 Just a moment ago, I pulled a tray of molasses cookies from the oven, and as I write this, their rich aroma fills the house.
In our home, my wife is the cook and baker, and any trip I make into the kitchen for anything other than a snack, is looked upon with no small amount of suspicion from her. But today is different. It’s different for a couple of reasons. First, it’s different because my wife and children are not home. They’re off galavanting in Kalamazoo, priming the pump for the Christmas festivities that will shortly commence. So, like Kevin McCallister, I am home alone, free to traipse into the kitchen with abandon. The second reason — the real reason — is that I miss my friend. Don Greenleaf died one year ago today, just a few days after receiving a cancer diagnosis. He was a good friend, a man generous with his myriad talents: gardening, growing flowers, refinishing furniture, baking, playing the piano and organ. As I think back on it, I cannot recall a time when I did not know who Don Greenleaf was. Growing up in a small town, I always knew Don as the man with the big, blue Buick Electra 225, a vehicle he bought brand new, back in 1973, with my grandfather’s guidance. He was the pianist at countless weddings, the organist at as many funerals. In fact, the sound I associated with him was the tremulous sound of the funeral home’s Hammond B3 organ. I do not know how, exactly, Don and I became friends. I suppose it was the combination of our shared appreciation for those things some call “vintage” — fountain pens, classic cars, handwritten letters, nice furniture — and our brotherhood in the Lord that did it. By the time we became friends, I was living out west and he was in Cass City. We spoke on the phone once or twice a week, at which time he would usually have a story or two to tell about the town’s past. That was a remarkable thing about Don: owing to his having worked at a local bank and having played at the bulk of the town’s weddings and funerals for some 50 years, he knew virtually everyone in the village. In fact, during one visit back to Cass City, I drove Don up and down several of the town’s streets. Randomly, I would point to a house and ask Don to tell me something about it, and he could! Lest you think ours was a one-way friendship, I must say that one of my thrills was hearing the amazement in Don’s voice when I found an obscure gospel record album on eBay for him, or when I could, with just a few taps and swipes, bring up a particular seed company’s contact information. Only in those moments did I sense the age gap between us. With few exceptions, I never felt the sense of warmth and welcome so keenly as I did when I walked through the door to Don Greenleaf’s home. Built some time in the late 1800s, the house always smelled like the freshly baked something or other he was about to pull from the oven. At what would be our last visit together at Don’s home, my wife and I walked into a kitchen filled with the smell of homemade bread. Though our visit had been unexpected, Don cheerily seated us in the living room, where he served us thick slices of hot bread, a smear of butter melting on top, and then played our requests on the piano. The smell that takes me back to Don’s house in an instant, however, is the smell of his molasses cookies. As far as I can tell, there is nothing particularly unique about his recipe; but when I woke up this morning with Don on my mind, I knew that only his recipe would do. I dug through the recipe box and found the card Don had typed up for me (on his typewriter, no less). I measured out the spices, flour, and sugar, cracked the egg, added the oil, mixed it together, formed the cookies into balls, and put them in the oven. Ten minutes passed, and the timer beeped. I pulled the cookies from the oven. A few minutes later, a glass of almond milk in hand, I took a bite of a warm cookie. Thank you for Don, Lord, I thought silently. There, in that moment, was the Good News in miniature form: the bitterness that comes with the loss of a friend combined with the sweetness of Jesus’ promise that “he who hears My word and believes in Him who sent Me has everlasting life, and shall not come into judgment, but has passed from death into life” (John 5:24). I am thankful for that consolation and for the reminder of it, thanks to a batch of molasses cookies.
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 Yesterday, here in the United States, we celebrated the 247th anniversary of our nation’s founding. My family and I attended a small town 4th of July parade, with firetrucks and veterans and parade floats of all kinds—the quintessential way to honor our nation’s birth.
