Closure

Last night I attended the funeral service for my friend R. His service filled the church. I was hoping that the evening would bring closure for me. It did.

Our pastor knew R well. He shared stories about R to which we all could relate.

At one point R spoke for himself. We were shown a videotape in which he spoke about his own life before and since asking Jesus to guide him. It was a joy to see him one more time, sharing intimately in that same intense and honest way he did so often in meetings.

R’s father and brother both spoke briefly. Their voices and gestures left no doubt that they were family. It was my privilege to speak with them both afterward. R’s father thanked me for the love I had shown his son. I thanked him for helping make it possible for me to know R.

And so…

Goodbye my friend, I will remember you for many years to come.

I will remember your enthusiasm and joy for life on the good days and the pain in your eyes on the bad ones. I will remember the squeeze of your bear hugs given freely and the scent of cologne that accompanied you everywhere. I will remember the volume and cadence and sincerity of your words as you shared with me from your heart. I will remember the light in your eyes when you would proclaim; "Our God is an AWESOME God!"

I will miss the feelings I felt when your were with me, accepted and understood and loved. I am grateful that our paths intersected and that you paused in your journey long enough for us to get to know each other just a little.

I will miss you, my friend.

Goodbye.

Taking a Break

I haven't posted for a about a week. My friend R's death has left me thinking but with no desire to share my thoughts. His funeral is tomorrow. Maybe that will bring some closure for me.

I searched for a computer-based Bible study this week and found them to be just too expensive. The least expensive ones are $15. For $200 you can get bells and whistles. The serious ones range from $400 to $800. Wow.

Then, while searching online, I found e-Sword.net. This site was put up by a gentleman in Tennessee who has made it his ministry to write and distribute for free a Bible study that rivals the best of those for sale. I began downloading it several nights ago and continue to add modules.

I am guided by a desire to learn about the God of my fathers. Now that I have commited to growing my relationship with God I want to insure that it is not simply a God of my own invention.

The e-Sword software allows me to read from over a dozen translations, compare them to each other, learn of the culture of the people in biblical times, use any of several dictionaries to find definitions, view the original Hebrew and Greek texts and read commentaries by a variety of scholars.

Best of all, I can work at my own pace.

I never thought I would have an interest in bible study. Go figure.....

Goodbye Friend

Today was unfolding like so many others. Then I received the phone call.

"Roy, R is dead," he said.

"Do you mean R from church?"

"Yes. No one had seen him for days so I went to his house to check on him. He was siting in his chair, dead."

I felt a chill as the horrible scene was described, then compassion for the caller who would suffer the memory of his discovery for weeks to come, then gratitude that a mutual friend had called me to gently deliver the news of R's passing, then sadness at our loss. Many other feelings followed. I expect even more will come.

I made phone calls of my own, in turn. Better to hear this from a friend than from some uncaring acquaintance just eager to be the first to pass along bad news.

R had been a friend and a fellow member of our Fellowship. I first met him two years ago. He had shared his story with us willingly, telling it with tears and laughter, describing both the ugly selfishness that sometimes filled his heart and the love that replaced it when he asked God to guide his thoughts and actions.

R shared often about his relationship with God. Sometimes he would suddenly proclaim to anyone who happened to be within earshot, "Our God is an awesome God!"

R often seemed filled with joy and enthusiasm, but just as often with sadness and depression. He was a study in contrasts, driven at times by boundless happiness and at others by unrelenting pain, both physical and emotional.

Pain had come to dominate his spirits in recent months, even as a prospect of corrective surgery offered some hope of relief.

I asked myself for hours after receiving the call, what might I have done to help him? Had I truly been there for him? Was there something I could have done or said to give him comfort, or perhaps even to have altered the outcome of events?
I don't know.

I will remember R for a long time to come. He inspired me and challenged me and offered me an example of just how intensely a man could seek and embrace his God.

Win the Lottery

What would you do if you hit big in the Lottery?

