I Almost Missed My Own Birthday Due to My Own Death

The first time I could have died was on the morning of August 23, 2021. It would probably have occurred somewhere on the greenway trail in my hometown. I parked in the parking lot of the church my parents helped start, which is about five minutes from my house, and started my usual five minute walk to warm up and stretch before taking off on a three to five mile run. The initial trail is an abandoned tree-lined road that winds between a golf course and a gated community before a short and steep bridge over a railroad track and then connecting with the greenway, which parallels the tracks, and then runs beside a beautiful stream. The greenway also runs behind our city library and if I was going to die, I cannot imagine a lovelier place than in close proximity to thousands of books. However, after walking about a tenth of a mile, I decided to pay attention to the dull numb pain in the back of the top half of my left arm, and the tightness in my upper chest that felt like heartburn, but I knew wasn’t heartburn. I turned around, walked back to the car and drove home.

The second time I could have died might have been if my wife, Leann, had already left for her own morning walk, as was her normal routine. Instead, I caught her before she left and told her I thought I needed her to take me to the ER because “I may be having a heart attack.” “Oh sure!” was her laughing response. I had lost 50 pounds over a ten month period beginning with my time of Sabbatical in the summer and fall of 2018, and not only kept it off, but had been faithful in almost daily runs of three to five miles, and on occasion even taking on a six miler without much trouble. With no real history of heart disease in my family, and being in top shape, I was the least likely person to be having a heart attack…she thought. I didn’t feel my condition urgent enough to go to the hospital for what might be an overnight or even a few days without taking a shower. In spite of Leann’s protest, I showered, and she drove the seven minutes to our community hospital where she let me off at the door to the Emergency Room and went to park the car.

The last thing I remember, until being brought out of a medically induced coma twenty four hours later, was walking to the ER reception desk, being COVID screened, and the young lady asking “what is going on with you?” When I described the pain in the back of my arm and my upper chest, she stood up, commanded: “Come with me,” and we walked down a hall. Everything else until my coming to consciousness in another hospital in downtown Nashville on the next day, I only know by listening to Leann tell others the story.

The third time I could have died was after Leann returned from parking the car and was escorted to my ER bed. The doctors had already done an EKG and they reported: “Mr. Steinhauer, you are not having a heart attack. The EKG is pretty normal. Your blood pressure is high, so we are going to come back to do some tests,” and they left the room. Leann reports that about five minutes later I told her: “I feel faint…” and my eyes were dilated as much as possible–she described my eyes as looking “black”–and then I started convulsing with a cardiac arrest. Had she decided she needed to go to the ladies room (which is life-long-pretty-regular-occurrence for her), and had she not been in the room when I went into cardiac arrest, there would have been no one there to know it was even happening. There had been no need to put me on any sort of monitor.

It took a bit of yelling on Leann’s part to get any response as she called for help, as the just-conducted testing hadn’t shown I was in much danger, and maybe they were thinking I had used the “chest pain” claims as a rouse to get fast-tracked to the ER for an examination for some other reason. I’ve heard of people doing that. I wish I’d thought of it myself three years before when I sat in the same ER waiting room about 45 minutes with the worst pain I’ve ever had in my life–which turned out to be kidney stones. Nonetheless, after a fair amount of “you’ve got to get back in here! Something is happening to him!” they did come running. And then they ushered her out of the room

From the small room off the ER, there for a doctor to consult with a family member of a patient, and report on the outcome of procedures, Leann was alone–by her own choosing–until two friends and my brother showed up. She heard them quickly call “Code–ER…Code–ER,” and since there were only two other patients in the ER at the time she figured it had to be me. She texted her friends: “Pray. Matt is in the ER having a heart attack. I don’t know whether he is alive or dead.” She called our daughter, Kerra, in Columbia, Missouri, and Leann reported she was quite calm and helpful and talked her mother out of going down the hysterical route with a solid: “God has this and if it’s his time to go it’s his time to go.” I’m grateful for both my daughters’ close relationship with God and deep prayer lives. But I’m going to have to talk to Kerra about next time she might think about diving headlong into the most fervent prayer she has ever prayed for healing and saving and all that…instead of just trusting that “God has this…and if it’s his time to go….” 🙂 It wasn’t long before Leann heard another “Code–ER…Code–ER,” and not long after that: “Respiratory–ER…Respiratory–ER,” which she later found out was when I was intubated–put on a respirator. It took three attempts to complete that procedure as I was still conscious enough to fight it.

The fourth time I could have died was reported to me a couple weeks later by my cardiologist, after I was discharged and had returned for a followup visit. An arteriogram was performed soon after my cardiac arrest, and there was a blockage showing in my left anterior descending artery. This is the same symptom of the “Widow Maker” heart attack, and one of the most common ways to address that blockage is running a wire through the artery and placing a stint to open up the blockage. One of the attending doctors thought there was something else going on. His sister-in-law had died of a rare SCAD (Spontaneous Coronary Artery Dissection) heart attack, that happens in women 90% of the time, and because I was exhibiting the same symptoms he suggested they not attempt the stint. Because an artery dissection is a tearing of the artery–not a blockage–my cardiologist informed me if they had tried to run a wire through, it would have just torn the artery and I would have died on the operating table. Gulp.

Because the great irony of an arterial dissection is that it will–in most cases–heal on its own, the most important thing in my case was to just keep me alive long enough for that to happen. And so that is what they did. A heart balloon to supplement the natural pumping of my heat took some of the workload off the heart itself, and a mind boggling list of medicines and IV fluids did the trick.

Leann said the longer it was before anyone came in to talk to her the better she felt. “At least they weren’t telling me you were dead.” And within a couple hours the doctor came in and told them I was in critical but stable condition, and that I was a very sick man. At least I was still alive. Within a few hours the decision was made to transport me to a major heart center in Nashville, Centennial Medical Center, and because I was on so much life-support equipment the decision was made to life-flight me there; not because I was in eminent danger, but because it was more practical than an ambulance. So I took a sunset helicopter ride over the beautiful downtown Nashville….and didn’t even know it.