Lately, I have been thinking much about the United States, particularly what has made it great. Leading up to Memorial Day, I wanted to enter into the commemoration of that event by gaining a better understanding of the sacrifice so many men and women have made and continue to make to secure our freedoms, so I watched Ken Burns’ masterful multi-episode documentary on the Second World War, simply entitled "The War." That documentary led me to Tom Brokaw’s 1998 book, The Greatest Generation, a book I highly recommend. It features stories of men and women, who came of age during the Great Depression and the War years. Both Burns’ documentary and Brokaw’s book had a proud effect on me. I was struck by the way the nation came together at that time to fight a common foe. Things were not perfect—Americans of African, Japanese, and Mexican descent were treated unjustly, in many instances; but they all pitched in to fight injustice overseas before returning home to fight injustice here. Then, I moved on to the works of one of my favorite writers, David McCullough. (He’s known for being an historian, but he’s really a writer first). His book Brave Companions highlights the lives of Americans, of various degrees of fame, who nonetheless made America a better place to live because of their particular contributions to the life of the nation. The sum total of all these things—the documentary and two books—the sum total of how I felt about them, how I feel about them now, is two-fold: I feel a tremendous pride in my nation—in what our people have accomplished, in how America and Americans have changed the world for good, in our legacy and the rich heritage that is every American’s. But I also feel a sort of depression, because as I look at America’s past and compare it to America’s recent past and present, it seems like a totally different place. The legislation we have enacted, the attitude of our people toward American institutions and the country itself—it all seems contrary to the nation of the past, the ideals we champion. And then there is the matter of being a dispensationalist. I am one, and I hope you are, too. As a Christian, I have an extremely dim view of human nature, and as a dispensationalist I have an only slightly less dim view of the Church’s ability to transform society. Indeed, that is not our job. Rather, our job is to go into all the world and to make disciples of every nation. But as a dispensationalist, I also recognize that the only ethnic people or country that stars in God’s story of redemption is Israel. Despite what some T.V. preachers may say, I see no shining role for the United States in Scripture. In spite of our grand history and historic friendship to the Jewish people, we are counted among the goyim—the nations—those who rage against the LORD and against His anointed (Psalm 2). So, as Christian Americans, what should be our attitude toward our country? I’d like to suggest that the Scriptures teach 4 primary responses the believer should have as it concerns patriotism… Thank God for Your Nation As Christians, we believe in the sovereignty of God. He makes no mistakes and He orchestrates all things to conform to His will. In Ephesians 1:11, Paul reminds us that God is the One “who works all things after the counsel of His will.” It is no mistake that we live where we do, when we do. No matter where we live, then, we can thank God that He caused us to be citizens of our particular nation; and we should thank Him for our nation. This does not mean that we enjoy all of the aspects of the place where we live, especially as it concerns policies and practices the governments enact or support. But Romans 13 reminds us that the governments we have are given to us as a gift from God to restrain evil: 13 Let every soul be subject to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God, and the authorities that exist are appointed by God. 2 Therefore whoever resists the authority resists the ordinance of God, and those who resist will bring judgment on themselves. 3 For rulers are not a terror to good works, but to evil. Do you want to be unafraid of the authority? Do what is good, and you will have praise from the same. 4 For he is God’s minister to you for good. But if you do evil, be afraid; for he does not bear the sword in vain; for he is God’s minister, an avenger to execute wrath on him who practices evil. 5 Therefore you must be subject, not only because of wrath but also for conscience’ sake. 6 For because of this you also pay taxes, for they are God’s ministers attending continually to this very thing. 7 Render therefore to all their due: taxes to whom taxes are due, customs to whom customs, fear to whom fear, honor to whom honor. All of our governments are imperfect—some more than others. But we can thank God for giving them to us to restrain evil, and we can ask Him to help us to graciously submit ourselves to the authorities over us. In Christian circles, it is easy (and is often the norm) to bemoan the problems we see in our nation. We would do well to spend as much time reminding each other of the blessings we have in our particular countries and thanking God for placing us there, in His sovereignty. Seek the Welfare of Your Nation When God sent Israel into the Babylonian Captivity, God had Jeremiah write to the exiles a letter of encouragement (Jer. 29:4-7)-- 4 Thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel, to all who were carried away captive, whom I have caused to be carried away from Jerusalem to Babylon: 5 Build houses and dwell in them; plant gardens and eat their fruit. 6 Take wives and beget sons and daughters; and take wives for your sons and give your daughters to husbands, so that they may bear sons and daughters—that you may be increased there, and not diminished. 7 And seek the peace of the city where I have caused you to be carried away captive, and pray to the Lord for it; for in its peace you will have peace. This, of course, was given to Israel, not the Church. But the principle applies to believers today and is reiterated in 1 Timothy 2-- 1 Therefore I exhort first of all that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and giving of thanks be made for all men, 2 for kings and all who are in authority, that we may lead a quiet and peaceable life in all godliness and reverence. 3 For this is good and acceptable in the sight of God our Savior, 4 who desires all men to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth. As believers, we are to seek the welfare of our nation by praying and giving thanks for our leaders— “for kings and all who are in authority”. Why should we pray for these people? First, so “that we may lead a quiet and peaceable life in all godliness and reverence.” Persecution, not Western freedom, has been the norm for Christians throughout history. But all of them have had as their goal a quiet and peaceable life lived in godliness and reverence. This is strikingly similar to God’s description of what exilic life was to be for the Jewish people during the Captivity. Second, it is because God “desires all men to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth.” The example of believers, who seek the welfare of their nation will be a testimony to the unsaved world. Christians ought to be the best citizens a nation has. This might mean that we:
Many of my Jewish friends pray for the nation’s leaders and our government each Shabbat. In the Talmud, Rabbi Chanina teaches: “Pray for the welfare of the government, for were it not for the fear it inspires, every man would swallow his neighbor alive.” As I just read from 1 Timothy 2, God commands believers in the Lord Jesus Christ to pray for our nation’s leaders. In 1 Peter, too, we are commanded to honor our government and its leaders-- 2:13 Therefore submit yourselves to every ordinance of man for the Lord’s sake, whether to the king as supreme, 14 or to governors, as to those who are sent by him for the punishment of evildoers and for the praise of those who do good. 15 For this is the will of God, that by doing good you may put to silence the ignorance of foolish men— 16 as free, yet not using liberty as a cloak for vice, but as bondservants of God. 17 Honor all people. Love the brotherhood. Fear God. Honor the king. What might we pray for our leaders?