I don’t usually spend time imagining "what if", but last weekend I ate a meal alone in a restaurant and found my mind wandering.

If I won big in the Lottery I would immediately do these things:

* Tell no one and lock the wining ticket in a bank safety deposit box.
* Immediately hire a lawyer, arrange for a leave of absence at work and move the family into a nearby-furnished apartment.
* Reach agreement with my wife to divide the money into three portions; a one-half share for the family and two one-quarter shares for her and me to own and manage separately.

After doing the above I would allow time for the family to make the emotional transition. I have heard past Lottery winners proclaim that they would continue in their jobs and not change their lives significantly. Then I seldom heard about them again. I suspect that most of them did eventually quit their jobs and found that their lives underwent significant and inevitable change.

I don’t know just what direction my life would take. I have never been rich. But, in general, these are things I would like to see happen:

* Take care of any medical or financial emergencies facing members of our respective families.
* Arrange the best possible education for our children.
* Invest the greatest part of our wealth in a way that preserves it throughout our expected lifetimes.
* Travel at least twice a year to exotic places in which we can spend weeks in leisurely exploration.
* Hire the best medical, nutritional and fitness professionals to improve and maintain our health.
* Establish an independently managed trust fund to provide loans and grants to relatives for education, medical emergencies and other important life issues.
* Buy a Prevost custom motor coach so we can travel comfortably throughout North America.

What remain are personal wishes I would like to fulfill.

* Return to college and work on a graduate degree in Philosophy.
* Hike the Appalachian Trail from end to end.
* Gather my siblings for a family reunion at a resort where we can be pampered and fed well.
* Travel to Sweden, Wales, Scotland, Ireland and England to visit the lands of my ancestors.
* Purchase the house in Detroit Lakes, Minnesota where I spent summers with my grandparents.
* Establish and fund a recovery clubhouse in Harrisburg, PA where 12-Step meetings and recovery oriented social gatherings can be held.

That is as far as my imagination can carry me. There are few material things I want. Every time we packed to move I found myself wishing I didn’t possess most of the things I already own. But I really do want to purchase the Prevost motor coach; always have, always will. In fact, I would give up a house for the Prevost and be willing to live on the road.

What I want most in life is peace of mind, with occasional periods of joy and happiness, and the courage and faith to endure the inevitable bad times. If I had a life like that, I wouldn’t need to win the Lottery.

Reaching Out

I reached out to my family tonight. It had been many weeks since I spoke to some of them, many months for others. One of my worst character defects is my willingness to ignore things, seemingly forever. To ignore a needed oil change for the car is one thing, ignoring the important people in my life is quite another.

I am the oldest of four children. I live a thousand miles from my siblings while they live within just a few mile of each other. They are Sister One, Sister Two and Little Brother. Sister One is three years younger than me, Sister Two is twelve years younger than Sister One, Little Brother is three years younger than sister Two. Our parents had raised two pair of children, a decade apart.

I reached out tonight by telephone. I called Sister One and we caught each other up on the news about our spouses and children. Everyone is OK, always good news. Sister One gave me a telephone number for Sister Two who had moved. Sister Two also was OK, all things considered, and that was more good news.

I left a message on Little Brother's answering machine. I assume everything is OK with him. Neither sister suggested any reason for concern.

The dynamics of interaction between family members can be powerful and complicated. Since I moved away from home at the age of seventeen I have managed to avoid complications and conflict by ignoring my family. It wasn't that I didn't love them and need them, I just could not seem to cope with conflict and complication. I also had difficulty dealing with guilt. Being with my family always made me feel guilty.

By now you are getting the picture. I was a mess.

Our home was a tough place to grow up. I left at the first opportunity. At seventeen I joined the Navy and traded home for boot camp. I felt guilty for leaving my siblings behind when I left. For years I imagined that I might return someday as a successful adult, able to rescue my sisters and brother from the abusive prison I had imagined our home to be.

