginning of my new pastorate, it was apparent that I was expected to demonstrate leadership and understanding in areas for which I had no training. For instance, there were two church buildings. The one in the village of Millersburg was a very nice brick building, impressive for this small community. In the interior there was much need of new paint, for the walls were grimy and had a depressing atmosphere. The men of the church council (no women in those days) immediately let a contract for the painting of the church. Then the painter informed them that, although they'd said that they had paid the man who painted it some years before for oil paint, he had actually used water-based paint. So he needed to wash the walls before proceeding. Now, in my first week, he phoned excitedly one morning saying, "Reverend, get over here right away."
I sprinted over the four or five blocks and soon discovered the reason for the excitement. As he had been washing high above the little altar, he suddenly had the face of Jesus staring at him. He said that he'd almost fallen off the ladder. "Now," he exclaimed, "What do I do?" I told him to keep on washing. As he did so, he uncovered a large painting of the ascending Christ. So I called an emergency meeting of the church council, and we decided to restore this painting which had been painted over some years before. I learned that the previous pastor, Rev. John Rilling, Sr., was also an amateur artist. He had painted the picture. Someone apparently had not liked it and had had it hidden. But the fact that the painter had used water-based paint instead of oil-based paint had foiled that action. The Councilmen looked at me and asked, "What do you say? Do you like it?" So here I was, making a decision for which I had no real preparation.
Likewise, at the Benton Church there was also a remodeling job and the installation of a new ceiling. My first weeks had little to do with doctrine, theology, church history. They had to do with buildings, administration, public relations. Those important matters had never been mentioned in the Seminary. All of this was a swift introduction to the business of congregational leadership. A 23 year-old was growing up fast.

Community, Friendships, Books and Music
The Depression was a time for a do-it-on-your-own psychology. The town needed a hospital and President Roosevelt had initiated all kinds of agencies with pneumonic devices such as NRA, PWA, CCC. Investigation revealed that we could get matching funds for a hospital. A small committee was formed, and we campaigned vigorously for a county bond issue. We won a majority vote but not a plurality. We needed 66 percent and we had failed, chiefly because we didn't have the Amish voting. So Dr. Pomerene, Chet Blum, and several others met with us at Mrs. McNab's Tea Room and decided that we ought to approach the Amish. I was commissioned to go out to speak with Bishop Levi Swartzentruber. I found him out in his barnyard. He was an impressive-looking man, with his full beard, his farm clothing, his tall frame. I introduced myself. "Yes, I've heard of you." Enthusiastically I told him about the possibilities of the hospital, extolling the virtues of the enterprise for the Amish since they wouldn't have to go to Canton or Wooster but could come only to Millersburg. He listened attentively. Finally, I said, "Bishop, Dr. Pomerene and I and others will help you in every way possible if you will be willing to consider this." He smiled and said, "Take care of your own people. I will take care of mine."
And take care he did. On the August Primary Day the sight in Millersburg was wonderful. Buggies, flat-bed trucks, busses, a variety of conveyances coming—and all of them bringing Amish people who had never in their lives voted. They came to register and I could stand on the corner rejoicing, for I knew then that we'd won. And in November we overwhelmingly won and the hospital was assured.
One day I was having lunch in Johnny Fisher's Restaurant, the only restaurant open on a daily basis, when in the door came Luther High and his wife, Cubby. Obviously we had a great time greeting each other. We had been in Capital U. together, I graduating in 1928, he in 1929. The Columbus papers had regularly noted that "Cap." had the High and Loew of it. He had gone on to medical school, had done his residency in Boston, and was now looking for a place to locate. I told him that he must come to Millersburg and he dismissed that as impossible. Yet that night he phoned saying, "You really meant that today, didn't you?" I assured him that I'd see the five MDs in town and get their approval for a young doctor to come into the community. And so, within a short time, my fellow collegian, friend, and Lutheran came to Millersburg. He remained there through his whole career and had distinguished recognition.
Until coming to Millersburg, I had continued playing the piano and organ. Now, as pastor, there seemed not to be that possibility. Fred and Alice Almendinger, both teachers and musicians, were in charge of the music at the church and were wonderful friends. They were also Cap. graduates. So we talked of music as a need for the community. From time to time I would go over to the church to amuse myself playing one of the not-so-tuneful pianos. There was a piano at Mrs. DeWitt's house but to play there meant that dear Lucy was listening in, would be talking to her neighbors and the word was around that I was playing the piano.
At the Presbyterian Church Grace Cornetet, a teacher at the high school, was the organist. She came up with the idea that if she and I formed a piano-organ team, we could put on a benefit concert for the library which the town badly needed. When I moved to Millersburg, I had felt stranded for library services and found my way to Wooster, 18 miles away, and to the college campus. There I found an excellent library.
I spoke with the librarian about borrowing books. "Are you a student here," she asked.
"No, I don't even live in Wooster." I explained my situation and she suggested that I go to the President's office and discuss the possibility of borrowing books with President Wishart.
The receptionist smiled when I told her of my need and disappeared into an office. Soon, out came Wishart, a tall, white-haired, kindly man who said, "So you're a Lutheran. You must meet one of our Professors, Vergilis Kerm. He's Lutheran too." I blurted out my need for books and President Wishart took a pad and wrote a note which I wish that I had been able to keep.
It read simply, "This boy wants to read. Let him." Signed, Wishart.
Thereupon, for the remainder of my stay in Millersburg, I would drive to Wooster with my canvas bag, take out anywhere from 4 to 8 books, and bring them back within a week. On only one occasion did the library find it necessary to get books returned earlier. It was a godsend.
But now, Grace Cornetet was suggesting that we do this recital, take up an offering, and dedicate it to a Millersburg Library. Looking back on it, I realize that it was a risky business. I would be judged not as preacher or pastor but as musician. And I hadn't put in all of those needed hours for rehearsal. Still, there was the incentive to pull this off. So we planned a program, practiced as diligently as our schedules permitted and, on the appointed Sunday afternoon, found ourselves with a crowded church. We tackled some demanding works. We received great applause, enthusiastic support and survived without embarrassment.
In time, there would be a second concert. As a result, a committee from the large Lutheran Church in Wooster came to speak with me about joining their Staff as an Associate Pastor with an emphasis on music. I toyed with that but could not see myself going that route. After all, I had decided that music would be my avocation, not my career. So I thanked them for the possibility and stayed on in Millersburg.

Lakeside
Along the way another do-it-yourself program had begun. In my first years I was frankly lonesome. I had learned to know Forde Steele, one of our high school members, and his friend Bill Baines. We started having talk sessions on Monday evenings at my little apartment. Soon others were invited, and within a few months we had a considerable number of young people coming for these bull sessions.
Out of this came the possibility of doing some things instead of just talking. So we planned a week at Lakeside, Ohio. Lakeside was a center for denominational gatherings, a Chautauqua-like program founded by Bishop John Vincent, a Methodist and a creative soul dedicated to education. I was to cross paths with his accomplishments in a very significant manner later.
We needed to raise money to pay for transportation, for meals, for incidental costs, for rentals, and these were depression times. So we planned all kinds of enterprises. We put on plays and charged for the tickets. We gathered fruits and berries which we sold to Mr. Schmucker from Orrville whose jelly and jam enterprise would some day become a national company. We secured chaperones to go with us, and we would take 10 or 15 young people to Lakeside for a week. In 1937 we had 50 young people. Mother came as one of the chaperones, joined by several women from our church.
A few weeks before the 1937 adventure, Dr. Sittler, the President of the Ohio Synod and father of my friend, Joe Sittler, called to say that one of the teachers couldn't come and I should be the one to take the class. I told him that I didn't have time to prepare for this, but his only comment was "Do it. You can wing it." Now I had the management of all of these young people, all of the details of food, behavior, finances, etc. And there was this class to be taught. There were some 35 or 40 persons present, which was a formidable challenge in itself. In addition, soon after I'd begin each morning, into the last row of the room would slip Oscar Blackwelder, the famous preacher from Washington, who was the Chaplain for the week. With him was Lewis Speaker, my friend and pastor from First Church, Columbus, and sometimes one of the other pastors. I was embarrassed.
