Gratitude

Life is good.  I like writing that.  Gratitude.  In AA we promote an "attitude of gratitude".  Resentments are the fodder for drinking, and gratitude is the foundation of sobriety.  I have much to be grateful for these days.

Karla and I are doing well.  To say the last few years have been times of upheaval is an understatement.  Both of us have experienced significant vocational changes.  Alcoholism and treatment.  Disability. Uncertainty.  Yeah, try buying a home and then almost immediately crashing and burning.  The future often seemed uncertain.  But I'm working doing the two things I love, and Karla is dedicating herself to the fine art of being an Oma (as well as caring for Kersten's grandma.

Two things about our children.  First, each of them makes us proud to be parents.  They are pursuing their dreams and succeeding.  And secondly, what a joy it is that we have a wonderful relationship with all of them.  With all the discord in families, we are grateful for the loving relationships we have enjoyed.

Today, I am also overwhelmed with the generosity of my congregation and the direction things are going.  It's a small band of believers.  Small.  About 20 to 25 in worship on a Sunday.  We have been fortunate to have a little  money in the bank because the cost of my serving half time has been a stretch.  I think the budget is about $65,000 a year for this congregation.  Now just run the numbers on that for a moment.  We have to average about $3,000 per year from each person attending worship.  We've comforted ourselves that we have the reserves to weather some budgetary shortfalls.

And then the last two weeks.  Major year end gifts have left us not only in the black for the year, but have doubled our reserves.  Doubled.  I can't tell you how many times the council has wondered if we would be able to survive, but we have taken it one day at a time.  And then, two weeks.  Two offerings that exceeded all expectations.  Our members believe in the future of our ministry and have invested themselves heavily to make that possible.  What a joy it is to serve among such committed people.

We have a home.  This means two things for me.

When we came to Sandpoint nearly twenty years ago I had a goal.  I wanted to give my younger two children what I hadn't been able to give my older two, and what I never had myself.  A home.  A hometown, specifically.  Roots.  A place to return to.  That has happened.  Not only were they able to remain in Sandpoint throughout their youth, they have both found employment and remain here.  We enjoy interacting with them on a daily/weekly basis.  And we are able to be a significant part of our first grandchild's life.  Gratitude.

Less important than that, but still significant is our house.  Karla and I made the most significant financial decision of our lives when we stretched to buy this house.  And the timing couldn't have been worse, or better.  Both, actually.  We moved in the first of September, and I hit rock bottom the 14th of October.  Thankfully I had disability to help pay the mortgage.  We had made a significant withdrawal from my pensions to get into this house.  It seemed that we gambled a lot, and financial gambles are generally not a good thing for a bipolar person.  Bipolar people tend to not have a very good record in such matters. . .

But we bought at the low point in the market.  And as it turned out, we needed a place to live as we would have had to move out of the parsonage following my resignation.  What's delightful is that our investment has done well.  According to some of the value estimators, we now have more equity in the home than we owe.  In the end, the most questionable of all the financial decisions we have made will likely be the best decision we have made.  Oh, I realize that there will be ups and downs in the real estate market.  And that is rather irrelevant because we have no interest in selling.  But we have a home and that is important.

It's Christmas.  What a wonderful time.  We will celebrate with all our family.  We still have that privilege.  And again, we are grateful.  Grateful for the goodness of God that has sustained and blessed us throughout these years.

Peace to all of you this Christmas Eve.

Blessings and Hope

It's been a couple of weeks since my last post and I must admit that I wondered what I might say this morning.  There have been so many times over the last few years that there were such significant concerns to write about.  But today, life is good.

First of all, I continue my ongoing effort to wean myself from my smoking habit.  I've smoked for a long time, and this time, I've decided that I will succeed in breaking the habit.  I'm using the patch and that has been effective in allowing me to greatly reduce my smoking.  I struggle still with eliminating the smoking entirely.  It's not the nicotine fix that is the problem.  It is the pattern and behavioral issues.

Let's see, I've smoked for over 4 decades.  And virtually every single time I had the opportunity for a break from work, or study, or anything, I smoked.  That is what you do on break.  That is the hardest thing to overcome.  Last week we spent four days on a trip to Bend to visit my brother and sister-in-law.  Four days and no smoking whatsoever.  Probably the only challenge was golfing.  It struck me that golfing eighteen holes without either a smoke, or a beer, was quite a new thing.  It was fine.

But then this week it was back to work.  The most difficult thing about altering the behavior at work and smoking on breaks is, ironically, that we cannot smoke at work.  So when I show up to work at 5:30 am, I know that I will not have the opportunity to smoke again until 9:00 am.  And then at 11:30, and 2:00 pm.  At issue is a lifetime of making sure that I took advantage of the opportunities that I had to smoke so as not to experience a nic fit.  The patch takes care of the nicotine withdrawal.  It's the behavioral modification that remains an issue.  Still, I am delighted with my progress so far.  A few smokes a day is better than a pack and a half.