But there was no rescue. In my third year of service I was discharged fom the Navy because of a pre-existing medical condition. As a minor with little money I was unable to support myself and live independently. I found it necessary to return to the home I had fled.

Guilt piled upon guilt. I abandoned the other kids when I ran away. I did not rescue them. I returned home, ashamed at having failed to succeed in the world. I displaced my sister from her bedroom when I returned to live with the family. I did not accompany them later when Dad moved the family to Chicago, abandoning the kids again. These guilts were stacked upon older guilts; for having been a crippled boy with polio, for being a constant disappointment to my father, for having been born at all.

In the Navy I had acquired a taste for alcohol. Alcohol helped me to cope with feelings like guilt, shame and inadequacy. It erased those feelings for as long as I remained intoxicated.

Over the years, alcohol became not only a coping tool but also a substite for the things I lacked. I did not need to strive for excellence or take pride in my work, alcohol made me feel good enough. I did not need friends or a healthy social life, alcohol erased lonliness. I did not need happiness or security or a spiritual life. Eventually I did not even need self respect.

And I certainly did not need or want the feelings of guilt and shame that seemed always to accompany visits with my family. A card at Christmas, a phone call on a birthday and a drink made me feel that my family obligations had been met.

My soul was empty, my life lacked purpose, I had no peace of mind and I cared little about or for anyone. But a few drinks could make me comfortably numb and I settled for that, it seemed like enough.

Three years ago I reached out for help from God and from others after thirty-seven years of substitution. I needed God and I wanted people in my life, not intoxicating substitutes.

Tonight I reached out again for my family. I need and want them too.

Land of 10,000 Lakes

I spent my boyhood summers in Minnesota. My grandparents rented a cottage each year near the town of Detroit Lakes and we would travel there and back by car from Wilmington, Delaware. What an adventure!

Those were the days before Interstate highways. Granddad would drive directly to the Pennsylvania Turnpike then traverse its entire length. We climbed and descended mountains, sometimes even passing under them through tunnels where traffic travelled in opposite directions on single lanes separated by only a painted yellow line. The roar of engines and whine of tires were deafening, the strobe effect of passing overhead lights made the passage seem surreal. Grandma would grip the dashboard and armrest tightly, fearful that a fiery crash could engulf us at any moment. She was right! My heart raced until we emerged again safely into the sunlight.

My granparents were frugal Swedish immigrants. Meals on the road were prepared standing at the open trunk lid of the big Oldsmobile. Breakfast was bread with peanut butter and jelly. Lunch was a sandwich, ham, bologna and cheese or (gag) pimento loaf. At supper we splurged on meals selected from the menu of a budget roadside diner. Macaroni and cheese or meatloaf seemed to be statistical favorites. The turnpike provided roadside picnic tables every few miles so families like ours could dine just a few feet from the roadway, squinting against the dust and gravel thrown up by passing trucks. I imagined myself a pioneer blazing a trail westward.

The Pennsylvania Turnpike gave way to the Ohio Turnpike, followed in turn by the Indiana Turnpike. Every year Grandad griped about the price of gasoline at the rest areas. It was a nickel higher than gas beyond the toll booths. Highway robbery he called it.

We usually ended the day's travel by 6:00 PM when Grandad would find an inexpensive motel. He avoided those lit by too much glowing neon, a warning of unecessary and high-priced opulence. Fortunately, the cost of theme-based tourist cabins fell right into our budget. I loved these places. They each had an office/coffee shop set beside a dozen or more separate cabins built to resemble something a kid would find magical. They might be painted Indian teepees made of sheet metal or a row of identical log cabins or miniature castles with stunted towers at each corner or tiny one-roomed Victorian houses with a miniature porch just big enough for a single steel lawn chair. I still have a collection of postcards depicting places with names like The Apache Tourist Lodge and King Arthur's Camelot Court. I suppose they've all long since fallen to make way for car dealerships and Starvin' Marvin convenience stores.