On Thursday evening of that week, it was about 10 o'clock and we had all gone to bed. There was a knock at the downstairs screen door, and I stumbled down to answer. There was Dr. Blackwelder inviting me to take a walk with him and talk. I hurriedly slipped into some clothes, and we walked out to the rocky shore of Lake Erie. There, Oscar poured out the story of the Lutheran Church of the Reformation in Washington, told of his dreams for a great church in the nation's Capitol. He exulted in the chances to deal with significant national leaders, be a part of all of the exciting programs which had become legendary with the Roosevelt years. It was heady stuff. We talked until almost 2 o'clock and he thanked me for listening.
The next morning, mother, who was chaperone in that cottage, asked me "Where did you go at 10 o'clock last night?" I told her I'd taken a walk with Oscar and he'd told me of his work in Washington. That was all. But two weeks later, I received a telegram saying, "You said you'd like to see our church in Washington. How about August?" So I knew something was stirring and I immediately accepted. The night before leaving, Oscar phoned saying that I'd be expected to teach the Adult Class. Once again I had no time to prepare but I grabbed the Teacher's Guide and took it with me to the train which I caught in Wooster on Saturday night. I sat in the club car working on some notes for the Sunday School class when the train lurched around a curve and spilled my neighbor's Scotch all over the table. We dabbed it up. And that was that. Except on the next morning, in the front office of the church, Oscar said, "Ralph, it's time to go downstairs to teach the class." So I opened my briefcase and the fumes of Scotch assaulted me—and the room. How could I explain? I said nothing. I wondered. Whatever these men had in mind for me would certainly be in jeopardy. Yet, after the crowded services of the morning, which were mind-boggling to this youngster from Millersburg, these men—Oscar Blackwelder, T.P. Hickman, Lewis Dellwig, and several others—would offer me the position of Assistant Pastor.
Dr. John Weidley had been the Pastor of the old Reformation Church and his daughter was now the organist. The Weidleys took me along with them to the Dodge Hotel for lunch, and afterwards I walked the Mall to the Lincoln Memorial and back, tossing over and over the possibilities that were opening up. Washington. The nation's Capitol . How would I fit in to all of this exciting but demanding format? We had begun to build an addition to our church and I had involved these good people in fund-raising and planning. What would happen if I forsook them now? Still, here was this possibility. I arrived back in Millersburg drained in so many ways and deliriously challenged in others.

Finding Love
The conversations continued with Washington and I accepted a call to become Assistant Pastor at the salary of $3000, with a room in a nearby doctor's residence.
I remember arriving in Washington early in December of 1937 and being asked to go to the residence of Melvin and Margaret Snadmeyer where the Stewardship Committee was addressing members' envelopes. I went, taking with me Swiss Cheese and Trail Bologna which I'd brought from Holmes county. That was my beginning, tying Ohio to Washington and my first chapter to my second.
But there had been another problem to consider in all of these negotiations. Oscar had asked, "You are not planning to be married? We want a single person just now." I could only answer, I had no immediate plans. But I didn't tell him that I had some immediate prospects.
All through high school and college I had a satisfying social life but few boy-girl dates. The group from church was made up of young people who were interested in music and we spend many times together. It was a satisfying experience, mentally and socially.
In that group, Grace Mitchell and I became a 2-piano team, performing at various social functions. We became good friends and, when it was time to go home, I was usually her escort. So we were known as a couple and yet we never thought of ourselves in romantic terms.
When I entered the Seminary and was living in Springfield, I sensed an emptiness. I had known this comfortable relationship which was now missing. Yet this was in the 20s and seminary life was far different than in later years. Few of the students were married. Still, when they graduated from the Seminary and were being sought for pastorates, congregations wanted a married man. Apparently, between graduation in May and the beginning of a pastorate in July or August, the young man was to meet and marry the ideal wife for a pastor.
My roommate, Dale Recker, was engaged to Mary and at the conclusion of the first year, they were married. There was another couple, the Stulls, who had married before Jim came to the Seminary, since he had been an athletic coach and was older than the rest of us neophytes. Marriage in the Seminary was discouraged but not forbidden. Once again, for me, the need for social fellowship was provided by various campus activities which were hardly romantic.
When I came to Millersburg, I was aware at once that various and sundry families had decided to do something about my situation. I was invited to dinners, introduced to various young ladies with the obvious hope that something would happen.
On the first Thanksgiving I was invited to a family gathering at the home of Weldon Uhl. That family belonged to the Presbyterian Church, but Mr.Uhl's brothers and sisters were members of our congregation. So I was included in the large family gathering for this Thanksgiving celebration. The Weldon Uhls had four daughters, one of whom, Maxine, had just entered college.
Years later we would remember having met at that time. It would be nice to say that we saw each other and fell madly in love. The truth is, Maxine was irritated that the family had invited the new minister, thinking that I would disrupt their annual euchre tournament. I certainly wasn't thinking of becoming involved with a young woman who had just graduated from high school.
Living in a small town where there was one family restaurant and a very nice but small tea room left the social graces of dining reduced to just eating. One day I chatted with a Mrs. Morrison who owned a small candy store. She said, "If I could have 6 or 8 regular members of a dining club, I'd prepare lunch for you each day, Monday through Friday." So an idea was born and we soon had eight of us who met at noon and enjoyed the lunch Mrs. Morrison had prepared. We paid a set price for the week, whether we showed for each meal or not. We were teachers, a doctor, a dentist, and a pastor. It was a happy solution for each of us.
Meanwhile, I had invited my old friends from Columbus to present a musical program. They enjoyed the trip, were interested in seeing me in this relationship to a church, and fascinated with this rural scene. The rumor got around that I was interested in Grace Mitchell and the urgent mothers assumed that I was spoken for.
This was the situation when, at the beginning of another school year, our little luncheon club reassembled and we found ourselves with two vacancies. It was suggested that Maxine Uhl might be interested since she had come to teach Latin and English at the high school and was rooming at Mrs. Schmidt's house just down the street.
She accepted the invitation to come for a meal and, in the course of the conversation, we discovered that she had graduated from Capital University as had the Almendingers, who were also a part of our little group. Thus, six years after we'd first met at a Thanksgiving family dinner, we were now meeting at a luncheon club. We agreed that there must be other Capital graduates in the area, and we ought to become acquainted. So I stopped by Mrs. Schmidt's house to have Maxine join me at dinner in Canton. It was obvious after a short time we had more in common than graduation from the same college.
We began going to movies, to concerts in Cleveland or Wooster, finding all sorts of occasions when we could be together. All of this was happening just before the dramatic meeting with Oscar Blackwelder at Lakeside. Now, just as one world was opening up another seemed threatened. Oscar said they wanted a young pastor who wasn't married. I wasn't married and we weren't engaged. Yet both of us had known each other well enough to know that this was a defining moment.
In October of 1937 I talked with my folks in Columbus and asked if I could move a davenport, a desk, several chairs and lamps to Columbus to store in their attic. There was plenty of room there and they assured me I could do this. So I rented a U-Haul trailer, had several young men help me to load it, and invited Maxine to go with me. When we arrived and, with some neighbors' help, got our furniture moved in, we enjoyed dinner with the folks. Later Maxine went up to the guest room to go to bed. I was still downstairs when Dad came down and said, "What's between you and Maxine?" I grinned and said, "At this moment, we're just good friends." He responded with "What's holding you back. Take her with you."
Dad died in 1938 and we weren't married until June of 1939. But that comment was a kind of blessing and joyous benediction as we began our life together. Our long-distance courtship for 18 months was difficult for both of us. Thanks to the good fortune of Maxine's classmate, Ruth Kroll, living in Washington, she was able to come for some visits. I was able to get to Ohio from time to time, the long distance phone was invaluable. Most of all, whatever interest the congregation had had in having a young unmarried pastor evaporated when Maxine came for visits, and she and I were able to announce a date for our marriage. Reformation Church in Washington had not a young pastor entering marriage, and they responded with gifts, receptions, and joy. I had been with them for a long enough time to win their allegiance and love, Maxine was immediately welcomed in her own right, and now we wished that we had married several years earlier.