34 And at the end of the time [of insanity] I, Nebuchadnezzar, lifted my eyes to heaven, and my understanding returned to me; and I blessed the Most High and praised and honored Him who lives forever: For His dominion is an everlasting dominion, And His kingdom is from generation to generation. 35 All the inhabitants of the earth are reputed as nothing; He does according to His will in the army of heaven And among the inhabitants of the earth. No one can restrain His hand Or say to Him, “What have You done?” 36 At the same time my reason returned to me, and for the glory of my kingdom, my honor and splendor returned to me. My counselors and nobles resorted to me, I was restored to my kingdom, and excellent majesty was added to me. 37 Now I, Nebuchadnezzar, praise and extol and honor the King of heaven, all of whose works are truth, and His ways justice. And those who walk in pride He is able to put down. The Lord is able to save all people, even our political leaders. In The Preacher and the Presidents, Nancy Gibbs and Michael Duffy write about the ministry Billy Graham had to the nation’s presidents, from Harry Truman to George W. Bush. Some of these men, including President Lyndon B. Johnson, placed their trust in Christ, because of Billy Graham’s witness. Look For A City At the end of the day, though, we must remember that America is not our eternal home. In Hebrews 11, God tells us that Abraham, to whom God gave the promised land, looked ultimately to the future-- 8 By faith Abraham obeyed when he was called to go out to the place which he would receive as an inheritance. And he went out, not knowing where he was going. 9 By faith he dwelt in the land of promise as in a foreign country, dwelling in tents with Isaac and Jacob, the heirs with him of the same promise; 10 for he waited for the city which has foundations, whose builder and maker is God. This is our calling, too. Yes, we should thank God for our nation. Yes, we should seek our nation’s welfare. Yes, we should pray for our nation’s leaders. We should celebrate our nation’s victories and the complex, often beautiful, histories we have. Our hope, however, must never be in the survival and welfare of our nations. Our walk with the Lord must never be tied up with our national identity and patriotism. That is idolatry. Rather, we, like Abraham, should be waiting “for the city which has foundations, whose builder and maker is God.” With that as our ultimate destination, patriotism, here on Earth, will fall into place and will help us to become better citizens and ambassadors for Him.  Last week, when I received word that Grandma’s health was declining rapidly, I began thinking about the past 29 years I have known her. As the sixth of her ten grandchildren, I have many fond memories of family get-togethers at the little house on Hazel Street--of swimming in the pool on hot summer days; feasting on egg salad sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies; warm fall afternoons spent under the maple tree in the front yard, listening to the hoots and cackles of my aunts retelling stories of their youth… usually at Grandma’s expense; the coziness I felt cocooned inside the house on frigid Christmas Days, as I played with my cousins in Grandpa’s den, the rhythmic snores of our fathers, napping deeply, reverberating throughout the house. As I reflected on these things, I realized that my 14-month-old daughter, Lottie, will have no memory of her great-grandmother. So, I started thinking through things I will one day tell her about Grandma Quick... I’ll tell her about Grandma’s sense of humor, about her infectious laugh, that deep, rich laugh, always accompanied by her raising her hands to her mouth, as if that would somehow suppress the laughter, which it never did. I’ll tell her about the day, after church, when a bird pooped on Grandma, and her indignant response, “They sing for everybody else!” I’ll tell her about Grandma’s ice cream addiction. I remember the Saturday afternoon when my parents decided to take Grandpa and Grandma, and my sister and me up to Grandpa Quick’s boyhood stomping grounds in Barryton, Michigan. My grandmother was no fan of trips to Barryton, mostly, I think, because she never thought it quite as sophisticated as the metropolis of Vassar. But to make matters worse, it rained that day...hard. And if there was anything Grandma disliked more than a trek to Barryton, it was gloomy weather. Near the end of the trip, though, after stopping at the dilapidated ruins of Grandpa’s childhood house and the site where his one-room school once stood, my dad offered an olive branch to Grandma. “Mom,” he said, “do you want to stop for an ice cream cone?” At that moment, at least for Grandma, the skies turned to a brilliant hue of blue, birds began singing, and the sun warmed everything it touched, even Barryton. Ice cream. Just the words, I think, caused Grandma’s heart to skip a beat and a smile to stretch across her face. Come to think of it, many of the stories I have to tell Lottie about her great-grandmother involve ice cream. We had, as a family, a kind of ritual with Grandma that took place after every meal. “Grandma,” we’d say, “do you want a bowl of ice cream?” “No...no,” she’d say, her nose wrinkled in an I-don’t-want-ice-cream-It-has-no-power-on-me kind of look. “Are you sure?” we’d say. “We have chocolate syrup.” (As if we would ever think of having Grandma Quick over for dinner without a fresh bottle of Hershey’s in the refrigerator!) “Oh...well…” she’d say in mock indifference. “Maybe just a little.” As Dad scooped the ice cream, drizzled on the syrup and handed it to her, out would come her innocent reply, “Oh, maybe just a little more.” Yes, I have many stories to tell my daughter about her Great-Grandma Quick. But as memorable and as funny