The Mysterious Isle of Iona

In 563, an Irish monk named Columba sailed in a primitive coricle from Ireland, and set foot on a one by three mile isle of Iona, Scotland. Its east side is located across the Iona Sound from the much greater Isle of Mull. The western side faces the Atlantic Ocean. If you cast off from Iona and head west, you make landfall 2,300 miles on Newfoundland.

Columba brought 12 companions with him. He did not know Iona existed. He let God guide him. Soon they constructed a monistary. Columba's mission was to bring Christianity to Northern Scotland. He method of evangelization was to approach the pre-Christian tribes with kindness and respect. 

Meanwhile in the South which become known as England, Christianity was established from Rome. Columba was formed by Irish Christianity where the monastery was the local organization for teaching, lifestyle, and fostering relaionships. 

Roman Christianity was influenced by a hierachical system begining with the pope, then bishops, then priests. The clergy were the ultimate authorities in Christian doctrine and theology. To be a Roman Christian meant that you obeyed the clergy. The common people were taught to Bible with an interpretation that was handed down by the clergy. 

The Romans evangelized by force, and threat of hell.

Celtic Christianty emerged in Ireland, Scotland, Wales, and Northern England where the Roman Empire did not reach them. Their influence stopped at the Hadrian Wall.

The Celtic monk's evangelized by building relationships. They would build 

                        Under construction

Playing Between the Notes

A letter to Miss Hailey, my English Teacher at Lakeland Senior High School

 Fall, 1995

 I hope that this letter finds you healthy and full of energy. Please do not assume that, just because I’m in college, I punctuate every sentences correctly, and that all my sentences have direction.  Give me a few more years of college to become an eloquent writer.

 UF is fabulous!  I’m learning so much in so little time.  This past summer I was a camp counselor at the Methodist camp in Leesburg and since then, I have done a lot of soul-searching.  College is a wonderful place to get to know yourself better.  It has been a time for me, to set up my own personal schedule.  I have found that I work constantly.  I wake up an hour and a half before my first class to practice.  Then I practice between classes.  I eat only two meals a day and I sleep seven hours a night.  I work on book homework late into the night and then relax for about an hour in front of the TV before I go to sleep.  My body has become extremely efficient because I love all that I am doing.  

 I’m taking English 1101 here at Gainesville.  I was blessed again with a wonderful teacher.  I love a lot of the things about his teaching, but one thing in particular is that he does not limit our expression of words.  For example, if we feel inclined to emphasize a point, we are told to use any word necessary to prove that point, whether it be a cuss word or whatever.  He is a fiction writer, and he has interesting, legitimate opinions on things.  We just finished reading Slaugtherhouse 5 by Kurt Vonnegut, and I loved it.  The aspect of time did not play a role in the book at all.  Everything was relatively told in little sections, so that by the end, the reader would see the whole picture in its entirety.  The structure of the novel was different, and it was interesting to find the repeated words throughout the novel.  At the beginning of the semester, we were asked to write a journal entry and mine was mainly about my soul searching this past summer.  This soul-searching was not particularly linked to religion, politics, or even self.  It was directly linked to my music-making.  At this summer camp, I was unable to practice much, but every night I would play hymn music in chapel for prayer time.  This prayer time for the congregation quickly turned into a devotion time for me.  I had memorized all the hymns that I was playing and put them all in C major so that it would be easy to go from one hymn to the other.  Having them memorized, appeared, oddly enough, like I was playing music inspired by God or something.  This really hit home with me because I felt like this is how all the music that I played should be like.  All the traditional Bach suites, concertos, sonatas, etc., I felt should feel the same way.  

 Let me insert part of my journal entry here because I think I explained it pretty well. I promise not to write much more.