The passage through Illinois was carefully navigated to avoid the chaos of Chicago. Wisconsin was a single-lane odyssey through old-growth forests and dairy farms and then at last we reached the mystical land beyond the Mississippi River.

Minnesota, the Land of 10,000 Lakes. As we crossed the state line I would be catapulted into a state of perpetual excitement and anticipation. Everything became suddenly special; the sillouette of the state road signs, the design and color of the license plates, the smell of the air, the taste of the water from the drinking fountains. This was Minnesota! I had waited all year to arrive. I had planned and dreamed and counted down the days until summer and then, after working myself into a fever pitch in the back seat of the Delta 88, I exploded in joy as the tires sang across the metal deck of the bridge over the nation's mightiest river and carried me into a land of sweet summer dreams come true.

Here was a world that existed for me only three weeks each year. Fishing at sunrise for a breakfast of walleye and perch. Skpping down gravel roads to in search of friends not seen for a year, taller and older now and hopefully as excited to see me as I was them. Long hours spent on the lake alone in Grandad's varnished lapstrake utility boat with the ten-horsepower Evenrude outboard, entrusted to me because I had ably demonstrated my maturity and good seamanship. Nights spent lying on the boat dock staring at stars, envying the local kids for their privilege of living in a paradise they took for granted.

The weeks always passed too quickly. I spent the last few days wishing it would never end. I dreamed that I might some day return and spend a whole summer recreating the joy of those few weeks in July.

The trip home was always very different from the trip out. I rode silently in the back, staring at passing telephone wires, watching them dip and rise from pole to pole, hypnotized by the drone of the tires and their rythmic slapping against the highway tar strips.

I rode lost in my memories, holding onto images frozen in time, burning them into my mind so I could recall them at will during the cold lonely Delaware winter.

I have not returned to Minnesota in over 40 years. I would not wish to revisit the old places and find them unrecongizable, changed as much as I have myself. My memories have faded over time but they still can rekindle the warm feeling that engulfed me each summer as I crossed the Mississippi and entered the Land of 10,000 Lakes.

My Guns

I like guns. I love that they kick when fired and are so loud that I have to wear ear protectors.

My favorite is a Mossberg 500 pistol-gripped 20-guage shotgun. I call it my home defender. To fire I hold it at waist level, lock my right elbow tightly against my waist and BLAM! No need to aim, just point it in the general direction of the target. Firing 20-guage cartridges gives it authority without excessive kick. In home defense mode I load the first two cartridges in birdshot and the rest in buckshot. I plan to add a clamp-on, under-barrel flashlight and a sling for stability and carrying.

Next favorite is a Glock model 23; a medium-sized semiautomatic pistol chambered for S&W 40 caliber rounds. It is a sweet shooter and fits perfectly in my hand. Shooters either love or hate Glocks. I love mine. It has tritium night sights and I carry it in a Galco "Jack Ass Rig" shoulder holster. My alternate carry is a Fobus paddle holster.

Some of my other favorites are, in no particular order:

* Smith & Wesson model 686 357-magnum stainless steel revolver with 8 3/8-inch barrel and Hogue rubber grip. The first hand gun I ever bought.

* Smith & Wesson model 629 44-magnum stainless steel revolver with 6 ½ inch barrel. This gun belonged to my friend Matthew. His widow gave it to me. Mathew wanted me to have it. His only stipulation was that I could never sell it without first offering it to one of his descendents. I will never sell it.

* Ruger Mark II 22-caliber stainless steel target pistol. Very accurate.

* Ruger 22-calibur semiautomatic rifle with scope. The ultimate plinker.

If I ever find $350 under my side of the mattress I will buy an AK-47. I watched a documentary about Kalashnikov and was so impressed by his accomplishment that I promised to make his rifle my next purchase.

I’m glad Pennsylvania offers a license for concealed-carry of weapons. The license makes it convenient to carry firearms to and from the range without worry that a police officer might find an issue with the quantity and type of weapons in the car. About once a month I carry a concealed handgun on the weekends. I do it just because I can and also to protect my right to do so. I believe we are all safer when criminals don’t know which one of us just might be armed.