as these stories about family get-togethers, her sense of humor and her love of a Hershey’s-drenched bowl of ice cream may be, there’s something far more important about my grandmother that I want to share with my daughter, and with you… My grandmother was a success. Many of you have known Marilyn Quick for a long time, and you likely know about many of the challenges and heartbreaks she faced during her 90 years. You may know that her first husband, Richard, died in 1966, leaving her with four young daughters to care for on her own. You may know that, for several years, she struggled as a single mom to put food on the table for her family. You may know that she lost her beloved father, tragically. You may know that a devastating flood destroyed her home in the 1980s. You may know that her heart was broken by the death of her daughter Jeanette. You may know that she lost her second husband, Henry, several years ago; and that she has had more than her fair share of health problems these past few years. Admittedly, none of these things qualifies my grandmother as a success. On the contrary, if you were to evaluate her life on just these things, you might assume that she had an inordinate number of challenges throughout her life that kept her from living what many might deem a life of success. But despite these difficult things, Marilyn Quick was a success. Although she never went to college, and she didn’t have a wall plastered with degrees or a bank account flush with cash, Grandma was a success, because as a young woman, she made the single most important decision of her life: she placed her trust in the Lord Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of her sin. You see, Grandma believed what the Bible says so clearly… She believed that she was a sinner. She believed what God says in His Word, that “all have sinned and come short of the glory of God” (Rom. 3:23). Even with all her good deeds and sweet ways, Grandma understood that she was, by nature, a sinner, and that she did not measure up to God’s standard of holiness and righteousness. She believed that sin has a penalty. In Romans 6:23, God says, “...the wages of sin is death”. That means that the judgement for sinning against God is not only physical death, but eternal separation from God forever in a place called Hell. But Grandma also believed--and this is the most important thing of all--that there was Good News: Yes, “the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Jesus Christ our Lord”. As a young woman, my grandma understood the message of John 3:16--That God loved the world so much that He gave His one and only Son, Jesus, to die on the cross to take the penalty of my sin and Grandma’s sin and your sin upon Himself, and that whoever believes in Him will not perish, but have everlasting life. Although it is not possible, if my grandma could say one thing to you today, it would be this: Put your trust for salvation in Christ alone today. Admit to Him that you are-- like Grandma, like me, like everyone in this room and in this world--a sinner against God. Repent, putting your trust in what Jesus, the Son of God, did for you by shedding His blood and dying on the cross as the final payment for your sin. That’s it. Being saved from sin is not about going to church or being baptized or doing good deeds, although those are all good things. Being saved from sin is about trusting the in the payment Jesus made on your behalf. It’s been said--and rightly so, I think--that funerals are not for the dead, but for the living. As much as Grandma loved each one of us, she’s not concerned at all about what’s going on here right now. She’s with the Lord now. But we are here. And one day, we, too, will face God. And the question He may ask is not Were you a good person? Did you go to church every week? Did your good deeds outweigh the bad? His question will be: What did you do with My Son? Did you receive the free gift of salvation He offered to you? Or did you turn it down? That’s the most important decision you will ever make. And I can think of no better tribute to my grandmother than to settle that question today, at her funeral, by receiving Jesus Christ as your personal Savior.   The word which bids confusion cease
And answers the pleas of a lost generation, That worships at the feet of Scoff and Reason, The gods of the age. That little word, the enemy it shall fell, That sets the mad in their right minds And opens the ears and the eyes Of the deaf and blind. That word which dispels the black night And stands firm after the towers crumble And the dust billows roil the morning sky And the creation groans under the curse. No word offers more hope in an age fertile in death Than that which bids the sorrows cease, The word that stops the torrents and waves With one hand lifted in authoritative calm But. I weep in the dark hours of the night,
Presently aware of your absence. I sometimes wish I did not believe What I do believe and must believe: That you were, that you are a who, not an it or an if. How can joy be bundled, Wrapped up in one so infinitesimally small? Formed, yet unformed? Given, yet taken? But my eyes well not from this knowledge, They spring, yes, from bittersweet. You, whose face I have never seen, Whose hand I have not held, See what I long for and dream of. You have touched the hand of the One I love without sight. You are unknown, yet known so well. Though once aimless and searching,
Though he once smiled, while he ached, He is home. Though once enamored with man’s approval, Though applause was his pursuit, He is alive to One. Though scars still stain his leathered skin, Though his nostrils can still smell ash, He is cleansed. Though once enslaved and shackled, Though once bound by chains of self, He is free. He is cool, suave, and collected.