On a bright sunny afternoon in June of 1939, we assembled at the Presbyterian Church in Millersburg with Darwin Haynes, the Presbyterian pastor, Lewis Speaker, the pastor of First Church in Columbus, and Oscar Blackwelder, who had come from Washington. It was impressive to the crowded church to have three presiding pastors, but we knew that we were happy to have Maxine's pastor, my pastor, and our pastor. In the moment just before the wedding march, Oscar broke the tension back-stage by asking, "Who has the committal?"
So began our adventure together. We had little money, I owned a Terraplane car, which was one of Buick's products, we had each other. There were threats of war in Europe, Washington was crowded with hundreds of servicemen and women, the world was in turmoil. But we had each other, our wonderful little apartment, a significant place to work, and a large and thriving congregation to welcome us. And we had hopes and dreams and a faith to guide us through the years. We were on the way.

Leaving the Village for the City: The Washington Years
There was a certain security about Millersburg. I had made my way in that small community, had made a secure niche for career as well as personal expression and I was truly at home. Just the thought of the "nation's Capitol" was enough to create doubts. I shared those questions with Pastor Egli, the pastor of the Evangelical and Reformed church. He was a much older man and we fellow clergy called him Father Egli. "Why should you have doubts?" he queried.
"Here I'm known, I know my way around, I have all of these friends in the community beyond my two little congregations."
He smiled and with his German-accented reply said, "My boy, what you are leaving you will find. Go. Enjoy. You are meant for that city. They need you."
I remembered him as I looked at Reformation Church on E. Capitol Street, at the people standing in line to come to church, at the many sights that are identified with Washington. In one way I was just the young assistant in a large church. Friends in the clergy in Ohio had expressed shock that I was leaving for an assistantship. "Foolishness," they said, "You're impressed by glamour." "You're on the verge of all kinds of wonderful situations in Ohio." Etc. Etc. And I thought about that in those first months but not with regrets. True enough. I was living in a small room in a nearby doctor's residence. I didn't have a private study, just a desk in an office shared with Oscar Blackwelder and a couple of canary birds named Luther and Melancthon. Yet I knew from the first day that I was meant to be in Washington, and I felt that there were thousands of young pastors who would pay for the privilege of just being in this exciting environment.
On the first Sunday of December, 1937, I sat in the chancel with Dr. John Weidley, the Pastor Emeritus. A tall, handsome, impressive man with a deep wonderful voice, he had been asked to introduce me to the congregation. That was Oscar Blackwelder's clever way of binding me into the tradition. There were hundreds of newcomers coming into the church, people who did not remember the old congregation. But there were important members of the old church and Oscar had the sensitive awareness of what to do to insure a good beginning for me. Midway in the service, John Weidley took me to the middle of the chancel, put his arm around my shoulder, and said, "This pastor has come to live with us. We welcome him. Be good to this young man." That was better than being ordained all over again. A month or so later there was an actual installation service but it seemed like an unnecessary frill. I felt really installed in the first hours of my coming to the Church of the Reformation.
That was the beginning of happy days with the Weidleys. Their daughter Mary was the organist of the church. They represented the old school of church life. Oscar, with his flair for the new, with the influx of all these people, could have threatened him. Yet, Oscar, in contrast to many pastors who want the retired pastor to leave and go somewhere else, insisted that Dr. John sit in the chancel every Sunday. When he was seated there, he was a symbol of a tie to the past and a blessing for the present. In fact, several years later he didn't show up for several Sundays and Oscar asked if I knew why. I didn't. "Go find out." So I called and said I wanted to see him. I never found out the real answer, but it seemed obvious that someone had raised questions. I told him that Oscar had said he was our treasured heritage. We needed him up front, and we wanted to see him each week. The next Sunday he was there, and when I finished reading the Epistle and sat down beside him, I reached out my hand and he squeezed it. That was to go on until the day when his health failed.
He, Mrs.Weidley, and Mary had Sunday noon meals each week at the Dodge Hotel and they asked me to join them. Almost every Sunday until Maxine and I were married, I enjoyed that privilege and the folks at the hotel thought that I was their son.
Five years earlier I had visited Washington with my brother Art, had seen the bonus army in the streets, had oohed and aahed at the many sights, and had taken a brief look at that Lutheran Church on East Capitol Street. I had to pinch myself to realize that I was actually living there. This was my church too.

Being a Part of a Staff Ministry
This was the beginning of my part of a staff ministry, and it was to be a way of life for the rest of my ministry. It took discipline. I knew that Oscar was a great preacher. He had a way of speaking to the hearts and minds of a diverse congregation. He was at home with senators, with street vendors, with scholars. Also I was to learn his idiosyncrasies. He would lock a door and then vigorously shake it. He'd even get out of his car and walk back to test that door. Or, he would ask me to ride out with him to his home after a Sunday evening service, about a 35 minute drive at 9 o'clock. Then, at 11 o'clock he'd take me to a nearby bus and I'd finally arrive at my room at about 11:30 o'clock. Neither he nor I thought that strange, and when members of the church or friends raised eyebrows, I would counter with the awareness that there were hundreds of friends who would pay for the privilege of hobnobbing with this great friend. I learned that there were those who criticized him. There were some in the church who complained that he was speaking elsewhere too frequently. There were some who wanted him to call, there were others who thought he wasn't a good organizer. Most of all I learned to listen and to respond with a sense of loyalty. We had agreed that if we had differences of opinion or conviction we'd freely discuss them, but privately. In public, a criticism of Oscar was a criticism of me. And we lived that way for the almost seven years I was to be with him.
At first I missed preaching each Sunday. I knew people were coming to hear Oscar, so I knew the professional recognition of my place. Still, after having preached every Sunday for seven years, this was a new situation. On the other hand, I was in the Chancel every Sunday, I conducted much of the service and, especially, had the congregational prayer. More than I had ever done, I worked on the composition of those prayers. Before long, I heard members speaking of those moments. I was asked to come to open the Congress with prayer in 1938. I was asked for copies of prayers. I published a little folder of prayers. From time to time, I would preach at the evening service, and before long I was taking Oscar's place while he was preaching elsewhere. His trips usually did not take him away over Sunday although, happily for me, that did happen from time to time.
In fact, in that first year of 1937 there came a Sunday in June when Oscar was speaking at Gettysburg College. We had put an early service into the schedule which now gave me a sermon to prepare each week and made it easier for me to fill in at the later service should the occasion arise. On this particular June Sunday I had come back to the Study just after greeting people at the close of the Matins Service. The phone rang and it was Art calling from Columbus. He told of Dad having been taken to the hospital and then he added, "If you want to see him alive, you'd better come at once." I sat there stunned, knowing that within a half hour I would be conducting the whole service and preaching before this important congregation. Fortunately I did not have to join the choir, for Oscar and I could enter from the Study door into the chancel. So, I put a firm hand on emotions and conducted the service and preached without anyone knowing.
Then I got to the door after the service and began to greet people as they left. Instead of the cheery smiling greetings I found myself fighting tears and finally I excused myself and left to go back to the Study. Of course, there were those who sensed something had happened and several of the Council members came to the Study. Louis Dellwig, who was the owner of a large fruit and vegetable supply business and something of a blunt spoken member of the Council, was the first to come in. I told him what had happened and he said, "You've got to leave now."
"No," I protested. "I'll stay for the evening service.
"Ralph, you're leaving now." I spoke with several others who had come into the office and in a few moments Louis had returned and said, "You're leaving on the plane at 4 o'clock. Here is some money. What else can we do?"
"But what of the evening service?"
"I've called Oscar in Gettysburg and told him to get back here." And so I flew home. As it turned out, Dad didn't die until 10 days had gone by and it was more than two weeks before I returned.
I recall the pangs of conscience in leaving mother alone since all of us were now gone. But she could say calmly, "Your life is there and I feel best knowing that you're in Washington. And Dad was proud of you."