I am a responsible gun owner. At home my guns are stored unloaded and locked in safes. The ammunition is stored separately.

Anyone whom calls me a gun nut probably does not own a gun. Every hunter I know owns more guns than I do. I don’t hunt. I enjoy shooting, but I find no pleasure in killing.

Spiritual Overhaul

Last year I went into the shop for some major mechanical work. One of my lower ball joints had worn out and needed replacement. I didn’t want to suffer the downtime but it became increasingly difficult to limp along ignoring the need for repair. So, one cold February day as I slept comfortably amid the racket of saws and hammers and chisels and drills, a surgeon removed my damaged right hip and replaced it with a two-pound chromium cobalt and titanium assembly. That marked for me the end of one journey and the beginning of another.

My hip had been deformed by a childhood illness, Legg-Calve-Perthis Disease. An unexplained disruption of blood flow to the hip joint had caused temporary bone death and the resulting deformity. After several years on crutches I was able to lead a nearly normal life. What was not normal was living with the knowledge that my hip would wear out prematurely and need to be replaced, maybe soon.

My anxiety filled pre-surgical journey began at the age of ten and lasted forty-six years. I spent those years avoiding heavy lifting, running, jumping, and any strenuous activity that might accelerate the deterioration of my hip. I was excused from physical education in school and never participated in any sports.

By the age of forty it seemed my hip might last the rest of my life. But shortly afterward I began to experience a dull ache while lying in bed or sitting in one position for extended periods of time. Sharper pain began to occur after I stood for more than an hour or turned a corner too quickly. Aspirin, Ibuprophen and bed rest took care of the problem for many years but eventually the discomfort became nearly unbearable and I went in search of a surgeon.

The thought of hip replacement surgery filled me with terror. I had seen a video tape of the procedure years earlier. It was gruesome. What frightened me most was imagining that I might not wake up from general anesthesia. I feared death. I didn’t feel like the surgery would restore my health. I felt like it would kill me.

I interviewed surgeons, looking for the right one. I had to trust that each had the required skill. What I was searching for was a doctor who displayed confidence sufficient to overcome my fears. I found him at last and moved to the next step, making peace with God.

This proved to be difficult; I did not know God. I had allowed my relationship with the God of my boyhood to wither and die. So I looked to the example of my friend Matthew who had died of cancer three years earlier. When doctors told him he had only months to live he dedicated himself to discovering the God he had never really known. He used every resource at hand including frequent visits with the pastor of a nearby church. The night before he passed away Matthew called me to say goodbye. He said he did not know if he truly had found and understood God but that seeking God had filled him with a deep sense of faith and peace.

That conversation encouraged me to believe that I might also find faith in the process of seeking God. I bought a Bible and read it, both Old and New Testaments. I completed several Bible study courses and read of how Christianity interpreted the Scriptures. I began praying regularly in the way suggested by my 12-Step program, asking God only to help me understand His will for me and the power to carry that out.

As the date grew closer I became less and less afraid. I came to accept that I had no control over the outcome of my surgery. My role would be just to do what I was told and to accept the results. I still was not confident that I would awaken from surgery but now I viewed that prospect as only one of many possible outcomes, all equally acceptable and completely out of my hands.

One week before entering the hospital I walked alone on a forest trail and talked with God as I had come to understand Him. I turned my fears and my life over to God and told Him that I trusted Him to determine the outcome. The only thing that still concerned me, I shared with Him, was how I would manage to strengthen my legs and learn to walk again while confined indoors during the coldest and snowiest part of winter. As soon as I had expressed the concern I turned that over to Him as well.

On the way home, just as I was about to turn onto my street, I passed a neighbor’s driveway. There, as a cold rain began to fall, I found an expensive computerized treadmill with a sign taped to it reading, "FREE, IT WORKS." The neighbor helped to transport it to my house and as he was leaving I told him about my conversation with God. He smiled and said, "Well son, that’s how it works."