A million bucks. Dressed to kill. He’s admired on the sidewalk. “Confident!” “Charming man!” He smells of things that sparkle Lavish things, valuables. His skin is bronze and glowing. Fog machine, looking glass He laughs so debonairly. Warning sign, “Don’t come near” He is good, and they all know it. White-washed, sepulcher He shines in his arena. It’s not true; lost control His home is so inviting. Titanic chairs, cotton sweets He surely has all the answers. Anchor gone, puff of smoke He flinches for a moment Could it be? Heavy heart. He ponders and he paces Palpitate. Beading brow. His nostrils flare, intaking Putrid smells, bile fumes He hears, but black engulfs him. Stifling breath, hot and dense His senses dead and thriving. Burning throat, taste of ash He chokes inwardly in torment. Wretched man. Farewell to hope. His chains are self-inflicted. Rotting flesh. Oozing sores. His fetters locked securely This is it, nothing more. His bloodied slave block claims him. Worthless man, fit to die. His tears stream bitterly from him. “I am lost! No hope is found!” He hangs his head, defeated. His bed is made. The die is cast. “Oh, God!” he cries out madly. “Rescue me! The end I’ve found!”  It’s a warm summer day in Las Vegas, but the heat is set at 80 degrees inside his house. Clad in his light blue, button-down pajamas, a gold Torah scroll on a chain hanging from his neck, he sits back in his deep, black leather sofa. On the coffee table in front of him is a glass of Coke, a landline phone, cell phone, medications, and a calendar marked with dates with doctors. He carefully lifts the Coke from the table and takes a sip through his bendy straw. He prepares to go back in time. “We were very poor, and luckily I had a loving family,” he says. “We never went to bed without getting a kiss from my mother. And that’s what I remember from early days. Marton Ackerman was born in Mexico to two Jewish Hungarian parents in 1929. His parents split up when he was very young, his father staying in Mexico, while his mother took her three children and went back to Hungary. When Hitler invaded Hungary in March 1944, Marton was 14 years old. “The place where we lived was a huge building with apartments in it. We were on the second floor. On the first floor was the temple, a Jewish shul. We lived in 3-bedroom house, 3-½, I think. ...it was a tenement.” Marton lived in that building--Kiraly Street 6--with his mother, older brother, younger sister, maternal grandmother, and two aunts. “My mother and all of my aunts worked [for] a textile factory repairing the bad parts of the whole sheet of material. They would bring it to us, and I remember that the living room was almost up in the ceiling with textiles, and we kids used to go up on a top and--” He makes a sliding sound with his mouth, as he demonstrates with his hand how they would slide down the stack of cloth. Sitting on the couch in his Las Vegas home, Marton stares down at the coffee table in front of him, looking through it to a distant time and place. “I had a happy childhood for awhile,” he says with a smile that doesn’t make it from one side of his mouth to the other. Indeed, Marton’s childhood years were marbled with moments of beauty and tragedy. He played in the streets of Pest, the poorer half of Budapest. He sang in a choir at the synagogue with his boyhood friend, Tibi. He fished from the banks of the Danube River and brought his catches home for his mother to fry. “The non-Jewish friends that I had way back, I never went to school with them, but we gathered together in the park and we played together...football or climbing the hills of Buda,” he tells me, smiling as he talks. “And they were okay with me, you know. But when this started, I think it was...well, antisemitism always was there, but it got worse.” For Marton, rumblings of the persecution Hungarian Jewry would eventually experience began years before the Nazis occupied his homeland. “[Young people] were trying to spying on us when we were getting out of our school,” he says. “I remember the stores in Budapest had metal curtains they would pull down over the windows. The only reason I remember them is because the...young people would shove me into them and my head would hit the metal.” Marton endured these “beatings”, as he calls them, while the young people, students of a local Catholic school, threw racial and religious slurs at him, calling him “dirty Jew” and other names. Although Marton, now 90, cannot remember the exact year when these things happened, he does know that it was shortly after these beatings that he dropped out of the 8th grade, due to the family’s financial difficulties. “I went as an apprentice to a furrier, where they made fur coats and all that,” he says. “It was at that time that they started to deport the older Jews. They sent them to work camps and some of them to concentration camps. But my family, we were okay for another year.” On April 5, 1944, the decree was made that all Hungarian Jews were to wear a yellow star of David on their clothing. Marton remembers that time. “We had to wear yellow stars,” he says. “We were restricted on what time we could go out and when we couldn’t. But in the building there were quite a few Jewish kids, and--stupid us--we decided to take off our yellow stars and go to the movies. We sneaked in, because no one had money. But there were always ways for kids to get into the movies.” Life for the