 “…. Here, at camp, I found a sort of peace with my cello playing that I had never experienced before.  When I played in chapel, it was about my own personal prayer and bible devotion.  I felt the spiritual side of music and when I returned to my classical music practice time, I saw the music so much more differently.  I think I finally saw the music apart from the notes.  This is hard for me to explain, but I knew something was totally different.  When I discovered this other side, I quickly picked up my cello and began to play Bach’s 2nd cello suite, something that I had played over and over again, but this time it sounded a little different.  Yes, it sounded a little differently than all the other times that I had played it before, but then suddenly as I was playing it I felt something.  Not something from the outside but something from the inside.  I felt something inside of me that I had never felt before.  As I was playing these notes that I had studied many times, I felt an understanding of not just the notes one by one, but the musical line or lines as a whole.  As I was playing I began to make these lines come together and intertwine with each other to produce something as a one whole unit.  When I finished the prelude, I sat back and let the distant sounds echo in my mind.  As I was experiencing this feeling of completeness, I remembered how it felt to be playing the phrases and experiencing the notes not from diligent practice but from my own interpretation of the music.  I quickly started the Allemande, the next movement, and I experienced the feeling once again.  After playing the whole second suite, I realized that music was not the notes.  Music is the stuff in which is in between the notes.  I was just blown away by this sense of understanding that I immediately wanted to share my discovery with someone else. …”

November 30th, I fly with my mother to Indiana for my audition into the school of music at Indiana University.  I am practicing a lot for my audition because I really need to transfer to Indiana University.  I cannot see myself here at the University of Florida for four years.  

 I am glad that I feel that I can write you and I’ll be sure to come to school to see you some time. 

 Love, 

Corry A. Rankin

“Can I Have some Ice Cream?”

When I was six or seven, Pinson School in Camagüey, Cuba opened a one room school for the American, English speaking students in a house across the street from the campus.  The school hired Mrs. Martha Tucker as the teacher in a multi-grade classroom.  Each grade sat in clusters working on their lessons, while Mrs. Tucker moved about offering encouragement and correction.  At noon, we ate our lunches, while Mrs. Tucker read to us from the great books, such as Robert Lewis Stevenson’s “Treasure Island.”  Not too long after that, we could hear the jingle of the ice cream man coming down the street, on his three wheeled tri-cycle with an ice box on the front, with the Guarina brand ice cream on the side.  He had vanilla and chocolate on popsicle sticks, and my favorite, coco glassé, coconut ice cream in a real coconut shell.  I sat right in front of Mrs. Tucker, and I would look her in the eye as she read, and in best sheepish voice, I would whine, “Can I have some ice cream?” She would look up, having been interrupted in her reading, and would stare back at me with her gruff gaze. Than she would smile, as we all filed out of the classroom for an ice cream break.  To this day that is why I love ice cream.

 Years later, Martha Tucker and her husband, Ted, retired in West Palm Beach.  As a young pastor, I visited her several times.  As I was leaving, she always reminded me, “Now remember, Larry, I want you to do my funeral.” “I will, Martha, but you have to give a date, so that I can put it on my schedule.”  We always had a big laugh over that.  My dad, I had the distinct honor to co-celebrate Mrs. Tucker’s homecoming as she wished.

 Before and after the Spanish American War, (the war for Cuban Independence) in 1898, many Americans owned small farms in Cuba.  Small American colonies sprang up.  Two of them were located northwest of Camaguey: Sola and La Gloria.  The farmers needed an English teacher to teach their children, so they hired a young Martha to come from the United States and organize a school.  Not too long after that, she met and married, citrus farmer, Ted Tucker. They raised their children on the farm, until Martha was hired as the teacher for the American students at Pinson School. 

 

In those days, La Gloria and Sola, were large enough to support a Methodist church, which held English language services.  Now a part of the Camagüey district of the Methodist Church in Cuba, the church is still active to this day.  In the ‘50’s the La Gloria church held services in both languages.  Electricity had not arrived in the communities yet, so the night services were lip up with several Coleman lanterns held up by long hooks hanging from the rafters.  I still remember the hissing sound they made as my dad preached, as I lulled myself to sleep on my mother’s lap. 

I Set My Eyes on that Pretty, Tall Girl Across the Room

In the fall of my sophomore year at Emory, Bob Stroud, a Methodist missionary met with me and invited me to take a mission team from the US down to southern Argentina where he and his wife, Betty Lou were pioneering a new ministry in the Patagonia city of Neuquen.  

    That would be a life changing experience for me at several levels. I had experienced a lonely year on campus. I set my sights to meeting the team in June, 1967.  The year went by quickly as anticipation of the meeting built.  I hoped that perhaps these young people would become life long friends, my community.  Perhaps I would meet a special someone. 

    I flew to Miami from Atlanta and arrived at a Miami Beach hotel where the team was gathering for orientation with veteran missionaries, Lloyd and Edith Knox. They were from South Dakota, Texas, Georgia, Florida, and North Carolina.  I remember entering the hotel, inquiring as to where they were meeting. 