But a clear break is going to be necessary.  My goal?  I see my psychiatrist in mid August.  She's the one who has cared for me from the moment I entered chemical dependency treatment till now.  I'd love to be able to report to her that I have succeeded in quitting smoking.  But one of the things I will not do is set an absolute date.  Some may disagree with this.  My reason goes back to countless efforts to quit smoking over the years and attempts at going cold turkey.  What would happen is that I'd 'quit', and then amid the struggles of withdrawal, give in and have a smoke.  This would result in my feeling that I had failed, and so I'd resume smoking again.

Today my attitude is that every smoke I do not have is a victory, even if I continue to have a few.

But the goal is none.  It's just going to require diligence.  And not getting discouraged or allowing myself to feel a failure because I don't live up to other's or my own hopes and expectations.  And also, I rejoice that even now, my lungs are clear and the cough I've been experiencing is gone.

A byproduct of this effort is that I am sleeping better.  I'm not sure that I woke up to smoke, but when I woke up I always smoked.  Now, at 1:15 am I've discovered that one can roll over and return to sleep, most of the time.  I've slept through to my alarm a few times.  The thing is that when waking up requires getting dressed and going outside for a smoke, it is naturally more difficult to get back to sleep.  And at the same time, getting to sleep without the smoke is also hard.  Today, things have improved.  Another reason to continue the effort.

One final word on this today.  From the standpoint of chemical dependency I'm still on the patch.  I will not consider myself a non-smoker until that time when I neither smoke, nor use the patch,  But again, my commitment this time is to continue the effort even if it takes a few months.

Life is good.

One of the things that I did this last week was to rearrange my schedule so that I could participate in the weekly text study that the pastor's in Spokane have.  It's a reminder for me that there are things that I can do to improve the satisfaction and overall quality of my life.  Connecting with colleagues is important.

I have begun a couple of projects in my own shop.  That is rewarding.

The bottom line is this, that there is light at the end of the tunnel.  Being bipolar and struggling with chemical dependency issues is not a death sentence, or at least it need not be.

And so I'm grateful today.

Humility, Gratitude, and the Depth of Love

One of the thing I remember about growing up was the care packages we received from our extended family.  In particular, I remember one package that contained some pants for me.  My aunt and uncle, recognizing that our pastor's family often struggled to get by on the salary our church provided, had sent a box of hand-me-down clothes.  Only one problem, my cousin David was short and stocky, I was tall and skinny.  The pants I received were the correct length, but required a substantial, and I mean substantial, tuck to be taken in the waste line for me to wear.  The fit was such that my friends initially thought I had the first bell bottom pants in the school.  All that aside, our need was real, and the graciousness of the Michaelson's to recognize that need and offer their assistance was generous, and, underlying it was a depth of love.

Fast forward half a century.

Dammit, I'd like to be entirely self sufficient.  Pride can itself be a debilitating thing.  The truth is that all that has happened with my disability, with the change in my employment status, with medical bills, with coping with the challenges of life itself has left me in the position of either needing to recognize the need for help, and accept what help is available-- or to sink.

It's one thing to preach about Jesus Christ as being the Savior of the world.  It's quite another to admit I need a savior.

I'd rather be the savior.  This is particularly true of my manic side.  I've had some opportunities over the years to be the savior.  For example, when my daughter faced the challenge of student teaching.  Substantial tuition, little financial aid, a requirement that she not work outside of student teaching, oh, and a car that went belly up in the midst of it all left her needing some help.  "Daddy finance" came into play.  The total of those expenses tallied up to more than my gross income for that period, but I found a way.  I know it was hard for her to admit she needed help, and she was deeply grateful for the help that came.  There was another dimension of it, and that was the opportunity it gave me to act in love.

Ministry also offered me the opportunity to 'save' people from time to time.  Intervening in situations of spousal abuse, channeling donations to those in need, helping people negotiate the difficult decisions of life and death-- and many more examples.  It feels good to be the savior.

It's quite another thing to admit one needs a savior.

The last five and a half years have been humbling in that regard.  And I'm deeply grateful for the assistance that has been offered to me and my family.  But most of all, I'm overwhelmed by the depth of love that has been shown to us, through this whole set of circumstances.

The last night my father was alive we had a wonderful conversation.  At the end of it, as we each expressed our desire to have many more conversations like this, I apologized.  My work schedule had severely limited the amount of time I had to spend with dad, even though he lived with us.  "But," I told him, "at least its keeping the bills paid."  His response, and the last words he spoke to me, was "Well, my hope is that my being here will take some of the burden off you."  One of the beautiful things about Dad coming to live with us was that we could help him, and he was able to help us.

When I first entered the ministry, and was at Thompson Falls, the congregation was unable to meet expenses and pay my salary.  Recognizing our predicament, Mom and Dad joined our congregation even though it meant driving 75 miles to attend church, and became the largest contributors.  Dad was overjoyed that I had become a pastor but also was deeply aware, because of his own experience, of the financial challenges we would face.  Both he and mom tried to help as they could.