Wedding
It was another June, a year from that time, when Maxine and I were married and I could remember Dad saying, at his first meeting with Maxine in 1937, "Are you marrying her?" I told him that we were just good friends. "What's keeping you, son." So we had his benediction to recall on June 8, 1939.
During the time between leaving Millersburg and June of 1939 Maxine and I wrote many letters, talked over many long distance calls and, not frequently enough, had some personal visits. Still, it was a long year and a half.
I had learned that when men (there were few if any women in Congress) were elected and had moved in to Washington, they did not want to go back home. They might be defeated in an election, but they still stayed on. Congressman Lucker of Nebraska was one of these. In the early Spring of 1939 I had called at the Lucker apartment on South Carolina Avenue. He had been defeated the November previously but he and his wife were still there. I kept admiring their apartment and Mrs. Lucker said, "You know, we should be moving but the Congressman doesn't want to think of leaving."
So I blurted out, "Mrs. Lucker, if you should leave or if the Congressman really makes a decision, let me know. This would be perfect."
She smiled and said, "Let me introduce you to the manager." This was a four apartment building, looking like a single colonial residence, and Mrs. Buell, the manager, lived upstairs. It wasn't long until I learned the good news that we had an apartment and could make plans. We drew pictures of the apartment, discussed color schemes, decided what furniture we could afford. It was difficult to do over the phone, and Maxine was teaching and couldn't get away too much. But there was at least one trip—or was it two—and we had confidence that we had a great place to start. Our apartment was on the first floor. It had a good-sized living room with a wood-burning fireplace. There was a rather wide hallway between that room and the bedroom, large enough for a table and chairs in a kind of dinette. On the one side, the door led to a small kitchen and next to it the bath. Beyond the bedroom was a door leading to a screened-in porch. To find this in Washington was heaven for us.
I still get goosebumps thinking of watching Maxine walk down the aisle carrying a small Bible and a large white orchid. I was 31, she was 26, we had a start in our careers, she as a Latin teacher, I as a pastor, but at that moment we were just man and woman, a bit frightened, both nervous, both in love. Mother and Aunt Mame had come to Millersburg and Art and Katherine with their son Tom, who was 3 or 4 years old. And of course, there were all of Maxine's relatives and friends and our mutual friends from our congregation and from Maxine's. There were even some, we learned later, who were astonished that a Lutheran pastor was getting married in a Presbyterian Church. But then, that was 1939.
We had decided to divide our honeymoon in two parts, spending a few days in Ohio and stopping by to load our car with all of the gifts, take these to Washington, leave them at the apartment and then head South for a week. I see now, it wasn't the best of planning for a honeymoon.
We came to Washington expecting to spend our first night at our new apartment, only to discover that all of the floors had been varnished and weren't dry. We went off to the Dodge Hotel. There I phoned and discovered that we could get an overnight boat on the Potomac for Norfolk. So we hurriedly gathered our luggage. On the boat I remembered that I had left a leather folder with handkerchiefs at the hotel. Some weeks after our return, I remembered and stopped at the hotel to retrieve the little package. The lost-and-found guard came with a large package. When I protested that I'd only left handkerchiefs, he said, "Take this. You left this." Indeed I had. Shirts, some ties, some underwear. Witness to how calm was the bridegroom!
We had a good trip to North Carolina, arriving during the rhododendron festival. We enjoyed our first few days as a bride and groom. When Congressman Doughton of North Carolina learned that we were spending part of our honeymoon in his state, he insisted that we go to the Inn at Burnsville. It was a pleasant old building and the management prided itself on its dinners where everything was placed on the large dining table. We had intended to stay one night, but we so enjoyed that day that we stayed on for another day. Then, on the way home, as we came closer to Washington, Maxine said, "Ralph, slow down. Don't hurry." When I looked puzzled, she said, "I'm scared." It was hitting her that she was now the pastor's wife, with the congregation and all of the public life. I'm writing this after 54 years of marriage and she knows now, as I've always known, that she's been the perfect person, finding a place of her own, loved and admired even as Teddy Blackwelder had admired her in the year before our marriage.
On that occasion Maxine had come to visit and the Blackwelders had us for dinner. Ted was then a high school student. He looked across the table and said, "You're a teacher?"
"Yes,” Maxine replied.
"A Latin teacher?" She assented. He just shook his head. He knew no teacher who looked like this glamorous young woman I had brought to Washington.
On the first night after our arrival from our honeymoon, the choir of the church was having their annual dinner party at a beautiful restaurant in a suburban area. We arrived a bit late, parked on the roadside and had to walk across the broad lawns toward the building reflecting lights and sounds of people partying. Maxine was wearing the pink floor-length gown that Jenny had worn as her bridesmaid. As we walked toward the building we could see some of the choir members on a balcony obviously admiring us as we made our approach. I remember that excitement and also the pride that I had then—and always—of having Maxine as my wife. It was an auspicious beginning.

Settling In
Washington was filled with war rumors and the sharp debate concerning Lend-lease. I went to hearings sponsored by Senator Norris who was opposed to our involvements with England. Oscar was known and admired all across the city and I, as his associate. So it was easy enough to be involved in all manner of discussions concerning foreign policy, world events, as well as diverse political controversies. Here all of this was personalized because the men and women of government were all around us. I was discovering that which I had learned in Millersburg, that people are people and pastoral relationships are as necessary in the nation's Capitol as in the hills of Ohio.
A personal event illustrated the larger picture. For our first guest at a meal, Maxine invited Oscar to come for lunch at our new apartment. She had planned the event with much care—her first meal for a guest. Oscar came and we were about ready to begin the meal when there was a knock at the apartment door. I was greeted by a deliveryman with a rather large box. We opened it at once and found a lovely silver tea service as a gift from a family in Columbus. They had been one of the customers on my early morning paper route which I had continued through college. One morning, I had rolled the paper and hurled it up on the porch as I biked past. Only, on this day the paper collided with the front door, breaking a small pane. As I rushed up to the porch, the lady of the house came down the stairs. I apologized saying, "I'll pay for it"
"You bet you will," she said. So on the following Saturday I came by to make amends. She invited me in and asked me all about myself, learning that I was in college, asking about my home, my interests, ending with "Let's forget the window. We'll have some more conversations." By the time I retired carrying the newspaper, I knew that I was going to attend Hamma Divinity School and I told my friends about that decision. Now, years later, these folks were sending a wedding gift.
The following Sunday, Oscar was speaking on the Sunday Vespers broadcast nationwide over NBC. He was preaching on the theme, "What is Man?" and, in a discussion of the idea of responsibility, he inserted the story of the friendship which had begun over a broken window:
That friendship was built where all real living starts—with the sense and spirit of responsibility. Until the average man across America recovers that spirit, laws passed on Capitol Hill are as sounding brass. Shakespeare was right, ''The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.”
Remembering this incident renews that sense of awareness that we were in a very exciting and rewarding situation.
Washington in those years was not only a busy, thriving city, but a secure place. We loved to walk, to tandem bike around Haines Point, to go freely anywhere. Seeing what has happened to the city in these fifty years brings an acute awareness of how changed our urban centers have become. Now, in 1994 when this is written, the Mayor has just requested the President to send in the National Guard to patrol the streets. The city is dubbed the murder capitol of the world. Reformation Church finds it impossible to have evening meetings. It's a tragedy to have all of this happening within sight of our famous national structures. Even in Buffalo we have similar circumstances, although not as intensified as in Washington. But the city we knew in the early years of our marriage was a beautiful place, a safe place, and we relished it all.

Being a Pastor in Washington, D.C.
We were discovering so many of the interesting circumstances of the many people who were members of the church. As with most Lutheran churches, this one was filled with those good, sturdy, responsible persons, a few of them in the leadership positions. But this was Washington and we did have lawyers - many of them - heads of departments, librarians, teachers, and all of these government workers. There were also the hordes of visitors coming to the services so that there were Sundays when people literally lined up to get into church. The two overflow rooms at the Capitol Street entrances were always filled. Sometimes we had people in the side offices.