My post-operative journey began on a snowy February morning. The surgery did not go as planned. The one and one half-hour procedure stretched into three hours as the surgeon encountered unexpected complications. My hip deformity was more severe than anticipated, requiring substitution of the planned high-tech ceramic ball component with a more traditional chromium cobalt metal ball.

I awakened to pain more intense than any I had ever experienced. It was caused by nerve damage that morphine and oxicotin could not affect. It interfered with my ability to perform rehab exercises. I spent much longer in bed and on crutches than expected. The surgeon explained that my complications seemed related to damage to the nerves and muscles of my leg caused by polio decades earlier.

Gradually the pain was replaced by numbness in my leg and foot, followed eventually by just a constant sensation of electric tingling. It took over a year to progress to the point most patients reach only months after surgery. But today I walk without a cane and with no pain.

How do I feel about enduring surgery and the complications that followed? I feel grateful. My experience brought me closer to God and it taught me patience, acceptance, hope and faith. I learned to accept needed help from others without feeling shame or resentment. I learned that, whether or not things go the way I wish, they still work out in the end. I learned to accept love and care from family and friends without interpreting their attention as expressions of pity.

I learned that I am powerless to control my fate, and that that is OK. Life happens. I deal with that by seeking the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference. I find that serenity, courage and wisdom in my relationship with the God of my understanding. That relationship grows through continuing to surrender my own will, seeking to know God’s will for me and accepting it.

Why Blog?

Not every blog post has to be an attempt to explore profound truths (I'm telling myself that, not you.) This blog is just a rambling discussion with myself.

I shared the secret that I blog with some friends recently. Afterward I asked myself why I had told them. Was I just looking for attention? I decided my reason was different in each case.

I told Benny because I wanted to reconnect with an old friend at a personal level. We live a thousand miles apart now and I miss the conversations we used to have over lunch when we worked together years ago. Sharing my blog seemed to be a chance to reopen a channel of communication, at least in one direction.

I told John because he is an author and I am interested in his feedback. It has been years since I took a course in composition and had a teacher to offer criticism of my writing. I would like to hear John's opinion whether it is that he finds my words to be "sloppy and self-absorbed" or "tightly woven and spell binding." John hasn't said anything yet. Maybe he is being kind.

I told my sister because we have grown so far apart over the years. I don't speak with her often and our visits are years apart. I want her to know more about who I am. Of course, she may already know me very well. She may know me better than I know myself. Still, I would like her to learn something about me from my writing.

I told my 12-Step sponsor because I want him to have an opportunity to see me from all possible angles. I don't want to hide any part of me from my sponsor. He is the one person to whom I have chosen to be completely accountable. I'm not sure I have told him I view our relationship in that way. If not then he will read it here. I'm sure he will offer feedback, soon.

But, why have I chosen to share myself with a world of strangers through this blog? My reason is a selfish one. I have learned that sharing thoughts and feelings honestly is cleansing and healing for me. I learned that fact in a group setting where we speak for five minutes to others we know only by first name. I leave the meetings in which I have shared feeling better. I feel better after sharing myself in a blog post.

Or, maybe I am doing this just because I am self-absorbed. I remember my brother once described my infequent visits as occasions in which I "show up every couple of years and talk about myself for hours." His words stung me but I sensed their truth as I heard them and I appreciated his candor, although I don't remember telling him so.

Being self-absorbed is certainly one of my character defects. I acknowledge being selfish and self-centered and I work at being less so. I have many other character defects as well.

I need to express myself. It is just part of my human nature. I don't expect always to be right or to be understood but I need to express myself. I express things in this blog that I would not in face to face converstion. That is a good thing. Many topics I write about here are more personal than those I would discuss openly with most people. Some topics would just be boring to others. By writing about them here I allow the reader to just move on without having to tell me "I really don't care to know any more about this."

I feel better just having written what I did above.