The Journey of an Aging Professor

Introduction Why a Memoir By William J. Rademacher Ph.D. Maybe the world will be enriched by my unique story? Or, maybe the world will be bored to death? Maybe there’s no one out there who gives a hoot? When my pall bearers come, the stampede to Walmart will continue. Life, such as it is, will go on, memoir or no memoir. So a memoir is one continuation of the life of that saving Word. It is a new dawn in the midst of the darkness. Parts of the world may pause to admire this dawn which is indeed new every day. As such, my memoir can be a treasure for those who want to see a new dimension of that Word, ever revealing new sparks of infinity. My poor written words go beyond themselves when they take flesh in my fellow pilgrims. A life with many flaws is still healed by the Word’s many miracles. While the blood-stained cross has been part of my journey, there have been many more Easter alleluias. And it’s always these Easter alleluias that light up my day until the sun knows no setting. Before going any further, it’s time to recall the two major rules for writing a memoir. First, I have to be honest. Being honest is more than just telling the truth. It means trying to be complete and include those parts I would rather omit. This includes my painful relation to my father and my joy and struggle of falling in love. And this leads me into the second rule: to banish the scourge of self-consciousness. This will be tough for an introvert like myself. Even now my counselor is trying hard to get me to be more assertive. It is indeed one way to overcome depression. To my amazement writing a memoir is good medicine for my tendency to escape into a closet of introverts. To have a normal social life one just has to be engaged in all the dynamics of life in the public sphere. The lonely life on the farm and the life of silence in the seminary were powerful factors in building a permanent search for a monastic retreat. But, with the help of my counselor I am determined to move into a more assertive engagement with the world about me. Writing an honest memoir requires uncovering the precious secrets of life. After a memoir those secrets will be secrets no longer. It’s no wonder that St. Augustine called his memoir “Confessions.” It’s a good word to describe all those secrets that are a living part of life’s journey. So, onward we go. Sometimes the struggle continues. So why should anyone pause to read my words, the poor symbols which try to mirror the awesome mystery of one life on this spinning planet? Are the words just words meant to feed the author’s ego? Mere words can’t possibly convey all the feelings, the tears, the blood, the sweat, the joys or the ecstasy of one human journey. The selective memory of an old man will recall only bits and pieces etched in the brain moving through the years. But yet, amazingly, these pieces still carry hints of the broader mystery of life. As such, they have their own value. They are precious. They are so many windows open to the Creator Who walks with all of us humans from sunrise to sundown, from cradle to grave. Even so, my journey has been hard. Often I pray with Francis Thompson: “Ah! Must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?” In the dark valley of despair it’s easy to feel abandoned by the Lord; easy to feel: “Alack, thou knowest not how little worthy of any love thou art! Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee Save Me, save only Me!...Rise, clasp My hand and come!” These last words are the bright rays of an unending dawn. A trumpet blast from the sky! They help me continue my journey in faith and hope, all the while, clinging fast to His hand. The Psalmist said it long ago: O Lord, you have probed me and you know me You know when I sit and when I stand; you understand my thoughts from afar. My journeys and my rest you scrutinize, with all my ways you are familiar. Even before a word is on my tongue, behold, O Lord, you know the whole of it. Behind me and before, you hem me in And rest your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; Too lofty for me to attain. Truly you have formed my inmost being; you knit me in my mother’s womb. I give you thanks that I am fearfully, wonderfully made. Your eyes have seen my actions; in your book they are all written. My days were limited before one of them existed. How weighty are your designs Oh God! how vast the sum of them; If I were to recount them, they would outnumber the sands; did I reach the end of them, I should still be with you. (Psalm 139) So, clasp my hand. We embark on this journey together. Sometimes we lurch. Some times we fly. But onward we go. Our calendars never go backwards! And every dawn is truly a new gift. This planet abounds with created wonder and God’s mysterious presence. At times we are smitten with awe and fall on our knees before the mystery of life. I rejoice that at my age I can still share at least a part of that mystery with my fellow pilgrims.