Leann recounts the only other “drama” occurred after being admitted to Centennial, when I started coming out of my sedated state, and began fighting the ventilator, and so she and another nurse had to lay across my legs while they restrained me and got a shot to put be back out. She also said the doctors at Centennial at first discounted it could possibly be a SCAD heart attack, but after more testing and an MRI decided that was a correct diagnosis, so from there my recovery and recuperation began. By 11:30am the next day the ventilator was removed. There was some discomfort from all that being jammed down my windpipe, and there was discomfort from the chest compressions when the CPR happened after I coded two times (but no ribs were broken). It wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, but I must say, I was able to walk around the Coronary ICU by the third day, and the fourth day I was transferred to a regular room. On the fifth day a defibrillator/pacemaker/heart monitor was surgically implanted in my chest, and on the sixth day–Saturday, August 28th, about noon, I walked from my room to the elevator, out the door to Leann waiting in the car to take me home.

I missed the next day (Sunday) and the next Sunday of preaching and presiding at worship, but was back fifteen days later and within a month or so was feeling pretty close to normal (physically). But I discovered there is much more to a critical health event like I experienced than the physical aspects. I wasn’t supposed to have a heart attack. I was supposed to live until I was at least 90 years old. My father died at almost 91, my mother is 90 and still doing fine. I have taken pretty good care of myself over the years. Maybe I would even make it to 95. In actuality, I might not have made it to 66 years old had any one of four or more circumstances been different on the morning of August 23, 2021.

I was strong enough within 24 hours of the heart attack to write on a pad (I was still on the ventilator, so I couldn’t speak. After being taken off the ventilator I was able to text and even talk a little bit (with a very raspy voice), and so I had brief conversations with a few friends and family. In a response to a text to my two dearest friends, about 24 hours after arriving at the hospital in Nashville, one of them responded with this question: “I’ve been wondering what kind of inspiration does a storytelling songwriter get from a near death experience?” I responded about my favorite singer songwriter, Beth Nielsen Chapman, teaching in songwriting workshops I have attended with her as teacher, sharing the experience of writing songs–not from personal experience, but writing for something you don’t even know will happen. I replied to him: “I wrote that song when I was in Italy three years ago, but I’m sure another (at least) will come out of it.” (You can listen to the prophetic song here).

These are the first things I thought, and some really important reflections from facing my own mortality.

First, Leann saved my life. Had she not gotten me to the hospital, and then, not gotten the attention of the medical staff when I went into cardiac arrest, I would not be here to tell this story. She may have made an extra effort because she may have thought I really did not have any life insurance. On more than one occasion I have told people (in front of her): “I don’t have any life insurance. I don’t want Leann to be more attractive when I’m dead than she already is!” I do have life insurance.

Second–and this may be the most profound experience–is that Hendersonville Medical Center was there. Hendersonville, my hometown, is a city of almost 60,000 residents. It is not surprising there would be a hospital in a community that size. But there was a hospital there when there were a whole lot less people in Hendersonville. The hospital opened in 1979 when there were closer to 25,000 people living there. It was opened in large part due to the tireless legislative effort of my father, John Steinhauer, Jr. In 1967, my 22 month old sister, Julie, drowned in Old Hickory Lake. After she was pulled from the lake she was taken to the nearest hospital, which was in Nashville, about 20 minutes away. Of course no one knows if she might have lived had there been a hospital in Hendersonville, but my dad went to work to be sure no other family ever had to wonder the same if they were facing a critical life event. As an elected State Representative from Sumner County, TN, he appealed to a State committee to get approval for the Hendersonville Hospital. Having been told that it took three committees to approve the request, and being assured that it would not get passed the third committee, his plea was accepted unanimously and the new hospital was constructed. The hospital was not there to save his daughter. But it was there to save his son.

Of course I spent much time thinking about the time I would have missed with my children and my grandchildren, and now, being ever so grateful I might still have more time with them. My daughters, Kerra and Lindsay are capable young women, married to fine husbands. I do not worry about their futures or how they would make it without their dad. I know they would miss me. But they would be fine. With my son, Matt, almost 27 and with Down syndrome, it is a different story. I have often wondered what would be worse: me dying before him–and him having to live the rest of his life without me? Or him dying before me–and what deep sorrow that would be for me? Even now I do not know the answer to that question. Even now it haunts me.

I guess the final commentary comes from the pastor and theologian which is my vocation and call. Where was God in all this? I don’t guess “coding” is the same as “dying.” So maybe I don’t need to worry about whether I experienced actual death, and whether I can describe what it is like to die and come back from death. I know that between walking into Hendersonville Hospital on Monday morning about 9am, and waking up in Centennial Medical Center the next day about 9am, I have no memory, no feelings, no visions. Someone asked if I saw a long hallway with a light at the end? I laughingly told them I didn’t see a light…I didn’t see a devil or burning flames…maybe the medieval Roman Catholics had it right with the notion of the waiting room of Purgatory and that my hero, Martin Luther was wrong! I do know this. There is a long list of life events that I have experienced that involved a great deal of pain and loss, sorrow and surprise. This one was no different. There was never a second in my recollection that I questioned whether or not God was fully present with me, and no matter what the outcome had been, I was and would have been and still am, in the arms of the faithful loving God who breathed me into being–knit me in my mother’s womb–and will hold me when the time comes that I really do take my last breath. “Miracle” is a word I’ve heard a lot since my heart attack and recovery. “Lucky man” is a description I’ve heard from many. I know there were many, many prayers on my behalf and for that I am thankful. But I flinch a little when I hear people remark: “You must have more work here to do,” or “It’s a God thing that you made it through that.” I have no doubt God was with me. I have no doubt God was with the doctors and nurses and technicians and helicopter pilot–whether any of them knew it or not, or recognized God or not. If it is true that: “…neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord,” (Rom. 8:38-39 NRSV) then I think someone’s lack of prayer or doubt or even lack of belief will also not separate them. It is more important to me that God is here in all the places I am–joys and sorrows–than to need to know God is pulling strings so that people line up in the right place at the right time just so Matt Steinhauer could be saved from a freak heart attack. Because, in the end, whether I live or whether I die, I am the Lord’s. (Romans 14:8 NRSV).

Who I Am

Who I Am

My Facebook friends might recognize this photo from a post from this summer. My daughter, Kerra, and her family were visiting when then four- year-old Emaline made her singing debut at Grandaddy’s church. “Amazing Grace”–and it was a sweet sound indeed!