    I entered a room where the team was getting acquainted. I looked across it. Then I set my eyes on a pretty, tall, brown haired young woman with a gorgeous smile.  Her name was Trudy, and she was with the South Dakota group, from Watertown. I was smitten. I knew right then and there that I would marry her some day. It was June 8, 1967. 

It Was the Most Terrible Year; It Was the Most Hopeful Year

In the year 1968, my 20th year, was the worst year in US policy and politics that I can ever remember.  It started when the Viet Cong launched the Tet Offensive in January. Even with the numbers of US troops bloated at a half a million, the US nearly lost Vietnam.  In April, Dr. Martin Luther King is assassinated by a lone assassin with a rifle in Memphis, Tennessee.  King’s death sparks violent and destructive riots in a number of cities across the country, with the exception of Atlanta, King’s hometown.  In June, while running for President, Bobby Kennedy is shot while moving through a hotel in California.

I witnessed the public memorial for Dr. King.  I was a junior at Emory College.  Dr. King was the pastor at the Ebenezer Baptist Church on Auburn Street in the heart of the Atlanta black community.  His father, retired had been his predecessor.  His mother was the organist and choir leader.  Early on April 9, 1968, my friend and I put on dark suits and walked to Ebenezer Baptist Church on Auburn Street.  This was the private service, so we watched from a knoll across Auburn Street as dignitaries arrived.  Some we recognized.  Harry Belafonte, Hubert Humphrey, US Vice-President, Sammy Davis, Jr., among others. We could hear the organ rumble, and the singing of the congregation.  We knew that there would be a march of the congregation and those waiting outside the church to Morehouse College, Dr. King’s alma mater in the West End.  We walked ahead of the march.  

The streets were deserted.  Racist, Axe handled, backwards cyclist Georgia Governor Lester Maddox refused to allow the lowering of the flag at half staff because he declared that Dr. King was “an enemy of the state.”  He surrounded the state capital with Georgia troopers assuming that there would be riots.  Atlanta did not go up in flames because of the wisdom of the last white mayor of Atlanta, Ivan Allen.  He had the foresight to be available to the formidable black leadership by meeting with them weekly over lunch to discuss issues and concerns of the community.  Allen was respected.  So when news came down from Memphis that Dr. King had been assassinated, some of the young toughs were shouting “burn baby burn.”  There’s a famous picture of Allen in the heart of the black community climbing up on a car and telling anyone who would hear to go home, “l

Let us not dishonor Dr. King’s memory by destroying his hometown.”  Everyone went home.  All was quiet without a national guard presence, and not even the state troopers.  

We walked block after block towards the Westside, with nary a person to be seen. It was peaceful.  We arrived at the quadrangle of Moorehouse college.  A low, brick fence paralleled the length of one side of the quad.  The sky was clear and weather was cool, but not for long.  

Few people were on the quad at the time.  Each of us picked out a tree to climb for a better view. 

shortly after, security called us down.  We look for another tree.  I found one at the side of a path that meandered midway down the side of the quad.  Little did I realize how strategic that spot was and how it would change my life an hour later.  Up I went.  It was as if I wrapped Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak on.  I never was discovered and there remained until the memorial was over.  Time passed, and it was getting warmer.  From my perch I could see the quad filling up with mourners.  The open stage was filling up with the Morehouse Men’s Glee club. I could feel the tension growing as more people from the march began to move into the quad.  Soon, there was nary an open space on the ground.  And it was getting warmer as tstood and sat on the grass. Finally the mule drawn farm wood wagon arrived with Dr. King’s casket in the back. Immediately behind walking were Coretta King, her children, and family and leaders of the civil rights movement.  Closely behind were Hubert Humphrey, and the Kennedy brothers, Ted, Bobby and other Kennedy family members. Even Richard Nixon was there.  

The casket was lifted from wagon, and carried up the steps into the quad and down the path right where my perch was.  Coretta, the children and all the dignitaries walked behind the casket.  You can imagine my emotion how I was just a few feet above this assembly and how I wasn’t discovered, how I held my breath.  The Moorehouse Glee Club was singing in crescendo, and the crowd pivoted like filings to a magent, all turned towards the casket and the family, as it slowing moved just below me.  I remember the color of the casket, a dark mahogany shining in the noon sun.  Coretta’s black, veiled hat, the children in black, slowing walking, wending their way to the front of the dais. 