While the worship services were the obvious witness to this vigorous and popular worship, there was also an active congregational program. In those years J. Edgar Hoover was in the hey-day of his power, and it was only decades later that we learned of the many flaws in his character. He was fond of saying that he had learned a sense of discipline from his Sunday School teacher. Miss Anna, who was primarily a public school administrator, brought that same discipline to her Sunday School Department at Reformation Church.
There were all of the other traditional groups and I organized others, such as a Young Adult Sunday Evening discussion group. It was a great place to discuss the many pressures and problems, domestic as well as national. I remember the many young people who had come to Washington with hopes for glamorous situations, only to discover loneliness and frustration. Said one, "Pastor Loew, you can't snuggle up to the Washington Monument." Said another, "I feel like I'm in a barrel of custard! I'm in over my head and I've nothing to give me a handle." So many young people were attracted to Reformation Church through its worship program. They became a part of the church and found a home away from home.
Over at N.Y. Avenue Presbyterian Church, they had similar circumstances with the glamorous Peter Marshall. Peter and I had met at a meeting of the Interchurch Club soon after each of us had come to Washington. We found ourselves waiting until we were brought into the meeting, introduced ourselves, and this reddish-haired, outgoing young man had said, "I'm Peter Marshall. Let's play ping-pong." And so we did. Years later when he had achieved great fame, we remembered the happy way in which our friendship had begun.
Peter was a fine preacher, capitalizing on his Scottish accent and filled with a certain charisma. He was sure God was tapping him on the shoulder, telling him what to do. In 1943 after the national elections, there had been a political change in the Senate, and the Chaplain, Frederick Brown Harris, the minister of Founder Methodist, and also a good friend, had been voted out and Peter elected. He had already had a severe heart attack, but to him all of this was the way God had planned it. "Just think, Ralph," he said, "The doctors told me I must quit traveling everywhere, and now I have this appointment which means that I must be at the Senate chambers each day of their session to have the opening prayer. It's God's plan." When I had some struggle with decisions, his answer was simple: "Just pray about it. He'll tap you on the shoulder."
I was never certain about that specific tap on the shoulder, and, as the years went by and I found myself struggling with various decisions, I wished for the comfort of that assurance. In those early years of Washington, it was simply the joy of discovering how to minister in a meaningful way among so many public challenges.
Oscar was proud of the fact that we always had an evening service, even in summertime. Washington was terribly hot in the July, August periods, Oscar was gone on vacation, and I was left with the evening services. Across the street from the church was the building which I thought the loveliest in Washington, the Folger Shakespeare Library. On the facade were friezes depicting scenes from the Bard's most famous plays. Was it a tap on the shoulder, or just an idea formed by the pressure of an obligation? Why not a series of sermons based on "Christ and Shakespeare"? I worked out a series, announced it, and so in July of 1940 the time came, with a question of who would come out on a hot night, to an unair-conditioned church, to hear a young pastor who had only an English 101 background speak on this subject. On the very first night I was delightfully surprised and humbled by the number of people present, certainly a large number of visitors. At the close of the service I discovered—somewhat to my horror—that these were the members of the Washington Shakespeare Society. But fools rush in, and so I had announced my series and I boldly continued:
Hamlet: What Revenge Does to Character
Macbeth: What Christ Can Do with Ambition
The Merchant of Venice: How Can We Be Just and Merciful?
Romeo and Juliet: The Clash Between Generations
The Tempest: Swords Too Big To Lift
I stated very clearly at the beginning of each sermon that these were not scholarly discussions but rather the use of Shakespeare's astonishing wealth of observations, the harvest of his keen eye to give us entrance into the human condition with which the Christian Gospel was also concerned. In truth, these were sermons with Shakespearean illustrations. I thought on the first night that this would take care of the scholars. But they kept coming back and we had large attendances despite the sweltering Sunday evenings. The Bard had come across the street from his library to the church.
That fall I received an invitation to repeat the Tempest sermon as an address at the monthly meeting of the Shakespeare Society at the Unitarian Church. The following year I was invited to be their banquet speaker and I wrote an address entitled, "And Shakespeare Said." All of this was too much for one of our church members, Dr. Raymond Houck, who was truly a Shakespearean scholar, having spent most of his adult years working on the sources of the Taming of the Shrew. He was rightfully offended that he had never been invited to speak at any of the meetings. But to invite me, who made no pretenses of such erudite scholarship, to speak at the annual banquet was more than he could take. And I retreated to such clichés as Peter Marshall's "when he taps you on the shoulder, you answer, scholarship or no."
I had discovered an answer to the need for some privacy in my study. Among our much appreciated and faithful members were Miss Pierson and Miss MacNair, both longtime members of the Staff at the Library of Congress. Harriet Pierson was a talented poet who shared her writing with me on frequent occasions. On one of these occasions we talked about the Library and she suggested that I ought to apply for a desk in one of the carrels off the main Reading Room. To obtain one you had to be working on some approved research project. If successful, I'd receive a desk somewhere, could have books placed on my desk, could come there when necessary for quiet study and writing. So I applied, using my Dissertation from the Seminary and Ohio State concerning "The Wittenberg Articles of 1536" as the raison d'etre. It worked. I was assigned a reserved desk in one of those wonderful little alcoves off of the main Reading Room, and the next desk was assigned to Carl Rasmussen, who was, at the time, the Pastor of Luther Memorial Church. He was a marvelous and creative soul. When we were there at the same time we'd have problems keeping at our work. He was translating the works of Soren Kierkegaard and he had to break into whatever I was reading to share some bon mot.
When the Library expanded and opened the new annex across the street, I applied for a room and received it. That meant a private little room with a desk and a place for reserved books. It was a great help. I was away from phones. I had a place to read, to brood, to think, to write. I hated to give it up when we decided to leave Washington.
Being a pastor in Washington, as is true anywhere, brought you into involvement in the entire community. Being an Associate at Reformation gave me a special privilege and responsibility. This community was international in scope and personal in reality. Discussions concerning the emerging threats of war were focused in Washington. FDR had said we'd try to avoid involvement. In fact, it was at Chautauqua, which we'd be deeply involved in the years to come, he gave his famous "I Hate War" speech. There was a draft, and so many of our young men and women were going into the service, ostensibly only for a year or two. Various of my ministerial friends were leaving their pastorates to enter the chaplaincy. All of this caused me to consider my options over and over again. I was 4F because I was a pastor. Oscar kept saying that I was doing more being in that specific and central spot on Capitol Hill. Now, a number of us assistants and associated banded together, and out of that grew a central committee concerned with meeting the spiritual and recreational needs of so many of these thousands of young people. There were Saturday night suppers at the church, planned and prepared by volunteers, dances and parties, counseling, marriages (6 or 8 every Saturday afternoon), letters to their families in various places. We attracted the attention of the government and Eleanor Roosevelt became our consultant. She would come to our meetings from time to time accompanied only by her chauffeur.
When I considered what my role should be, especially in the months ahead when each of my brothers entered the service, I had to deal with my own conscience. In the summer of 1941 we took a vacation in Maine at a beautiful lake. We were at a comfortable lodge where we had all of our meals. Imagine—Some kind of bug? Or—we could hardly think of the possibility—was she pregnant? We'd been married more than 2 years and had so far had no evidence of that possibility. On the way home from our vacation spot, we stopped in a store in Boston where we saw a beautiful swiss-dot baby dress which we purchased, had it wrapped up, and agreed that it wouldn't be opened until we had medical evidence of our hopes come true. When we arrived back in Washington, one of the first dates was with Maxine's doctor and we learned the great good news—we were going to have a child, probably in February. All of those international problems and my own inner struggles narrowed down to the overwhelming reality—we were going to have a child. Life was changing!

Expecting a Child… and War
As the months passed, Maxine did very well, getting the needed rest and considering all of the plans for the birth to come. Thus, on a Sunday in December, when I went along with a group of young people to have a worship service at the Lutheran Home for the Aged, Maxine stayed home resting. After we'd had the worship service, had sung and then visited with the residents, we started on our way back to the Hill. Switching on the radio we received the startling news of the Pearl Harbor bombing. I remember Kenny Foster saying, "There goes Christmas. And I just bought a new suit." Many personal plans were changed that day.