Ackerman family changed drastically in the fall of 1944. On November 29, the Royal Hungarian Government ordered all Jews to leave their homes and to move into the newly formed ghetto. “Well, they just came in, you know,” he tells me of the morning Nazi officials came to his family’s apartment. He stares at the fireplace across the room from where he is sitting. “They didn’t ask us permission. And not just our [apartment], but everybody who was Jewish there. And evidently they knew who was [Jewish], because there were other people [living there], too; not just Jews.” Before moving into the ghetto, the Ackerman family was first taken to a horse racing track, where the men and women were divided into two groups. “My brother and I went to one side and the other part of my family went on the other side,” he says. “This was the first time I was away from my mother.” At the race track, 15-year-old Marton encountered the complexities of human nature and of the war, in particular. After being ordered to hand over his wallet by a member of the Arrow Cross Party--a Nazi-backed, Hungarian political group--something strange happened. “I gave him my wallet that had only my Mexican birth certificate and a picture of the Belzy Rebbe that my grandmother gave me,” Marton tells me. “I told him it was my grandfather. He gave me back my wallet with the birth certificate and the picture. Surprisingly, this man gave me 100 pengő. It was a big sum at that time for me, at least. I never seen a 100 pengő. He said, ‘Good health. Good luck’. To this day, I do not know why he did that, but it helped me survive the war. I later used it to buy apples and potatoes from the farmers.” Marton and his brother, Gene, along with many of the other Jewish males, were moved from the race track to a brick yard, and then eventually from the brickyard to the ghetto. In the ghetto, they were put to work doing hard manual labor. “Incredibly, we were once out working on a house, demolishing it, getting the dangerous things off of the top,” he says as he lifts his glass of Coke off of the coffee table and takes a drink. “When we finished that work, we came down and we could hear the sirens, meaning it was an air raid. You won’t believe this, a bomb fell down just a short distance from where I was.” When the bomb hit the ground, he saw it bounce into the air. When it came back down, it detonated upon impact with the cobblestone street, sending his brother flying through the air and through the display window of a nearby store. The explosion forced Marton violently to the ground. Metal shrapnel hurtled through the dust-laden air, one piece embedding itself into the back of his scalp, another piece lodged in his earlobe, where it remains to this day. “It was chaos,” he says. “I don’t know where the guard was, but...lots of people died there, and when I woke up from the blast, first thing I saw was a man’s leg away from his body. And the guy pleading, ‘Everybody, please help me!’” Miraculously, Gene was unharmed by his crash through the display window, but Marton was injured by the shrapnel. “A young Nazi grabbed me and took me someplace where they couldn’t see us,” he says. “And he had a satchel on, I don’t know what you call it, and he took out a bottle of liquor. And gave me a shot. He felt sorry for me, I guess.” Surprised by the kindness of the Nazi, Marton and his brother began searching the streets for someone to help stop the bleeding from Marton’s head. “So we went to the Red Cross,” he says, “and believe it or not, the Red Cross refused to tend to me because I was Jewish. The Red Cross center was supposed to be an international place, but they would not accept this Jewish kid.” He slowly shakes his head. “They never did apologize for not taking in the Jews during the war.” With the Red Cross refusing to help Marton, the brothers began their search for someone who would. “[We] walked the streets until we found another doctor who accepted me,” he says. The Hungarian doctor showed compassion to the young man. “I was bleeding profusely. He cleaned me up and put a clamp on my skull. He said, ‘I’m going to make you a turban. You don’t need it, but maybe it’ll save you from going to work up on the buildings, and maybe they’ll start treating you right’.” News of the advancing Russian Army motivated the Arrow Cross to march their prisoners to Germany, where they would be used as forced labor to help the rapidly declining war effort for the Nazis. “We walked and walked,” Marton tells me. “And if you couldn’t walk anymore, you were shot. I saw it with my own eyes. They shot an old man. He didn't fall down. He just slumped to his knees. He was dead. I don’t know how many they killed that time, but the march went on.” This “death march”, as it was called, continued its bloody and merciless journey, until one day a motorcycle pulled up alongside the ragged band of marching prisoners. “A messenger on a motorcycle stopped the column,” he says. “Then he asked if there was any foreign born in the column, or something to that effect.” Marton and Gene, as Mexican citizens, made the decision to step forward. “We were in shock, and we didn’t know if they picked us to kill us right there,” he says. “But the situation was bad, and many times you wanted to die. We didn’t know what was going to happen, but as I told you, it didn’t make any sense to live like that.” It turned out that the Ackerman brothers’ decision to step