The second memorial began with the singing of the choirs and prayers.  Two iconic speakers came forward.  Dr. Benjamin E Mays gave the eulogy. He waas an early civil rights leader, educator and speaker at the March on Washington at the Lincoln Memorial where Dr. King gave his iconic “I Have a Dream Speech.” Rabbi Abraham Heschel, a close friend and spiritual advisor, entoned the kaddesh, the prayer for the dead of the Hebrew people.

I weep every time I hear the powerful voice of Dr. King many years later, as he concludes his mighty speech at the Lincoln Memorial, August 28, 1963:

“And when this happens, when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

The weeping is an acknowledgement that not only the dream has yet to become reality, it seems that even as there are advances in diversity, there are fallbacks to the old racism.

Then and there, I decided to be an activist rather than react to historical events.  I also returned to Christianity by responding to an invitation from a friend, to worship at Trinity United Methodist Church, in Atlanta GA, on the corner of Trinity and Washington Streets in the Atlanta inner city. Several blocks away is Capitol Homes, a large public housing project, where the church owned a parish house.  Trinity was declining with a white membership, with a history for mission across the world. The church was ingrown and on the defensive.  So when Charlie Spencer, an African-American teen-ager showed up at worship one Sunday, and pastor Ken Jones welcomed him, half of the remaining white membership left and took their money with them.

“We are Finally “Free!”

I woke up early as usual on January 1, 1959, got dressed and went out the side door into the driveway and across the small field and street to my friend’s house.  The house was the humble “bohío” with a thatched roof.  Nobody was up.  I crouched under the open window and listened to the morning radio show, “Radio Reloj.”  Two reporters take turns reporting the news, while a loud ticking comes through marking each minute.  At the top of the minute, the time is announced, and the news continues.  

 As I listened, the news was interrupted by martial music,“The Stars and Stripes Forever.” How ironic that at the birth of the Cuban revolution, American marching music was played.  This went on for several minutes, then an excited voice came on the air with a bulletin: “Fulgencio Batista has left the island!! The 26 of July Rebels are victorious!! Cuba is free from tyranny!! Long Live the 26 of July movement!!  The bulletin was followed by the rebel hymn of the 26 of July.  

 I was overwhelmed.  What so many of us had been waiting for, had finally happened.  Now Cuba could experience real democracy under the democratic leadership of the Movement and guided by Comandante en Jefe Fidel Castro.  

 I ran home to tell my family what had just happened.  Little did know then that the jubilation of the moment would to ashes ten months later.1959 Two days later, I followed with my brother and his friends downtown to find out more about the rebel victory. I remember watching men taking out gaming tables and roulette wheels out on the street, pouring gasoline on them and burning them. They were expressing their hatred for Batista’s corruption.  Other men with baseball bats were smashing parking meters to shake loose the cash, also part of the corruption.

“Visit to Urabá, Colombia Chapter 1”

I was travelling as a promoter for Alfalit Latino Americano to San Pedro de Urabá, close to the Panamanian border on the Caribbean side of Colombia.  I arrived at Monteía which is the starting point for travelers entering the Darién Gap, a region in the jungles in northern Colombia. Thousands of desperate immigrants were trying to get through Panamá to the US border. Darién is a dangerous place filled with violent criminals and animals. Rushing streams have been swept down rivers.

 I waited in the parking area, as my truck filled with passengers.  The driver would leave when his truck was full.  The roof of the truck was covered with a thick canvas from the sun.Three wide benches were set one in front of each other behind the driver. The sides were open. The air was sticky with humidity. There was no breeze. Standing still my shirt was soaked with sweat.

 I sat in the back bench with my back at the opening of the canvas.  At least I could get a breeze.  Yet, dust came in while we were moving on the road. We left at around 10:00 PM.  I found out later that we would arrive at San Pedro at around 5:00 PM. Time is indefinite and flexible under these circumstances.  

 The average speed on the muddy rutted path (it wasn’t a road) was about 20 MPH.  No need to fret when we would arrive to San Pedro. My José Navaja, Alalit promoter, knew that and would find out I had arrived when he heard the roar of the big, diesel engine.