Still, we had services as usual and at the close, Oscar and I went out into the middle of East Capitol Street watching the lights being turned off on the Capitol building just two blocks away. What was going to be happening? Would Washington be bombed by the Japanese? Within days we were instructed to have blackout curtains at our windows and block captains would come by to ascertain if even the tiniest slit of light were showing. There would be a rationing of gasoline and of most foods. We were at war. "This day will live in history as a day of infamy," said the President—FDR. Now the questions of avoidance of war were moot. Non-interventionists and peace activists all were involved and confronting the threats of Nazism and now of the Japanese. It would be more than 4 years before the Capitol lights would be turned on.
By the end of the first week we had been immersed in new demands on time, on thought, on our prayers, on our fears. We were at war, with all that means. In February Maxine and I knew that the time was drawing close for a trip to the hospital. One evening we decided to have a quiet time by ourselves, and for something to pass the time, to play a game of cards. It wasn't long until Maxine said, "I think we're going to the hospital" We called the doctor and he told us to come in. Thus, on the evening of February 10 we journeyed to Garfield Hospital. I came home and tried to sleep, expecting to hear at any moment the phone call with great news. There was no call. Early the next morning I phoned and the doctor said, with his southern drawl, "Your lady is progressing nicely" No more. I went to the hospital. They were using what was called "Twilight sleep" which left the patient half-comatose. So the visits were unsatisfactory. That whole day and the next night passed, and not until Thursday did we get the welcome news that Carolyn was born. When I went to see Maxine and our new babe, Maxine looked utterly worn out and so did the baby. Then we discovered that Maxine also had a serious case of phlebitis. After 3 days we went home to our little apartment and Maxine's mother came to help with the baby. When she went home to Millersburg, my mother came. So our first days, which were to be so deliriously happy, were clouded with problems. Carolyn had trouble retaining food, Maxine was so thin and had to have her leg bandaged, our little apartment was hardly large enough for us and a new baby and now we also had to have help for caring for the new arrival. And yet, those were days we look back upon with such gratitude. In the time of war, we had a new world open for us. Our daughter, oh, our daughter!
In 1938 before our part in the war had opened, one of our international visitors was an interesting young Lutheran pastor from Germany who was the head of his synod's youth programs. He was Hans Lilje. Our paths were to cross many times in the years to come—at Lund, in the United States, in our home, and in our church. Later, I wrote a play entitled "Christmas in the Shadows," based on Lilje's prison experiences. It all began in Washington when we were two young pastors facing life together in a broken world just as the Nazi war machine began to dominate our history.
As young people had gathered in my little apartment in Millersburg, now there was a repetition in Washington. After the evening services, there was a gap in time until 11 o'clock when most of the trains were leaving. Thus, on Sunday evenings at 8 or 8:30 we'd have the Dwight Dotys, Pattersons, Bachsmids, Pfeiffers and others. Those were precious times: we were young couples, there was a war, there was uncertainty and darkened streets and, for so many, separations. We cherished the moments.
At Christmas in 1943—I believe that was the date—there was a special service at the National Cathedral. The President and his wife, Winston Churchill and other dignitaries would be present. Oscar was chosen to be the preacher. Maxine and I were selected to be among those seated in the pews surrounding the great leaders. So we sat immediately behind Mr. Churchill and the Roosevelts as Oscar preached the sermon, "America Needs a Manger."
There were some excellent preachers in Washington in those years, many of them our personal friends. Edward Hughes Pruden at First Baptist, Will Abernathy at Calvary Baptist, Angus Durr at the Cathedral, John Rustin at Mt. Vernon Christian, and, of course, Peter Marshall at New York Ave. Presbyterian. And there was Oscar Blackwelder who could hold his own with any of his colleagues and also superbly reach the larger audiences. He was remarkable, and I was privileged to be his colleague when he was at the summit.
From time to time, committees of these clergy and various denominational executives called upon the President to discuss issues related to the war. I recall being included with four of such conferences in the Oval Office. President Roosevelt was always seated at his large desk before we were ushered in to this famous sanctum. I don't recall the words spoken; I do remember the sense of power and respect and awe!
One of those conferences had to do with the news of numerous clergy in Germany and Austria, Poland, and now of the Scandinavian countries, all of whom were suffering from the Nazi outrage. Niemoller had been tried and was now in prison. Thousands of other clergy had been imprisoned. One felt as though a noose was tightening and what had only been a story in a newspaper was now the reality of global suffering.
In the midst of all this life went on, church programs and worship services continued, the seasons of Advent, Lent, Easter all took on new meanings.
I recall one Lent when Oscar was scheduled to preach each noon at Zion Lutheran Church in Baltimore. That was an old central city church, very German, and yet a symbol in this important city. At almost the last moment Oscar had another of his increasingly frequent throat problems. I was delegated to quickly fill in. I drove over on Monday morning, found my way into the parish hall and there met a very German lady. I asked for the pastor.
"You can't see him now. We have a service at noon. Go into the church and you come here afterwards."
"Yes, I know, but Dr. Blackwelder is ill and I have come to preach today."
"But you're only a boy."
"Nonetheless, I have come to a man's job. May I see the pastor?"
She was unsmiling when she ushered me to a stairway and, calling up, said, "It is a young pastor who says he is to preach here."
After the service, when I had greeted people and was preparing to return to Washington, she offered me a luncheon of an egg sandwich and a glass of milk. That began a blessed week and we became good friends. On the final day she gave me a book of German lieder which I have treasured.

Confronting Senator Bilbo
Life is filled with surprises. For instance, there is that memorable moment when I confronted Senator Bilbo of Mississippi. An utter surprise.
Oscar Blackwelder was ill with pneumonia, and I was not only caring for his obligations at Reformation Church but at other Lenten speaking situations. One was to speak at a midweek Lenten Service at the Church of the Brethren in S. E. Washington. It was a quiet Spring evening, there were about fifty people present at the service, and the setting was placid. I spoke, we worshipped, we went home.
The next morning I brought in the Washington Post from the front door of the apartment where we lived on South Carolina Avenue. Surprise. There was a big bold double headline: "Rommel Advances on African Front." And underneath, another headline, "Local Minister Says Bilbo Un-American." Then followed the story that explained that I had spoken at the Church of the Brethren and had stated that Bilbo was un-American.
That was true. On that same day, the Senator had spoken on the Senate floor in response to a directive from Secretary of Education Studebaker announcing that all colleges and universities should be open to all students, regardless of race. Bilbo had said that he thought that each president of each college should stand in the front door and, when a "Nigra" came down the center walk, the president should tell him to go to hell. I had read that astonishing statement about 4 o'clock. And so, at the Lenten service, as a sort of parenthesis, I stated that the Senator, if quoted correctly, was not only patently unchristian, he was also un-American. How was I to know that in the small audience there was, in the front row, an AP reporter who had pounced upon a headline.
The phones began to ring. I went over to the office and there were somewhat gentle but wearied calls from several church members asking whether this was true and expressing nervous concern. Then there were a few angry calls. To say that I was troubled is putting it mildly. After all, I was the Associate Pastor, I had spoken without conferring with Oscar. What to do? Oscar was ill and it was not possible to speak with him. Suddenly, I had an inspiration. I was a legal, voting citizen of Ohio and my Senator was Harold Burton of Cleveland. I phoned his office and spoke to his secretary. "The Senator was on the floor," she said, and unavailable. Could she help?
"Yes," I said, "I would like to speak with him about the report noted in the Post headline. I was the pastor who had spoken and I was a citizen of Ohio."
Immediately the secretary was alert with interest. She was certain that the Senator would want to see me. In a few moments she called back suggesting that I come at 2 o'clock in the afternoon.
I well remember going to the impressive Senate Office Building, finding my way to Senator Burton's office, and finally meeting in his private office. He was kind, much interested, asking many questions. Finally he said he'd be glad to be an advisor to me, insisting that I follow his directions. He suggested that I keep quiet, make no statements. In other words, be undercover for the moment. "It will be tempting to answer back to outrageous things that he will say. Keep silent. Meanwhile, call any influential friends." I suggested the Federation of Churches where Fred Reissig was the executive. "Excellent", he said, and any others! Ask them to write letters of support, have them send those letters to the church office, and hold them until he, Senator Burton, gave the order to release them to the press. My friends were cooperative and soon I had letters from the Ministerial Association, from the Federation of Churches from several of Washington's outstanding preachers. After several weeks, the Senator's office called suggesting that these letters be sent to the Post. They were printed, there were several stories, and the news began to quiet down.