Just a few weeks ago I came across the printed version of this image and when I held it in my hands I was struck by two things: I am a tactile person and holding the photograph to look and reflect on the moment it was taken gave me a whole different perspective than just looking at the same photograph on a screen; and wow, how this picture tells the story of who I am.

Certainly there is more to me than a man in ecclesial vestments, clutching a guitar and a precious grandchild. Indeed! But those three things, drawn together in one place, go as far as I can imagine to speak to the deepest, truest and best me.

There is that little girl.

She is my first grandchild and my first granddaughter. She was the first to award me with the title I coveted so–first owned by my own grandfather, who I knew and loved for thirty seven of his ninety two years. It took her two iterations: “Da-da-daddy,” and “Gran-daggly” before she finally got to “Grandaddy.” [I must admit, “Gran-daggly” sure made me smile!]

Emaline stands in this photo to represent the family that I love so. As long as I can remember, I have been loved and have loved lots and lots of people that I am related to by blood, or by being married into the messiness that is sometimes known as “family.” I would not trade all of your good family memories for all of my hard ones if it meant giving up my family. I love them warts and all.

There are those fancy robes.

The green chasuble was handmade by women of my congregation. The wooden pectoral cross was hand-carved by a dear man from my congregation from local cedar. Under the chasuble I wear a pastor’s stole that was given me when I was ordained. The vestments are all symbols of what I do on Sunday mornings. But they don’t begin to speak to the honor, the joy, and the privilege of wearing them.

When I was on Sabbatical in the summer of 2018 I came to the conclusion that the book I hoped to write would still have to wait. I would not beat myself up over that unfinished and important (to me) work. I remembered that I wrestle with words for a room full of people every week. It is obviously God’s Word first, and then I listen and pray and do my best to make a connection between that Holy word and the Holy happenings of everyday life, where sometimes we notice God showing up and sometimes–to be quite honest–we wonder where God might be hiding? At the end of my Sabbatical I came to this conclusion:

I see myself as the “writer in residence“ at Faith Lutheran Church (ELCA) in Lebanon Tennessee. The good people there call me “Pastor” and I get to do all sorts of amazing things with them in addition to writing. They let me lead worship on Sunday mornings and preside at the Holy Supper and baptize their babies into the death and resurrected life of Jesus Christ. They invite me into their thoughts and hearts and joys and sorrows, and ask me to say words to God at their bedside before surgeries, and during other important events of their lives and the lives of those they love. I even have the high and holy privilege of saying the last words for their loved ones before they are laid to their final rest. I get to invite them to the table to share a meal in a specific moment and place, which, through the mystery of faith, connects all of us in every time and every place.

I have imagined myself as a pastor since I was about seven years old. After almost fifty years I finally got to be one. I have not been disappointed.

And finally, there is that guitar.

There is no way I would say the guitar is more important than anything else in the picture. But the guitar is really what nudged me to say the truth of who I am.

As I was looking at the picture (the day I first held it in my hand) I was thinking of what I needed to say about the guitar. It started something like this: “The guitar is a 1969 Gibson J-50.” I imagined in my writer’s mind telling the true story of buying it from my friend, the late Pete Cummings, the end of the summer after we had both graduated from high school in 1973. I paid $200 for the guitar–mostly to impress the girl I was taking on a date for the second time, who I thought would never go on a first date with me in the first place. But about the time I started painting a narrative picture in my mind I realized 1969 was fifty years ago.

Fifty. Years.

The guitar has accompanied me through some of the most memorable events of my life. I have played it for people I loved more than life, and people I didn’t even know. I have played it at friends’ and strangers’ weddings, funerals, church camp, camp fires, on a beach at night and by a dear friend’s deathbed. I played twice a week for five years, for tiny tots at a Mother’s Day out program. I have played it for more hours than I can count just for me–and those were some of my most important performances. It has helped me tell my story in ways I could have never imagined to people I never dreamed would hear my story.

Live at the Bluebird Cafe in Nashville

Who am I? I am a grandaddy and a pastor. I have been a student, a warehouse worker, Gospel Music business executive, worked in the TV and film production industry, had a career in insurance sales and management, worked as a lay professional at a church, and now am an ordained Lutheran pastor. All along the way–across every single one of those jobs and vocations and even between them (when that happened a time or two along the way) I have been a guitar player. And I have been a singer. And I am so thankful that who I am is held together by the strong thread of music.

The girl I wanted to impress is long gone. The guitar is still here, and has brought me so much joy and so much life in the 46 years I have owned it. Sometime in this year of 2019 that beautiful instrument turned fifty years old. I wonder if I was playing it somewhere on its actual birthday?

“Happy Birthday” seems sort of strange for an inanimate object. But then, that guitar sure seems to come to life sometimes. And it has sure brought me to life many, many times.

Gordon Kennedy, (who co-wrote the Eric Clapton hit “Change the World”) played my guitar at a songwriting workshop. So did Beth Nielsen Chapman (who co-wrote the Faith Hill hit “This Kiss”) sitting to the right in this photograph. It played as well for them as it always does for me!

A Sermon for Christmas Eve

I preached this sermon on December 24, 2019, at Faith Lutheran Church in Lebanon, TN. As was usually the case, I hope my preaching gave the hearers as much of a new perspective of God’s action in the world through Jesus Christ, as it gave me in preaching it.

I do believe a sermon is delivered in a particular time and place to a particular group of people in a particular context, and so I trust the Holy Spirit, in sharing this here and now, outside that time, place and community, to give wings to these words if they are meant to mean something to you too.


I am only telling you this story because Bamm Wynns was there too and so I have a witness. 

You may have noticed (and you will FOR SURE now!!! :-))a slight abrasion on my forehead. 

I received that minor scrape on Sunday night I was examining the new keyless entry to our church kitchen installed by Tim Setterlund and Bamm. 

To the best of my knowledge my head on the corner of the door  did not cause a concussion or cause me to feel dizzy or to black out for a short time. I am only telling you those details so you won’t think a “head injury” nudged me to MAKE UP a story that would serve my storytelling purpose for my Christmas Eve Sermon! 


Before church on Sunday morning Tim Twohig was trying to figure out what to do about a shortage of hosts for Sunday night’s Compassionate Hands guests. 