 During the middle of the journey, I arrived at a small thatch-roof road stand.  It offered some sodas and deep fried empanadas (chicken or beef).  I passed. Long ago I learned to avoid anything that was boiled or cooked and prepared with boiled water. I had a few crackers and water on me.  But I had to go to the bathroom.  There were many choices out in jungle. I got out of the truck and went into the bush.  Once I was finished, the truck was filled with the passengers and I was the last to get on.  The truck had a spare tire bolted on the back.  I was tired of swallowing dust, so I decided to stand on the tire, while grasping the metal frame of the roof.  It was much better, as the breeze passed through my face.  It had rained and the air was cooler.

 Eventually I got back in, into the back, and began to visit with the passengers.  Everyone was friendly with me.  Of course, they knew I was a gringo.  How can a blond blue eyed, 6 – 1 man wearing Levi Strauss bluejeans hide his identity surrounded by black and brown skin, short people. 

 I spoke to a friendly young man riding with me in the truck. I would be greeted with a big surprise later due to this “chance” encounter.

 José Navajaia is a lay pastor of the Presbyterian Church of Columbia.  He preaches at the small church nearby, and conducts literacy classes for the students in San Pedro. That evening oriented me with the challenges he faces with his literacy work. 

 The province of Uraba is lightly populated, mostly farmers with a few scattered villages. Most of the people eke out living from subsistence farming is the primary economy. They live on the margins without the bare necessities: few clinics, food insecurity, lack of schools, has been the way of life for centuries. 

Jorge told me that the National Army of Liberation (ELN) is active in the area, fighting the Colombian Army and attacking police stations in the villages. The ELN sabotages the electric lines and the recently a paved road, being constructed by the government. Perhaps the central government is making its presence known to win the hearts and minds of the local population.

 Then it dawned on me that this was the first time that I was in the middle of a war zone - an area where the Colombian army engages the ELN in counter-insurgency warfare. A bit anxious, I wondered how the ELN would respond if they knew that was a “gringo,” in there in their midst. Would they take kindly of me if they found out? I represented the country engaged in the over 40 years “containing communism,” often supporting violent regimes, with little regard to human rights, engaging a “scorched earth policy” with high “collateral damage." 

 In my second trip to Uraba, I would realize how true this was, but that belongs in chapter 2.    

 The next day we walked through the magnificent, primordial bush. There were several layers of in canopies forest, verdant, untouched and pristine. I wonder what remains after 34 years.

 I heard a loud squawking and chattering.  Looking across a clearing to the trees, I an amazing and rare sight.  A pair of replendesant macaws, male and female, flying side by side, along edge of the jungle. Their red, blue, green, and yellow feathers stood out against the green background of the forest.  Their tails streamed behind them. I am certain that I will never see macaws in the wild again – a cherished memory seared in m.y brain

 We arrived at a clearing where a humble a homestead stood. We were welcomed by a young woman who looked to be in her 40’s, but looked like she was in her 60's. A couple of children were played on the dirt floor.  A sleeping infant lay on a small hammock, as its mother rocked the child, while cooking on an open, wood stove, as  smoke exited through on palm frond roof.  The mother was one of Jose’s literacy students.. There are more illiterate women than men in the marginal areas of Colombia, and the of Latin America.

The next morning, we set out walking and arrived at a settlement.  There were two saddled horses waiting.  José said, “the next stop is a bit longer, so the farmer has leant us his horses.” I saw mine, and my first thought was that there was no way this scrawny nag would carry me through the jungle.  I’m 6’1” weighing 180 pounds.  Settled in the saddle, my feet nearly touched the ground.  What a site.  Jorge was lean and much shorter than me.  He laughed watching me on this small horse.  But off we went, slowly – surrounded by this wild forest interrupted by clear cut areas..  

 After we left another homestead, I noticed the thunder clouds gathering.  The rain, more like a monsoon.  The area was clear cut ill by poachers selling the irreplaceable, rare hardwood at high prices for export.  We came to a small hill.  I urged the horse up, but its small hooves sank into the mud. It pitched back as I slid off his back. as the horse kept coming over me. Next thing I knew, I was beside it, unscathed.   The soil had no anchor to stop the erosion. I could see large patches of top soil slide down the hill as water streaming underneath.  I witnessed what the environmentalists have been warning for years, when hills are clear cut- rapid erosion.

 We walked the rest of the way in pitched darkness, with the brilliant stars above until we arrived at our destination. We hardly could see our feet in front of us.  The darkness was almost total with the brilliant star filling skies, guiding us on our way. 