However, there were many letters—from Louisiana, from Mississippi, from Texas. The AP wires had carried the story and people were writing, "Would you want your daughter to marry a Nigra?" Or, "Let the colored go to their own schools. Would you want your children going to the same college dances?" Around the church, folks were supportive, even though many of them were sorry I'd gotten into such a well-publicized event.
Later that year, when I resigned my pastorate at Reformation to accept the call to come to Buffalo, there were those who believed that I was going to escape this ruckus. But the church did not believe this, urging me to stay, naming me co-pastor.
As the years passed, Jan was born in January of 1945, and then, about five years later, I was asked to come to speak at Reformation Church. So we planned our trip with our two little girls. And I remembered Senator Burton, who was now Mr. Justice Burton of the Supreme Court. He had graciously suggested that whenever I came back to Washington I should come in to see him. I wrote asking if we might have a privilege of allowing our little girls to meet him and also to see this beautiful building.
At the appointed time we arrived, a personal guide from Justice Burton's office met us, thoughtfully escorted us to all of the interesting architectural wonders of this building, and finally brought us to the Judicial chambers. Justice Burton graciously met us and was intrigued by Carolyn. “Carolyn, will your classmates believe you when you tell them that you have been here in the Supreme Court?"
Carolyn answered, "Maybe. Maybe not."
"Well," said Mr. Burton, "let's give them proof." He took one of his very impressive gilt-edged cards and wrote on it that he had the privilege of meeting Carolyn and showing her around the Supreme Court. "There," he said, "that will prove that you have been here." I wonder if Carolyn still has that card.
Several years later, Justice Burton died of Parkinson's Disease. Oscar Blackwelder died of Parkinson's Disease. And history moved on. But I'll remember life's surprises, such as the day I confronted Bilbo. It was a prelude to many of the civil rights struggles that were yet to come and in which I'd be much involved.

The Church in Wartime
Meanwhile, the war was dragging on and we lived with daily statistics of battles, losses, horrors. There was beginning to be the recognition of the real horror of the holocaust. That had been one of the obscenities of the war but now it was just dawning on us that this was horrendous. I remember talks with Rabbi Gerstenfeld and of discussions concerning the dimensions of the tragedy. We began meeting people who had fled from Germany. In our church I learned to know of a Fred Bloch who had come to Washington, was working at a lumber mill and was a Lutheran. I went out to find him and stood at the ground level before a large barn-like structure. Up on the loft stood this tall, handsome fellow who spoke with a deep bass voice. I told him that I was a Lutheran Pastor. He looked at me, seeing this young fellow in a summer suit. "You—a Pastor?" he exclaimed.
"That's right," I said, "and I've come to invite you to come to our church.” It was an introduction to Fred, and later Lydia, who became our close friends. He had been an executive in a large lumber mill in Germany. Because of the anti-Semitic terror, they felt it necessary to leave. They had Jewish blood and they faced real dangers. So they stored their furniture in the barn of a farmer, and by various and devious ways found their way to Washington.
The Young Adult group that met at the church each Sunday evening talked of the ethical and moral problems confronting our nation and our church. It was all-encompassing just to be living through a war—and living through it at the center of negotiations in Washington. How to preach? What to say that was neither nationalistic or pusillanimous, dodging the real issues? Oscar and I and so many others of our friends had regular discussions. All the while there were ardent, faithful members who were disgusted with Roosevelt's many governmental innovations—Social Security, voter's rights, the injection of government leadership into so much of the business and educational world, the many new agencies such as W.P.A., P.W.A., C.C.C.
In 1941 in a radio broadcast, Oscar had spoken of the contributions of the church to the problems of American democracy. I can hear him yet as he proclaimed that the Church must be the spear point in the struggle for human freedom:
We hear much today and we will probably hear more tomorrow, about freedom of speech, freedom of press, and freedom of worship. These three mutually defend each other, but freedom of speech and press are safeguarded ultimately by freedom of worship. But freedom of worship does not mean freedom from worship. It means freedom to worship. When freedom to worship goes, the final bulwark of social liberty has departed—that spirit that inspires a Bill of Rights....How is the Church to be the spear point in the struggle for human freedom?
Now, in 1944, this voice was threatened. Oscar and I had talked of plans for the Lenten season, wondering how we could serve the many, many people who came on Sunday, many of them standing or sitting in overflow rooms. "Why not have some special events for the various branches of the military service—the Marines, the Navy, the Army, the Air Corps, the Coast Guard, etc.?" We planned a series of Lenten services at 4 o'clock each Sunday inviting representatives of these various branches to speak or share. For instance, I recall General Leigh Fairbanks, the head of the Army Dental Corps, singing as bass soloist for one of the services. So Chaplains, officers, and service people were invited—and accepted in sharing. But that meant four worship services each Sunday. We could do it.
And then Oscar became ill and it was diagnosed as pneumonia. So I had that extensive worship schedule squarely on my desk. Those were rigorous Sundays. What we thought would be a few weeks interlude for Oscar dragged on with no sufficient recovery. He was frustrated, I was challenged, and we all did what we had to do.

Visitors from Buffalo
Early in Lent, on one Sunday morning after the great Morning Service, a group of four men were waiting to see me. We went to the Study and they introduced themselves—Edward J. Hoffman, Walter Stroman, Warren Fortenbaugh, Walter Krueger, all of them from Holy Trinity Lutheran Church in Buffalo. They stated that they had been without a pastor for almost a year and had called Dr. Fred Wiegman, the President of Midland College. He had accepted but, after several months, had declined, saying that his college board would not release him. Angered, this group had come to Washington to speak with Dr. Gould Wickey, who was Secretary for the national church's Board of Education. They thought that he must be Wiegman's boss. Wickey set them straight, saying there was nothing he could do. All of this happened on Saturday and so they decided to come to Reformation to hear this Ralph Loew whom a number of persons around the national church had told them to see. They had a large church, they spoke of its importance, and it was obvious that they were thinking in terms of college presidents or nationally famous men—not associate pastors. But now they were impressed. Here they were one block from the Capitol, the church jammed, the evidence of heavy programming, all of the evidences of ministry for which they hungered. So they came to the point, would I think of considering a call to their church?
I dismissed that possibility at once. I remember telling them that I was too busy even to think of anything else during Lent, that we were happy in Washington, that I'd had opportunities to consider other calls but still felt challenged to be in Washington. So they thanked me, we chatted for a little while and they left. It was just an incident which Maxine and I could talk about. We both knew that someday we were going to have to be serious about such moments. It was great to be here with Oscar and at this church. But we'd talked of moving, now that Carolyn was 3 years old and now, also, we'd happily discovered that Maxine was pregnant. We needed to get a house. We looked at several locations in Washington and in the suburbs, but we were too busy. That would have to wait until after Easter. So the busy days went on. We had a great Easter celebration, enjoyed the Emmaus Supper on Easter Sunday evening when we had a do-it-yourself supper to which each of us invited someone from the church or neighborhood whom we'd not met. Or a newcomer whom we wanted to have present. We invited Lydia and Fred Bloch. They came with a little package of cold cuts and we told them they weren't expected to bring anything. Later they told us that when they heard it was a pot luck supper, they wondered what that meant. Pot, that is a pan. Luck—you must use it to see what you get. Said Lydia, "Fred, we are new. We must take a very little pot." So they came across Washington from their little apartment with a little saucepan. Then they saw people coming into the church with their casseroles and packages. "Himmel," said Lydia. "They bring food." So they hurried around the corner to a delicatessen that was open and brought their contribution to the Emmaus Supper. We laughed through the years with our dear friends.
With all of these schedules, we were tired and exhausted on Easter evening and ready for bed. But early on the next morning the phone rang and the voice at the other end said, "This is Edward Hoffman from Buffalo."