I was listening to conversations .between Tim and some of the men who are faithful and regular volunteers but who, for various reasons could not stay overnight on Sunday. 

So I decided I could do it. 

Now, I am going to be honest with you. Part of the “nudge” to serve was due to having signed up for the very first Sunday night a couple weeks ago, when there wound up not being enough homeless men to need our shelter that night, and so I didn’t even have to stay. 

Perhaps a bit of “guilt” moved me opposed to generosity or Christmas Spirit! 


At 6:45pm Sunday night, the van with our guests showed up and four men walked through the back door into our warm and welcoming fellowship hall with their sleeping mattresses laid out and a plastic bin of towels and washcloths set out by the shower. 

Tim Twohig had texted me earlier we were having five guests but only four had initially come in. 

Greetings were offered and “thank-you-so-much-for-having-us” was heard from more than one of them. 

The last man to come in must have been taking a smoke outside as the others were entering the building and so five minutes or so later there was a knock on the door and I opened it to welcome one of the most ragged human beings I have ever personally encountered. 

All I could see was too much hair, too much beard, and grimy Carhartt overalls. 

His hair was matted and seemed to stand out six or eight inches in every direction from his head and his beard was so full and scraggly one could only detect his eyes, nose and mouth. 

I should have thought “John the Baptist!”

But I must shamefully confess, I thought: “Charles Manson.”

I’m serious. 

Almost immediately a not so fragrant aroma of stale nicotine, and body odor (Only surpassed by the wreak of alcohol) began to settle into and fill the room. 

You need to understand this condition that caused the visceral experience was really only coming from a couple of our guests. 

One of the five almost immediately went to his mat and went to sleep. The other four took turns in the shower, or fixing a cup of coffee, or grabbing a couple of cookies provided for them, doing their laundry, unpacking their backpacks (to rearrange EVERY.SINGLE.ONE of their earthly belongings). 

After an hour or so one of the men asked Bamm and I if he might take a chair outside because he was going to cut the hair of his grizzly friend and didn’t want to get hair all over our floor. 


Now, I want to pause my story here because I need to clue you in on where I am going with this sermon before you start thinking: “Pastor, I came to hear the sweet story of the birth of Baby Jesus and his mother mild, and his silent earthly step father, and the angels and shepherds. 

I didn’t come here to be confronted with the realities of homeless men in Lebanon, Tennessee! 

It’s Christmas Eve for goodness sake! 


This is where I am not so sure the bump on the head or the fatigue from a lack of sleep or maybe just the nudging of the Spirit didn’t cause me to go here with this sermon! 

Until this 10th Christmas sermon I have preached, the 50 or so Christmas sermons I heard before I was a preacher, and any other discussions and readings by scholars and historians, I don’t think I have ever understood the importance of the shepherds to this familiar story. 



It’s not just that God sent the angel to some group of unimportant people to be the bearers of Glad Tidings that makes the shepherds important to the story. 

It’s not just that the Shepherds might be a good way to remind us the One who is born will one day be known as “The Good Shepherd.” 

It’s not just that the Messiah was descended from the line of David who too was a Shepherd. 

Maybe any and ALL of those reasons count for something. 

But I think more than anything God chose shepherds as key players because the people of that day would have thought pretty much the same about shepherds as I thought about those homeless men Sunday night. 

They were not just “the least of these.”

The shepherds in their day, and the homeless men in our own, are human beings that live on the edge and much of the time WAY outside the edge of what is “normal” and “proper.” 

And still God chose THEM to be the ONLY human beings to be important enough to be told directly that God had become fully human. 

The only ones. 

If God thought they were important enough to be among the most important remembered characters in this important chapter in the story of God, maybe I need to take what the shepherds told us seriously. 

If I was writing the story today it would go something like this: 

In that county there were homeless men caring for their friends behind a little church at night, when suddenly a police cruiser rounded the corner with blue lights flashing.

The frightened men were trying to choose between running into the woods or seeking sanctuary back inside the church.


.But the policeman said to them over the blaring speaker of the car):

 “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people. And ALL means ALL!! Even you homeless men the pastor inside that church is a little suspect of.

All people!


If we listen closely to this beginning of the story we should not be the least bit surprised when, about thirty years later, the message of the angels is proven by this baby-now-grown-into-a-man who welcomes, heals, EATS WITH, and loves people as disturbing to societal insiders as those homeless men might be to me or you. 

I used to hear this story of the baby, knowing how it ends, because I have heard the rest of the story. 

Tonight I’m not surprised by how it ends, because I’ve finally understood what happened at the beginning should help ALL of us know: 

Christ was born for THIS. 

Christ was born for THEM. 

And knowing that should change us the way homeless guest Michael’s finely clipped hair and closely trimmed beard allowed me to see the smile on his face and the new way he saw himself. 

Michael counts. 

WE ALL COUNT in this most amazing story of God’s love and gift of life and light to all—to the WHOLE world. 


Her Name is Gretchen

“You don’t tell your story so people will know you better. You tell your story so people will hear their story in your own.”

Robert Benson

“Any sorrow can be borne if a story can be told about it.”

Karen Blixen, quoted by Richard Lischer in The End of Words

Her name is Gretchen.

Is, not was.

I have wanted to tell this story thirty times. I have wanted to tell this story for thirty years.

When the long summer days grow shorter, and children start back to school, and the next break on the calendar is “Labor Day,” I know what is coming: back-to-back birthdays.  My daughter, Lindsay, has a birthday on September 5th, and her mother, Leann, has a birthday on September 6th, and in the midst of the joy and celebration of the bundling of these birthdays, comes the sorrow of a memorial that must be made in the midst of them: birthdays and deathdays. (FYI: As if we must hide from the stark reality of the latter, the spellchecker red-underlines “deathdays” as misspelled, but not “birthdays.”)

Life and death, birth and burial, always held in tension on this day. Highest joy in one hand, and deepest sorrow in the other. Prayers of simultaneous thanksgiving and remembrance, are offered. My fingers are fastened together as tightly as the memory of the good and the bad that I feel deep in my being.

Her name is Gretchen.