forward probably saved their lives from almost certain death, either on the march or in Germany. Those who had foreign passports were sent back to the ghetto, where they were put to work again. Unbeknownst to Marton and Gene, while they were working in the ghetto, Swedish diplomat Raoul Wallenberg was working to establish more than 30 safe houses in the ghetto for Jews with certificates of protection from neutral nations. “In December,” Marton tells me, “somebody came to the ghetto and told me that my Aunt Lenke was taken to Auschwitz, and my Aunt Malvin, Grandmother, Mother, and sister Piroska were living in a safe house. If I wanted, he would help me and my brother to escape from the ghetto and take us to the safe house.” The brothers readily agreed. Living in the ghetto was a young man, whom Marton refers to as “this smart kid”, who advised the brothers that an escape from the ghetto would require them to clean themselves up, so as not to appear like prisoners. “That day,” he says, “my brother, this guy, and I walked straight, like we knew what we were doing. We just went ‘Heil Hitler!’, while looking stern, and they let us out.” Marton and Gene were reunited with their family at the safe house, where they lived for the duration of the war. Budapest was liberated by the Soviets on February 13, 1945. Although the traumatic events of the Holocaust Marton endured are nearly 8 decades in the past, the memories of those days are fresh in his mind. “I still have nightmares about it. I wake up screaming,” he says. He adjusts his position on the couch and looks at me. He sighs. “So I don’t know. It was bad times, and I don’t like to think about it, you know. It hurts, even after so many years.” Despite these haunting memories, Marton carries with him an indomitable happiness. “We are all human beings,” he says. “And always smile. I survived the Holocaust, and yet I smile.”   “God causes things to happen in our lives that are only known to Him. It is for us to acknowledge that it is His working and ours to follow it through. Our times are in His hands and we can thank God they are.” –Frank Morris (Originally published on April 22, 2014) Three weeks ago, I made a quick trip to London, Ontario to visit Frank Morris, a 95-year-old man who has been both a friend and mentor to me for the past decade. He had been moved from his home to an assisted living facility. During the drive to Canada, I thought about this man who had been such an encouragement to me and to others, now suffering from dementia. Will he know who I am? I thought to myself. Will we be able to have meaningful conversation, as we used to? These thoughts continued as a nurse led me down the hall to his room. I knocked lightly, as I entered the softly lit room. There on the bed was the frail form of my dear friend, a bit confused, but smiling nonetheless. “Hi, Frank,” I said, doubting he would recognize me. “Well, hello, Tyler,” he said, as if he had been expecting me. I was overjoyed. Throughout our hour-long visit, very little was said. He told me, several times, that he was confused about where he was. Each time, his wife gently reminded him that he was in a good place where he was being taken care of very well. As I sat there, thumbing through a book of old photographs–sepia tone glimpses into Frank’s past–my mind traveled to the wise pieces of advice he had shared with me throughout the years. “Humility is one of the greatest character traits one can have…” “Never let intellectualism snuff out your love for the Lord…” “Throughout your life, you will have many successes and ‘also-rans’. Take them all in stride and thank God for all of them…” The words echoed in my mind. “Frank,” I said to him, “do you ever think about Heaven?” His eyes were closed, but he gave a resolute nod. “Yes.” “Are you ready to go?” “Yes.” “Is there anyone there you want to see?” At this, he looked at me with a big smile. “Yes!” he said. Before I left, we took a couple of pictures of the two of us, and one of he and his wife. I gave Frank a hug, knowing it would be the last I would give him this side of Heaven. “Frank,” I said, “I’m not going to see you for a little while. But I will see you again later. Alright?” “Ok, Tyler. Ok,” he said. Six days later, I received a message from a mutual friend: “Frank passed away this morning.” Even though I have the promise of God’s Word that those who have trusted in Christ as their Savior are with the Lord, I cried and cried, feeling a void–-one less good man on the earth. No more phone calls. No more time-tested wisdom. No more letters encouraging me to stay close to Christ and His Word. But I am thankful. I am thankful I had the opportunity to say "goodbye for now". I am grateful that Frank’s funeral service was exactly what he would have wanted—a time of worship to the Lord. I am thankful that I had the opportunity to meet the children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren he cared so much for. Most importantly, however, I am thankful for the example of a life well lived, because it was lived for Jesus Christ.   I was probably sleeping the first time I visited Rawson Memorial Library. My parents began taking me there when I was an infant. In fact, my dad often took me to the library with him after dinner to give my mother a respite. He put me in my carrier behind the circulation desk, where Marge and Geneva, the library clerks, watched me while Dad perused the stacks.
