Dear Mrs. Ludwig,
dear Rudi, Anna, Peter and Becky,
.PP
.fi
.na
I was perched on a stepladder repairing our front hall ceiling
when Jeane Walls telephoned to tell me of Pastor Ludwigs death.
I had been thinking of him just a few minutes before,
wondering if I should send him a chapter from a German novel
that I am working on,
wondering whether my efforts would meet with his approval,
as I might, in years past, have submitted it
to my parents for their blessing.
.PP
The Tauber is a gentle stream which has carved a broad
and pleasant valley into the upland of southern Germany,
and on its banks, in the middle of a sloping field near
the village of Creglingen, at the site where a farmer is
reputed to have ploughed up a sacred relic, stands a small
Gothic church, not much larger than the rural churches
that Pastor Ludwig served. Its center is taken up by a monumental
altar carved by Tilman Riemenschneider,
which depicts the Assumption of Mary,
translated by the spirit of the Reformation
into a more Protestant theme,
for it shows a human being,
transfigured by death to celestial tranquillity,
and at her feet all those whom she
left behind, wrenched by the grief of separation,
precisely, I believe,
the situation in which we find ourselves now.
A massive cross-beam spanning the nave, 
which bears the inscription:
"Selig sind die Toten, die in dem Herrn sterben." 
(Blessed are the dead, that die in the Lord.) 
literally and perhaps also figuratively 
supports the walls of the Church.
When Jeane's telephone call summoned me from my ladder,
that inscription developed a new dimension for me.
.PP
He was the only friend my father ever had.
I think I speak not only for myself,
but for my parents and for the rest of my family:
He was a mirror that reflected
what was good about our lives
and forgave us our shortcomings
with generosity and kindness.
What will become of us now?