Since Leann was a little girl, she had chosen a name—actually made up the spelling—of her child, if she had a girl. Having “conditions” when one gets married is probably not the wisest of things, but I knew this was a condition, or a law, or an irrevocable beneficiary, if I was going to have this one as my wife. “Kerra” would be the name of our first girl. And it was. At least I got to put my own mark on that naming, by picking out the middle name: “Leann,” after her mother. I scored points on two counts that day: living up to the pre-marital child-naming condition, and honoring a mother with a namesake, all in one fell swoop. Meet “Kerra Leann.”

But I had my own childhood naming ideas.

They began to form when I was in junior high, and became interested in my surname, and its connections to Germany, and the little bit of family history that my father could tell me.  I thought if I ever had a little girl, it might suit her to have a German girl’s name: “Gretchen,” I thought. “That seems pretty ‘German.'”

As I grew older I honestly do not remember giving much more thought to naming my little girl “Gretchen,” and I certainly never considered  it important enough to be a deal breaker for selecting a life-mate. I do remember I had picked out a little girl’s name, but not a little boy’s name.

We found out we were expecting a second time in the spring of 1990.  Kerra was three years old, and the right age to be really excited about a new baby. The whole family was excited. As I recall, my mother had suggested not sharing a baby’s name before the baby was born, because then one would have to put up with explaining, and defending the choice right up until the day of the birth. I thought that was wise council. Until it wasn’t.

At about 22 weeks into the pregnancy, I accompanied Leann to an obstetrician visit. An ultrasound was scheduled, and she thought I might want to be there for the news that might arise from the examination.  When the doctor walked in the room, where the two of us were waiting, and he smiled and asked: “What’s he doing here?” we found out the ultrasound would be scheduled on this visit–not done.  But as the doctor felt and prodded and listened to a rounding stomach with his stethoscope, he announced: “Well…maybe we will be doing an ultrasound today.  I think I hear two heartbeats.”

With no history of twins on either side of our family, we were quite shocked and surprised by the news.  A few minutes later, on another floor of the doctor’s office building, we found out we were indeed expecting twins, and, at the same time, there were some concerns about a significant difference in the rate of growth of the two babies.  So we received a referral to yet another doctor’s office in the neighborhood, and the term “specialist” started being thrown around like it was a sign of being privileged.

There was long enough between the two ultrasounds to grab lunch, call our parents to let them know of the exciting news, and to ask for prayers, as we moved toward learning more about the possibilities of a very complicated pregnancy.

At the second-in-the-same-day ultrasound appointment, which included a (then) new technology, Doppler ultrasound, which measures the flow of blood, the specialist informed us that our identical twins—girls— had a rare (and rarely positive outcome) condition known as “twin transfusion.”  Being able to see the flow of blood confirmed that “Baby B” was receiving used and contaminated blood from “Baby A” through an umbilical cord that was not returning directly to the mother.  So Baby B was getting blood from the mother, and used blood from her twin sister.  Because the outcome for the babies, and sometimes for the mother, was so dire, the doctor recommended terminating the pregnancy.

We decided to just hang on to the very small percentage of hope, and see what would happen.

Although I have spent a fair amount of time and money on my formal theological education, this was the school at which I learned the most about prayer, and how God answers prayer (or doesn’t), and about God being in control (or not), and how God’s plan (as some would frame it) just couldn’t be God’s plan, if what eventually happened in “the plan” for Baby A and Baby B was actually written out on God’s own creative drawing board.

In the next calls we made to our parents, the previous nervous laughter and “what-if’s” about twins, was filled with sounds without words—mostly sobbing—on both ends of the line.

“We will pray….we will ask everyone we know to pray,” was the response that we got, as we rolled out our breaking news.  It happened. People really did pass the word, and people prayed. I know this, because I received many a note and letter from people I’d never met, who were third or fourth in succession of hearing this news that had been passed from somebody who knew us, to somebody who didn’t. It was astounding. But somehow, “Pray for Baby A and Baby B” just didn’t seem quite appropriate. They needed names.

I guess if ours had been a typical one-baby, second-girl pregnancy, Leann and I may have had to arm wrestle over our baby’s name. “You named the first one. It’s my turn this time!”  Now we needed two names, and we really didn’t particularly have even one name that either of us were insistent on using.  So we both got to pick a name, and I got my wish: “Gretchen. I’ve always thought Gretchen would be a pretty name for a girl.”  Leann liked “Lindsay spelled with an ‘a.’”  So we both got our choices.  We took advantage of needing two names to honor two other important women in our lives: Leann’s mom, Marie, and my mom, Jane.  I’m not sure exactly how we decided “Baby A would be ‘Gretchen Marie,’ and Baby B would be ‘Lindsay Jane,’” but that is how it worked out. When I think back on it, I wonder if Leann was thinking: “Baby A has a better chance of making it. I got my ‘Kerra,’ and so Matt should have his ‘Gretchen?’”

Her name is Gretchen.

Is, not was.

Lindsay Jane lived. Gretchen Marie did not.

I’ve written a few words about that sad day, that one can find here.  But what I write in this space is not about the sadness of Gretchen’s death. It is about the thirty years of sadness of not hearing her name.

Every now and then, I write something that brings an unexpected gift to me. I never write with that intention, but it certainly happens more often than I expect, and certainly more than I deserve.  This writing has been no different. I believe paying attention and telling the truth are the two most important things a writer must do. I believe the same for plumbers as I do for poets, and the same for seamstresses as I do for songwriters. Pay attention. Tell the truth.

I have loved this passage from the Book of Isaiah for a long time. I have never really associated it with my memories of Lindsay’s birth and Gretchen’s death until this very writing.

I have prayerfully read these words from the prophet, Isaiah, to people who are about to have serious surgery, and I have read it to people who are going through a really hard place. I read it to my life-long, dearest friend, on her death bed, about three days before she died, and a Holy Presence wrapped me and her, and our other two dearest friends who were present for that special farewell, in an embrace as strong as the Universe, and as gentle as a whisper of love.

But now thus says the LORD,

he who created you, O Jacob,

he who formed you, O Israel:

Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;

I have called you by name, you are mine.

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;

and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;

when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,

and the flame shall not consume you.

For I am the LORD your God,

the Holy One of Israel, your Savior. (Isaiah 43:1-3a NRSV)

The Holy Presence wraps around me the very same on this day.