The accommodations  were primitive but adequate.  The frame of the bed that Jorge slept on had a rope mesh to hold a mattress filled with straw.  I slept in a hammock, like a baby. There is a way to sleep in a hammock.  Bend one leg to open it. Touch a fixed object nearby, like a wall or a table, and move the hammock slowly.  You will be dreaming in five minutes.

 We returned to San Pedro at the end of the second day. We missed all the excitement, because while we were away, there was a gun battle between the ELN when they attacked the San Pedro police station, casualties unknown – a typical day in the neighborhood.

 The following evening Jorge and I attended a worship service at the Presbyterian chapel. As I entered, I recognized the young man I greeted while travelling on the SUV three days earlier.  When he saw me, he started to laugh.  As we talked, he told me that he is World Vision International, a community  development community, doing relief work in the area. Then he told me what happened after I left the SUV at the refreshment stand to go to the bathroom in the bushes.

 The passengers began to ask each other, “Who is this gringo? What is he doing here? They found my bag where I left it on the seat and searched it.  Not finding anything suspicious, they left the bag where it was. When I returned, no one said anything.

 The World Vision guy then said, “You’d better be careful as a North American traveling alone around here.  There are two kinds of North Americans here. Either they are missionaries or they are part of the the drug cartel.  Some of them don’t get to go home,” He said.

 Young literacy and Alfalit community organizers like others are on the front lines all over Latin America. They risk their lives to bring transformation and liberation with the peace of Jesus Christ.

Visit to Urabá, Colombia, Chapter 2

The following year, I returned to San Pedro de Urabá. I travelled the same route riding on the large Soviet SUV.  A pastor of the local Presbyterian church met me.  I rode on this motorcycle for a few kilometers to his home.   

 While on the way, he told me some things, not to be overheard by the guerrillas. He turned aside his face and told me that the ELN guerrillas knew that I was coming. I was dumbfounded. “How could they know?” “He said. "They know who is coming and going in their territory. "

 The pastor explained.  “A couple of nights ago, a young man came to may house in the middle of the night and informed me that they knew a North American was coming to San Pedro. ‘Why is he coming and what is here doing here?" he asked.

 I told him that he was invited by my church and Alfalit Colombiano to lead a workshop about community development. Alfalit was known to them as a humanitarian organization that helped the people. The ELN was familiar with Alfalit’s activities, teaching adults literacy and community development. That is why they didn't interfere with Alfalit and the Presbyterian church.  

 Then the young man said, “We will be at the workshop. You won’t know who we are, but we will pay close attention to what he says.”  

 As the pastor shared this with me, I wondered about the last part about “close attention,” was it a threat and if they didn’t like what I said, what would happen to me? 

 The next day, I led the seminar with no incidents. I never asked the pastor if he saw an unfamiliar face in the group.  We will never know anyway, because I am here to tell the tale. 

My Dad, the Rotarian

I arrived in Cuba in 1951 with my missionary parents at the tender age of two. We lived in Camagüey in the middle of the island for 10 years until the Castro regime forced us to leave. My Dad, Victor Rankin, was the pastor of the local Methodist church. My mother, Katherine Rankin, was the high school English teacher at the Methodist school, next door.

It didn’t take long before my dad became acquainted with the community beyond the church, among them business men, bankers, lawyers, and doctors. A number were Rotarians at the local Camagüey club. 

Dad was sponsored and became a member. About all the members were Catholics. Dad was the only Protestant and a minister. At that time, Protestants and Catholics didn’t mix. 

Soon Dad’s fellow members recognized Dad’s openness and his genuine acceptance and his desire to be in relationship with them. He was elected as the club’s chaplain. His invocations were ecumenical, non-sectarian, and inclusive. 

Rotary members represented the Cuban middle class, the largest in Latin America at that time. They were the backbone of the Cuban economy. But the communist regime changed all that. All businesses were expropriated. Business owners fled Cuba with their families with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Many settled in Florida and became successful business men and women and professionals. 

Rotary clubs as well as all private institutions in Cuba were banned. Camagüey’s club was no more. 

We were forced to leave too. We were only allowed each a suitcase. We were lucky. We had tickets and passports. We were going back home. Tucked away in my Dad’s suitcase, was this Rotary club banner from the Camagüey club. 