"Oh my goodness," I replied. "Haven't you secured a pastor yet?"
"No," he responded, "you told us to wait until after Easter, and I remind you that this is the day after Easter." So I told him to send information and I'd consider that possibility.
The next weeks were a traumatic mix of excitement and uncertainty. We loved Washington, loved the drama of the city, enjoyed so many of the advantages of living there in those years. We had become a very real integer of the congregation and had formed very real and lasting relationships with so many people. Most of all, our relationships with Oscar and Geneva Blackwelder were so rewarding and so comfortable. On one occasion, after I had been with Oscar for several years, the Synod of Maryland introduced a resolution asking for a study of staff relationships. That was initiated by some Baltimore pastors who were disturbed by the breakup of one staff ministry in which the Associate had resigned and had taken some fifty or more members with him to another church. But the resolution just asked for a study of the meaning of staff ministry and, at that time, our program at Reformation Church was the only one in the
synod.
So Oscar stood up and, in his usual forceful way, said that he saw no need for this resolution, that he and Ralph were an ideal combination. "In fact," he said, "we are two brains with one mind." Whereupon Abdel Ross Wentz stood up and, with an equal rhetorical flourish, said "It occurs to me that it would take two brains of that caliber to make one mind." After the synod had recovered from laughter, this motion died peacefully. But this was more than rhetoric. We did function that way. I had come to that delightful moment in a relationship when we could sense each other's moods, trust each other's decisions, could be at ease in the total situation. I could adventure with new projects, take leadership without forming any of those jealous rustlings for attention which had apparently dogged some staff ministries in those years. These were wonderful years.
But now he had been ill for about six weeks and was still not back at church. In recent years various churches had tried to pry us loose, to no avail. Trusted friends in the leadership of the church at large were suggesting it was time to move on to a new leadership. What to do?
I went to see Dr. Kretchting, Dr. Blackwelder's physician and also mine. He was a fine member of the congregation and a gentle counselor. I spilled out my problems and asked, as Oscar's physician, whether he could give me guidance. He thought for a while and said, "Ralph. None of us want to see you leave. We've thought about that possibility and we all are grateful for your leadership, especially this year. We want you to stay. On the other hand, I must tell you that, as long as you do stay, Dr.B. will lean on you, using you as a crutch." We talked on for another hour, but it was that sentence that created the crucible for the decision.
Oscar was only 46 years of age, still a young man. Taking the long view, should I toy with the possibility of another church, especially with one that seemed so challenging as Holy Trinity in Buffalo? So I phoned Mr. Hoffman and said that I had reached a preliminary decision. I would consider coming to Buffalo for a discussion with the committee or with the Council, simply to explore the city, the church and the possibilities. Another complicating factor existed in the continuance of the war and how could I close the relationships with so many service people who were in foreign countries. On the other hand, the church in Buffalo had a long list of military members who had been without a home pastor for a year. Every decision in all of life has a multifaceted situation. Mine seemed utterly complicated.
I came by train to Buffalo, was met by Edward Hoffman, talked with numerous leaders of the church, toured the very impressive building, found myself being challenged. So began several weeks of telephone calls to friends in the national church. And Holy Trinity began its push. I received letters from persons such as Franklin Clark Fry, Samuel Trexler, the President of the New York and New England Synod, and a host of other leaders. All of them agreed that since I had been at Reformation, now into my seventh year, it was time to give leadership to this new challenge. I especially remember a letter from Paul Scherer, a much-admired preacher, who told me that his father-in-law, William Benbow, had been an organist-choirmaster at Holy Trinity, that his mother-in-law was still a member, that he really knew the congregation where he had begun his ministry as an assistant, that it was an ideal place for me to take the next step in my career.
There were continuing letters, telephone conferences, and finally the decision. If the folks in Buffalo would issue a call, I would consider it favorably. So we accepted the invitation to come to Buffalo on Saturday, May 13,1944. We dined with the Council members and wives (There were no women members in those years.) at the Westbrook Hotel. Maxine later said to Marjorie Eckhert, "You folks are so sweet to include me in this invitation.” Marj responded, "Don't be silly. We wanted to see what you looked like." And they liked what they saw. On the 14th I preached at the 10:30 service, and, at the conclusion, I waited back in the study with Maxine as the committee presented the possibility of a Call.
We learned later that there had been glowing comments with only one question. Mrs. Gertrude Feltes, a prominent leader of women's programs, a person whom we were to know so very well in the years to come, raised a problem. "All that you say about this pastor sounds wonderful. But isn't he a bit young?"
To which Dr. Eckhert, who was really three years younger, stood and replied, "Yes, he's young. But he'll get over it." So the Call received a unanimous vote. With this document in hand, with the enthusiasm of this large congregation, we knew that we had come to a new crossroads and there was no turning back.
We returned to Washington to face all of the farewells, the mixed emotions, the reality of leaving Washington, our dear friends, and, especially, the Blackwelders. He had opened so many significant doors for me and I had come to a major new chapter. There were fears—and tears—and hopes and dreams. There was the heartache of writing all those letters to the young men and women who were serving in the armed forces. There was the dealing with self-doubt. I had to recall again the words of old Father Egli, "What you are leaving, you will find."

Art was assigned to a stint for the Navy in Washington, and so we let him and Katherine stay in our apartment and made arrangements for the movers to come and ship things to Buffalo in August. We went on a visit with Mother in Columbus and then to Millersburg where we had several blessed weeks on rest and relaxation with Maxine's folks on the farm.
Holy Trinity Lutheran Church in Buffalo had never had a parsonage and so the committee felt that they should have an apartment for us and then within a year we could have found a house for our residence. While we were at the farm came word from Dr. Eckhert that the apartment which they had rented was being taken back by the owner and they had secured a smaller apartment. We found ourselves beginning our Buffalo years in a very small 3rd floor walk-up apartment at Delaware and Hodge streets, just across from the Crippled Children's Guild. It was very hot August, this was the height (or depth) of the polio epidemic, Maxine was pregnant, we had a 3 year old, and had much of our furniture in storage. It was not a situation that was shaped to inspire courage. But the church was crowded each week, there were invitations from these new friends, and there was hope.
During the early part of June, before we had left Washington, I had received a phone call from Dr. Trexler, the President of the New York and New England Synod. He said he urged me to come to Albany for the convention of the Synod so that I could be received as a member. Otherwise, there couldn't be an official installation until a year had passed. It seemed a silly rule but how to debate that issue. So I came by train to Buffalo, had some meetings with several of the church members, and then took a train to Albany. In the hotel lobby, I saw numbers of delegates arriving and, when I tried to register at the desk, I was told that the hotel had no rooms available. A tall, sandy-haired man standing nearby inquired as to who I was and why I was there. I told him that I was the new Pastor of Holy Trinity, Buffalo. He smiled, saying "I am Pastor Kierkegaard. I have a two-bed room. You are welcome to stay with me." I awoke early the next morning hearing church bells ringing, and I dressed and came downstairs. I saw a church across the street and people hurrying in. I noted that this was the Episcopal Cathedral and I also heard that the occasion was D-Day. The Allied Forces had landed in Normandy and the ground war of Europe involving the Americans had begun. So I came in to kneel and to pray for our world, for our country, for so many who were suffering, and for myself as I tried to minister in these demanding days.
Later that morning I was informed that I was to appear before the Examining Committee, which seemed a strange requirement. As it turned out, there were two of us who were "examined”—Fritz Reinartz, who was beginning his ministry at Holy Trinity in New York, and I at Holy Trinity in Buffalo. The examination was humorous. One of the brothers said, "I hear that you have been welcoming into the church in Washington many young people. You don't anticipate doing that in Buffalo, do you?" I responded, saying that I understood I was to minister to those who were in Buffalo and that I thought they were persons just as the young and the old in Washington. His brief response, "No more questions." So Fritz and I were received. I caught the evening train back to Washington. In late September, Oscar Blackwelder came from Washington to preach the installation sermon and the new chapter had now officially begun.

FOR ALL THAT HAS BEEN—THANKS!