There is truth in every line of this Word from God, through the prophet Isaiah. There is truth for Gretchen, and truth for Lindsay, and truth for their dad. I would be safe in saying there is truth here for you too, dear reader, whether it is truth you need on this day, or truth you might need on a day to come.

God has called you by name, and you are God’s.

Gretchen, I have called you by name, and you are mine—will always be mine.

Your name partly lives on with your sister, Lindsay Jane-Marie, and, in some sense, because you are genetic copies of each other, so do you.

Gretchen is your name.



You are afraid of them, but Jesus would call them: “Neighbor”

Since Tennessee’s Governor, Bill Lee, made the decision to allow refugees to continue to be settled in Tennessee, several counties and municipalities in the state have started working to pass local laws to prohibit giving these people a chance at freedom and opportunity. (Isn’t that sort of what America was founded on?)

This information was provided by Lutheran Services of Georgia–an organization which has settled refugees for decades.

The U.S. Refugee Admissions Program is secure:

• Resettlement is the most difficult way to enter the U.S., and refugees are the most thoroughly vetted individuals in the U.S., going through all screenings before they arrive.

• Vetting includes biometric and biographic checks; interagency intelligence sharing; screenings against multiple domestic and international terrorist and criminal databases; background investigations by the FBI, Department of Defense, State Department, and National Counterterrorism Center; and in-person interviews by Homeland Security officers.

• Refugees receive an interest free travel loan to pay for the cost of their transportation to the US. Refugees give back to their new communities.

Economic Contributions

• Refugees start working as soon as possible, pay taxes, start businesses, purchase homes, and become U.S. citizens.

• While refugees receive initial assistance upon arriving in the United States, they see particularly sharp income increases in subsequent years. While refugees here five years or less have a median household income of roughly $22,000, that figure more than triples in the following decades, growing far faster than other foreign-born groups. By the time a refugee has been in the country at least 25 years, their median household income reaches $67,000—a full $14,000 more than the median income of U.S. households overall

• Over a 20-year-period, refugees contribute, on average, $21,000 more in taxes than the initial investment to resettle them. In 2015, refugees contributed $21 billion in U.S. taxes.

• The average workforce participation rate of refugees is 81.8%, above the national 62%.

• 13% of refugees were entrepreneurs in 2015, compared to 9% percent of the U.S.-born.

• 40% of all Fortune 500 companies were founded by refugees, immigrants or their children.

• Many industries, like hospitality and meatpacking rely on refugee workers. Across the U.S., the low number of refugee arrivals is putting a strain on businesses, especially in rural areas.

• For the state of TN, a snapshot of the demographic and economic contributions of refugees shows that in 2015, refugee population household income was $649.9M with total spending power of $497.5M. Total taxes paid was $152.3M

Is there a Link Between Refugees and U.S. Crime Rates? To examine this issue, New American Economy used refugee resettlement data from the U.S. Department of State’s Worldwide Refugee Processing System to calculate the 10 cities in the US that received the most refugees relative to the size of their population between 2006 and 2015. This revealed a telling pattern: Rather than crime increasing, nine out of 10 of the communities actually became considerably more safe, both in terms of their levels of violent and property crime.

Here is new analysis on the economic cost of opting out of refugee resettlement for a few key states. TN stands to loose $4.1 million.

A Dozen Reasons Not to Love the Better Care Reconciliation Act of 2017

Here is a link to the Congressional Budget Office Score on the latest Senate proposed Better Reconciliation Act of 2017.

Click to access 52941-hr1628bcra.pdf

If you don’t have time to read all 22 pages, here are some highlights (This is simply copied and pasted. My own editorial comments are in bold type.):

1) Compared with the June 26 cost estimate for a previous version of the legislation, this cost estimate shows savings [to the federal deficit] over the next 10 years that are larger—as well as estimated effects on health insurance coverage and on premiums for health insurance that are similar.

2) enacting this legislation would reduce federal deficits by $420 billion over the 2017–2026 period. This is about $100 Billion more than the previous version. Good news for the deficit.

(Bad news for the disabled [like my son, Matt], the elderly in nursing homes, and children born into or living in poverty through no fault of their own who will be subsidizing this deficit reduction plan by the cuts to their Medicaid health care and services.  Very brave of the Republican Senate to do that. Very brave.)

3) The largest savings would come from a reduction in total federal spending for Medicaid resulting both from provisions affecting health insurance coverage and from other provisions. By 2026, spending for that program would be reduced by 26 percent.

4) In 2026, for people who are made newly eligible under the ACA (certain adults under the age of 65 whose income is less than or equal to 138 percent of the federal poverty level [FPL]), Medicaid spending would be reduced by 87 percent, from $134 billion to $17 billion

5) This one is my personal evaluation, and I am sourcing a bar chart in the report.  The June 26 version shows a cut of $772 Billion in Medicaid.  The July 20 version shows a $756 cut in Medicaid.  PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DO NOT LISTEN TO SENATOR LAMAR ALEXANDER WHEN HE WILL MOST LIKELY SUGGEST THESE NUMBERS MEAN “THE NEW PROPOSAL INCREASES MEDICAID SPENDING BY $16 BILLION”)

6) The increase in the number of uninsured people relative to the number under current law would reach 19 million in 2020 and 22 million in 2026

7) Under this legislation, in 2018, average premiums for benchmark plans for single policyholders would be about 20 percent higher than under current law,

8) under this legislation, 64- year-olds could be charged five times as much as 21-year-olds, CBO and JCT expect, compared with three times as much under current law—resulting in higher premiums for most older people.

9) For many lower-income people, the net premiums paid in the nongroup market under this legislation would be lower than those under current law if they purchased benchmark plans, but the plans would require them to pay a greater share of their health care costs.

“We will lower your premiums” the Republican Senators told us.  What they didn’t tell us: “The deductibles and copays will be much higher for all of you.”

10) For older people not eligible for premium tax credits, net premiums (after taking into account the tax savings from paying premiums from a health savings account) could be more than five times larger than those for younger people in many states, rather than only three times larger under current law.

11) Under this legislation, for a single policyholder purchasing an illustrative benchmark plan (with an actuarial value of 58 percent) in 2026, the deductible for medical and drug expenses combined would be roughly $13,000, the agencies estimate.