This banner has been with me for 66 years. Now it is time to give it a new home- the Lakeland Rotary club. 

This banner symbolizes the Rotary clubs and its members who today around the world are threatened by oppressive regimes like in Ukraine, Sudan, and South Sudan. “Service Above Self” brings hope over despair where ever needed. Rotary lives on.

Change Reflecting 250 Independence

 As we near our 250th year of independence, we all have the opportunity to reflect on what makes our country exceptional over other nations in the world. Being exceptional doesn’t mean that we are better than other countries. Being exceptional shouldn’t be misunderstood as being dominant over countries. We have the ability to expand our democracy, as “we become a more perfect union.”

“We hold these truths to be self evident that all men are created equal… that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

However, this was not the case on July 4, 1776 for the 500,000 enslaved people at that time; nor for landless men, nor for women. The right to vote was limited to only wealthy landowner white males.

However, our founders intentionally included this radical statement in our Declaration as a means for change so that liberty eventually could be expanded to include all Americans.  

The Constitution was designed by the founders to change with amendments, responding to excluded persons demanding justice and inclusion so that they too could be accepted as full citizens.

The first 10 amendments protect us from tyranny. The 14th amendment granted all persons born or naturalized the right to citizenship. The 15th amendment gave the right to vote to all citizens. The 19th amendment gave women the right to vote. Eventually all American citizens were given the right to vote.

This willingness to change and strengthen our democracy is why the US Constitution has been revered and adopted by more nations in the world than any other document. 

This is why we Americans are exceptional and the envy of the world. Happy 250th Birthday United States of  America.

Mi Buenos Aires Querido, Cuando te Volveré a Ver?

 My Dear Buenos Aires, when will I See You again? Carlos Gardel

My parents were assigned to Buenos Aires, Argentina.  David was heading to Florida Southern College in Lakeland, Florida. I got caught up in the excitement of adventure with some anticipation.  In late 1963, the family split up again, and this time I was going with my parents.  We flew to Montevideo, to a South America missionary gathering at the exotic camp grounds in Punta Arenas.  I met with other “misskids” while our parents discussed issues relating to the region and mission opportunities.  Dad was appointed to an English speaking congregation which met at the historic Primera Iglesia Evangelica Metodista of Buenos Aires.  At the time it provided services for the “expat” English speaking communities, including British and American.  The sanctuary had been built in the mid-19th century in a neo-gothic style.  It was the home of Argentine Methodism, brought by a Methodist layman, English captain.  The Catholic church permitted foreign Protestants to meet and preach in their language.  Once the ban was lifted, Methodism grew out towards the Argentine people.  

Dad later told me that this Argentine sojourn of seven years was the highlight of his ministry.  The church members, were intelligent, self-motivated.  They were highly skilled executives appointed to represent their international companies in Argentina.  Argentina had a healthy heavy industry, including American and European assembly plants that churned out Fords, Chevys, Renaults, and Peugeots.  They even made the people’s car the two cylinder Citroen that bobbed up and down on the cobblestone streets.  

We arrived  at our new home on 640 Güiraldes Street in the Acassuso in the San Isidro District of Buenos Aires, outside of the Gen La Paz beltway.  The house was a roomy duplex, with a long backyard, and a built in brick grill.  

Argentina is famous for its cheap, range fed beef steaks and $0.50 a bottle red wines.  I was assigned to cook the steaks at least three times a week. Life was good.

I started the second semester at the American Community “Lincoln” School on the shore of the Río de la Plata in La Lucila.  I took the city train several stops south from the Acassuso station to La Lucila and walked to school.  

I soon realized that I wasn’t the only new kid at school.  I made friends quickly.  Some of those friendships continue to this day, thanks to Facebook.  I was in the later half of ninth grade.  There were three influential teachers.  I remember with great appreciation my teachers who guided and inspired me for the rest of my life.  Donato “Profe” Laurita, the athletic director.  Herminia Granito, girls athletic director, Joseph Czarnick, mathematics, Donald Hannon, political science and history, Walter Leibling, music and ensembles director, and Naum Mittelman, physics and chemistry.

I discovered that I had entered a wonderful, global world.  The students, mostly Americans were savvy in global ways, having already lived in a number of places around the world before they arrived in Buenos Aires—quite a sophisticated group.  I was most impressed and stimulated by hanging out with these folks.