My mom incorporated trips to the library into our weekly routine when I was a little older. During the summertime, she took me to Story Hour. (I can still remember sitting on Mrs. Elliot’s lap, listening to a story and eating my lime green Jell-o Jiggler). And one winter, we went to meet Mrs. Claus, who read The Night Before Christmas to our group of wiggling preschoolers. No matter what time of the year we visited the library, though, there were two books I checked out alternately on repeat--Barbara Bottner’s Bootsie Barker Bites and Ira Sleeps Over by Bernard Waber. My mother read these books to me so often that she had them memorized. (Incidentally, a few years ago the library discarded the copy of Ira Sleeps Over I used to check out as a boy, and I purchased it. It now is on my daughter’s bookshelf). A visit to the library was more than a trip, it was an experience. There was the sweet fragrance that accompanies a literary atmosphere, an aroma of paper and book glue; the sound of computer keys clacking and the soothing cadence of mothers reading to their children; the sights of brightly-colored books and artwork on the walls. A trip to the library employed all of the senses. As I grew older, my view of the library changed. Whereas I once saw it as a place for me, I grew to understand it to be a place for the community as a whole. This change undoubtedly took place when I was in my early teens. I had developed an interest in the history of the Cass City community and spent a significant portion of my free time doing research. Kate, the library director, invited me to access the archives at the library, which consisted of hundreds of old photographs and documents pertaining to the village’s past. From then on, I lived at the library. A couple of years later, after arriving home from school one afternoon, my mom said that Kate wanted to talk to me. “She would like you to apply for the library page position,” she said. “You can stop by an fill out an application.” It seems ridiculous now, but my initial reaction at the time was one of fear. I feared the teasing I would get at school for working at a library, especially for being the only male on staff. I was already ribbed by some of my friends for being bookish. Now they would have even more ammunition for their good natured, but irksome jabs. And wouldn’t working at a library be boring? “I think you should do it,” my mom said. “You already spend most of your time there. You will enjoy it.” Shortly after this conversation with my mom, I applied for the job and was hired. Those first couple of days on the job, when kids from my class came into the library, I ducked into the stacks. They’ll think I’m a nerd, I thought to myself. Soon enough, though, I decided not to care what others thought of me. Working at the library was a respectable job, one that suited me perfectly, and it was far from boring. Of course, I knew the library well because of our frequent visits when I was a boy; and I knew many of the patrons who came in. It didn’t take long before I admitted to myself that not only did I not mind working at the library, I loved it! In some communities, the local library is merely an information center. But in Cass City, the library is much more, it’s a gathering place, the hub of the community. It is a democratic institution, a place where socio-economic status is neither a benefit nor a detriment. Rawson Memorial is a place where, at any given time, a retired educator may be found tutoring a child, or where a pastor’s wife is teaching an elderly man how to read. At the same time, the Pinney Meeting Room may be hosting a gathering of the historical society or the Women’s Christian Temperance Union or the Girl Scouts. At the opposite end of the building one may find a lifelong bachelor reading the county newspaper, or neighbors standing in front of the Stephen King novels, catching up on the latest happenings from their block. Sitting at a table by the window, one may see a grandmother with her granddaughter making contributions to the communal jigsaw puzzle before going home for lunch. In the center of the library is the circulation desk, the anchor of the building. Here, friendly staff members not only assist patrons with checking out materials, but also with web searches for directions to the Detroit airport, faxes to the unemployment office, and photocopies of magazine clippings to be sent through the mail to friends. From time to time, the high school band has their bakesale in the lobby to raise funds for new uniforms or instruments. The Friends of the Library hosts their “Better Books Sale” near the circulation desk, a smattering of Janet Evanovich and James Patterson novels marked down to can’t-beat prices. When I worked at the library, one of my favorite events was when former residents, or the families of former residents, stopped by for a visit. Often they wanted information on where so-and-so lived or was buried, conversations that started as sterile inquiries and ended with warm smiles and friendly handshakes. From time to time, a bereaved widow or widower brought a box of their spouse’s used books to be sold at the annual summer book sale. “Cleaning out the house is therapeutic,” they often said. Sometimes happy news was brought into the library, too. “I got the job!” or “My daughter had her baby!” were always welcome announcements. Rawson Memorial Library was, and continues to be, a singular place; and I, for one, am thankful that such places exist. As one person aptly put it, “The only thing that you absolutely have to know is the location of the library.” I couldn’t agree more. |
AuthorTy Perry is a writer and blogger living in metro Detroit. Archives
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