12) Because a deductible of $13,000 would be a large share of their income, many people with low income would not purchase any plan even if it had very low premiums.

If you are an “older American” – say, just a few years shy of being eligible for Medicare; if you are a family member of a person with Developmental Disabilities; if you are poor or working poor, or if you are a Christian, and simply aware of Jesus’ cry for the poor and a Christian’s call to be for the same thing Jesus is for, then you might want to call your United States Senator and let them know you oppose this legislation.  Offer a word of encouragement to them. One hundred bright Americans elected to deliberate and write legislation that builds up our great nation should really be able to come up with something better than this. (202) 224-3121

What He Saw

My father’s backyard view.

This is the last picture I took of my dad in his home. June 3, 2016, my mom and I brought him home after a three-day stay in the hospital for a mild heart attack. He would go back to the hospital the next morning and would go to his eternal rest less than 24 hours after that.

I remember after he drove his power chair up the ramp of his home, instead of going straight through the sliding glass door that leads from the deck into the house, he pivoted to where he could see this magnificent view (that this photograph barely even captures). It made me grin to think this was the first thing he wanted to do after getting home from the hospital – take in this view that he had experienced for 60 years. So I tried to capture with a picture one of the things that he loved.

As I look back now, on this anniversary of my father’s death, I can’t help but reflect on all the things that he saw in his almost 91 years of life. This particular view of his beloved Old Hickory lake changed almost by the hour. The clouds one can see in this picture would eventually transform into the backdrop for a multi-hued sunset of gray and rose and blues and flecks of gold sparkling on the water. My mother reminds us that every day they woke up and looked outside, the lake provided them a new and different vista.

It seems that most every thing my father saw was filled with possibility and new potential. I can hardly remember a discouraging word coming from his mouth. About the only times I remember him raising his voice at me was was for parental guidance that was wholely deserved. However, I do remember him (surprisingly) fussing at his grandchildren on occasion. It was when he heard them say: “I can’t!” He would respond with a firm: “Don’t ever say ‘you can’t.'” And he would leave it at that. I think even as youngsters they got it – that this man who had walked with a brace from the time he was 7 years old, and whom they had witnessed not being slowed down a single step by that “handicap,” was gently reminding them that sometimes it is nothing but our attitude that gets in the way of our achievement.

My dad was amazing at seeing things the way they could be and should be, and then figuring out a way to get involved in moving his vision as close to reality as he could. He did that as a PTO dad, as a State Legislator, as a member of the city planning commission, as a leader in his church.

He was also amazing at seeing things that would never be and loving them just the same. When Leann and I were expecting our third child I had already decided if it was a boy I was going to name him John Mathias Steinhauer, IV. But I was not naming him after me. I was naming him after my dad. A few hours after Matt was born, and we discovered he had Down syndrome, I was really torn about what my father would think about having a retarded grandchild named after him. I never asked my dad what he thought about that. I didn’t have to. He was always as proud and involved with Matt as any of his seven grandchildren. What he saw was “one of his grandchildren.” He didn’t see the imperfections and obvious differences that the world would see in Matt.

If I see half the things my father saw – the way he saw them – I will be OK.

Between the Light and the Darkness

Advent Light

On a crisp November afternoon I found myself between the light and the darkness.

There is an official name for the celestial version of that condition: “dusk.” I needed to be there as I installed outdoor Christmas lights. In that place between light and dark, I would be able to see what I was doing, as well as being able to see the lights themselves.

Alone with the silence, I found myself quiet and still enough to reflect on the great empty space that had come upon me over the Thanksgiving Holiday, due to the absence of my sweet father after his death in the late spring.  Standing in the shadows of my house that blocked a setting sun, holding a tangled wad of Christmas lights, I was surprised to catch myself not fretting over having to spend extra time getting the green-wired-mess straight.  Instead, I was fretting to myself over my friends and family who have made this journey before me.  “Why didn’t you tell me it would hurt like this?” I asked all the faces I could think of who had experienced a “first Thanksgiving” (or Christmas) without Mom or Dad.  In the same instant I was asking myself: “Why did you not know it would be this way – you who have prayed for, and walked with, people on this same journey as their pastor?”

Shaking my head seemed more appropriate than shaking my fist.  And I quickly remembered having the same feeling after my first grandchild, Emaline, was born – that feeling when I understood there are some life experiences for which words fall short of showing the way for another to know the truth.

In the almost six months of having to go through all those hard “first-time-without-Daddy” annually occurring events, this had been the hardest yet.  After his death on June 5th, Father’s Day came around exactly two weeks later, and soon on the heels of that sad reckoning was what would have been his 91st Birthday on July 23rd.  Maybe I was still so numb from his death that I was somewhat protected from the deep sorrow in those first “first-time” experiences. When my birthday rolled around in early November, I was quite sad that I didn’t get my annual birthday lunch at Nashville’s German restaurant, The Gerst Haus.  My dad always took me and his dear lifelong friend, Lucien Swint, for lunch (our birthdays were close together).  Afterwards we would explore their boyhood stomping grounds, by driving slowly through East Nashville, with the two of them narrating a play-by-play of who lived in every house, and the memories that resided on what seemed like every street corner and old building.  It was an annual tradition rich with meaning for me.

Dictionary.com defines the adjective “dusk” as “tending to darkness.”  I understand the thinking behind that being the possible description of an adjective, but I really think “tending to darkness” should be a verb. It adequately describes my feelings on that afternoon of hanging lights.  I was indeed “tending to darkness” – the darkness of my own soul and spirit.  But because “dusk” is that liminal place between daylight and dark, while I might have been “tending to darkness,” I seemed to be “leaning to light.”

I thought about some other “firsts.”  I thought about what my dad might have felt like the first time he got to hold me after I was born.  I thought of the first time he went to one of my school plays, and the first time he heard me sing and play my guitar in public.  I thought of the first time he got to see me hold my own child for the first time.  I thought of the first time he got to see me lead worship as an ordained Lutheran pastor.  The sun kept going down and the coming of dark could not be avoided. But maybe because I had spent that day in the reality of Advent hope, my spirit was no longer tracking step-for-step with the declining sun.

Advent is a four Sunday season of the church that begins the liturgical year.  Some people think about it as a “countdown to Christmas,” but in reality, it is a season to reflect on the expectant waiting and preparation Christians  are called to do until the return of Jesus Christ at the end of the age.  In churches that observe the liturgy, one will see altars and pulpits draped with blue fabric, and the clergy vestments will include blue stoles.  There will be a wreath of four blue candles, and in some churches perhaps one might see banners and other decorations bearing the blue of Advent.  It is a “blue” season, and as it turns out,  it seems that description could be taken literally and figuratively.

Advent occurs over the very days that the daylight hours grow to their shortest and darkest.  There is scientific evidence that a lack of sunlight can impact and magnify feelings of depression. Like my own experience, this is the time of year when many people experience the exact opposite emotion of all that is being advertised, talked about, and promoted in the malls and TV commercials: joy, happiness, celebration.  It is a time when, for some people, it is very easy to find one’s self in a “blue” mood.

The color “blue” is used for Advent because it is known as a color that represents “hope.” Perhaps there is no better reason to hope, in this season of Advent, than to reflect on the promise of Christ’s return and what that will mean for all who find themselves in darkness this time of year.

There are two passages from the book of Revelation that offer great hope:

“See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them as their God; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them;  he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away” (Rev. 21:3b-4 NRSV).


I saw no temple in the city, for its temple is the Lord God the Almighty and the Lamb. And the city has no need of sun or moon to shine on it, for the glory of God is its light, and its lamp is the Lamb. The nations will walk by its light, and the kings of the earth will bring their glory into it. Its gates will never be shut by day—and there will be no night there (Rev. 21:22-25).

No tears, no darkness.  That’s enough for me to hope for on a crisp November afternoon.


Father Teacher

There is so much I want to say at the death of my father – an amazing, kind, gentle and loving man.  I could point you to the several hundred word articles written about his life after he died that were published in local papers and social media.  I could point you to a beautifully done TV news story about his time with FDR at Warm Springs, GA, when he was a 7 year old boy, that aired on the day after he died.Happy Father's Day II

When my dad was diagnosed with some significant heart problems in the last few days of his life I really thought I would have some weeks left to be in his presence. I had already decided that for Father’s Day I would publish a poem that I wrote for him 15 years ago on my blog.  It seemed to be even more true after the ensuing decade and a half since its creation.  Instead, the Father’s Day recognition was offered as a brief Eulogy for him at his funeral on Wednesday, June 8, 2016.

While I hope the images of a “parent/child” relationship are universal enough for anyone to appreciate, there is one stanza that was written out of an experience that only a handful of people witnessed, and so I will share that experience with you here so you may listen to the poem with greater clarity.

The summer after my freshman year in college, when my dad was serving in the Tennessee State Legislature, he and his colleague and good friend, Rep. Jack Burnett, took their families to Nassau, Bahamas, for a week at Paradise Island Resort.  In addition to me, my high school aged sister and my junior high aged younger brother were present.  The Burnett family included two daughters that were about my brother’s age.

Upon checking in at the hotel my dad asked the clerk if he could recommend a good “family oriented” show that we might experience.  “Of course!  The ‘Bahamian Review’ is in our own hotel and it includes dinner and a great floor show!” the clerk replied.  “And it is ‘family’ oriented?” my dad confirmed.  A couple nights later the two families, dressed in our fine dinner wear, were seated at a long table that accommodated the dozen of us.  The table butted right up against the stage, so one could not ask for a better seat in the house.

After a wonderful meal the house lights went down, the show orchestra began the overture.  Spotlights swirled around the large room full of dinner theater attendees and as they swept across the stage I sensed something was moving from the ceiling above.  My brother was sitting with his right shoulder against the stage, and I was directly across the table from him.  As the stage lights began to come up, I looked above to see two giant bird-cage-like contraptions on each end of the stage and in addition to the feathers and glittered costumes there were two beautiful women wearing nothing from the waist up!

As this situation became apparent to the rest of the table I could see my mother “look” at my father with a: “this is a FAMILY show?” look in her eyes.  The only way my brother and I could avoid the tension between my mother and father (and the embarrassment of having all the young females in our group see our blushing faces) was just to keep staring at those cages and those naked women inside them.  As I shared with the family and friends gathered for my father’s funeral, when I told this story there, if looks really could kill, then we would have all been gathered in the summer of 1974 for my father’s funeral, and we would have been begging his friends with political connections to get permission for his widow and (our mother) to be released from jail (where she was being held for justifiable homicide) long enough to attend the funeral.

My life is full of fun stories because of my dad.  My life is full of good memories and deep wisdom because of my dad.  I am grateful and glad.  But today my heart hurts in realizing this is the first Father’s Day in 60 years that I will do it without my Dad.

I love you Daddy!

Father Teacher

I’ve spent a fair fortune in recent years,

          to hang a paper in a frame,

to add some letters behind my name,

that would tell the world

I have learned.

But now I know to the “nth” degree,

the greatest lessons were given me

by a loving



my Daddy.

You taught me how to shake a hand

   and look somebody in the eye.

You taught me how to open my mouth

   and speak distinctly.

   Did I?

You taught me how to avoid a fight;

 it served me well,

 not a single black eye.

You took me to exotic places

and showed me

   dancing naked ladies.

(That your life was spared

for another day on the beach

 was perhaps

  the greater miracle!)

You’ve lived your life in such a way

  that to mirror yours would be OK.

And now the turn is mine alone

to pass these lessons to my own.

My greatest hope when I do,

is that I pass them the largest part

of what I learned from you.

Matt Steinhauer – Father’s Day, 2001

Growing Roses

I’ve never tried to grow a rose,
but from those who do
I hear
a challenge awaits. 

The soil must be right,
the shears sharp
the sun bright
the trellis straight.
All these pieces put into place
in right order
and right space,
might yield
a bursting fragrant bloom,
petals soft to touch,
color to catch your eye
quick before it’s gone.

I’ve never tried to mother a child
but from women who do
I see
a challenge awaits.

The love must be right
the discipline sharp
the smile bright
the truth straight.
All these pieces put into place
in right order
and right space
might yield
a healthy happy life,
returned hugs to hold onto,
words to wash the worries away,
quick before they’re grown.

Growing roses
is like growing children.
You get back
what you give them.
Matt Steinhauer