As I faced disability, unemployment, and all that went with it, he was concerned.  Dad realized that our financial challenges were far greater than those of my other siblings.  Each of them, and their spouses, had done well in professions that paid much more than pastoral ministry.  Dad was concerned for us.

What I found out this last week was that Dad asked one of my siblings to make sure that we'd be alright after he was gone.  I was emotionally overwhelmed when I found out about that.  Tears come to my eyes as I write this.

This would be 'touching' in many circumstances.  When the reality is that we have indeed needed help, and need help, it is moving to the depth of my soul.  I am grateful.  I feel loved and cared for.

I don't know where we'd be if it weren't for such love and care.  It has come to us from a variety of people in a variety of ways.  Even when we couldn't meet the challenges that presented themselves, others have stepped up to help.  Humility.  Gratitude. And allowing people to show their love in concrete ways.

To be on the receiving end of loving care is a blessed thing.  It is to experience grace.

I wouldn't understand or appreciate God's grace nearly as much without these experiences of grace shown to me.  When everything is going wonderfully well, we don't need grace.  We can make it on our own.  At the risk of overstating my case, it seems to me that unless we experience the need for grace, we will never appreciate the gift of grace.

Today, I am grateful.  For grace.  For love.  And for the people God has surrounded us with.

Good Grief

Dad died.  Unexpectedly.  Well, he was 94 years old and can one ever die unexpectedly at 94.  Probably not.  It's just that up until the last day he was doing fine for a man his age.  He was able to go for his walks.  His mind was as sharp as could be.

Dad came to live with us for the last month.  We'd hoped it might have been more.  He had shared that following Mom's death he was becoming increasingly lonely.  That's the problem of growing older.  One by one the companions of your life die, and you are left either seeking other companionship, or resolving to make the best of it alone.  I determined that the last thing I'd want would be is a lonely old man when I died, and so I invited Dad to make his home with us, surrounded by family.

I think the last few months were the best one could hope for.  This summer he had spent most of time at the lake place, having the opportunity to see all of  his children there.  And then he was with us.  In the end, all was well with Dad.  Is all well with me?

I find myself wondering how my grief will play out when coupled with being bipolar.

I am deeply grateful for the last evening with Dad.  Thanks in part to his hearing aids being cleaned up and checked out, he was able to converse normally.  The opportunity was not lost.  Prior to my going to bed he came out and asked if we could talk.  What is your favorite Bible verse?  As the conversation progressed Dad did something unusual.  He made the effort to get up out of his chair and come over and sit next to me on the couch.  There was a closeness we had not experienced together, perhaps ever.  We were at one and the same time father and son, and colleagues in ministry.  "I hope we can have many more conversations like this, Dave."  "Me too, Dad."

I only wish I'd said "I love you" or gave him a hug then.  I didn't.

And so the next morning the grieving began.  I was able to sit with him following his death.  Now, too late, the "I love you" was spoken.  A kiss goodbye.

And I wrote the sermon for his  funeral, based on the conversation we had shared.  Next came the fulfilling of a promise I made to him, which was to make an urn for him and mom.  Mom's urn was too small to contain both their ashes, too large to allow room for a second urn in the niche, so the urn I turned above is large enough for both of them.  As I began the process of building it, tears flowed.

I'd spent the summer remodeling the house in preparation for his moving in.  This was different.  So final.  And a goodbye.  And yet one more way to say "I love you, Dad."

One of the thoughts that came to me, with the death of the last of our parents, was that I might be next.  I am at the very least part of the 'oldest generation' in the family.  Other thoughts as well have been stirred.  Might this be the last time all of the siblings are together at one time?  Oh, we'll see each other individually, but will it be possible in the future to all be together?

Dad's hat and coat still hang in the hallway.  I want them there.  For a while at least.

There had been a distance between us that needn't have been there between a Father and Son.  One would think that my having followed him into the ministry would have changed that, but the distance remained.  Part of that distance was simply a symptom of being Norwegian Americans.  We're not known for being overly affectionate.

But if I'm totally honest, the distance between us goes way back to my childhood.  I was arrested for  shoplifting.  Dad came down hard on me and declared that I'd permanently damaged my character, that I'd always be a criminal from that time forth and forever more.  I turned elsewhere for affection ever since.

Part of the grief I experience now is concerning not his death, but the missed opportunity to have a better and richer relationship with him throughout his life.  It could have been better.  But sometimes the emotional scars of childhood are difficult to overcome.  Part of the challenge for me is that when I turned elsewhere for affection, the first person to offer it was a band director who subsequently sexually abused me.  I had so longed for affection that I was unable to recognize the abuse for what it was until over 20 years later.  It was not until my own children were the age I was when  I was abused, that my eyes were opened.  What if someone treated my children the way I'd been treated.  "I'd kill them!" was the thought that came to mind.  Well, at least press charges.

Part of the distance between my Dad and I was because the stern judgment Dad made of my character after being arrested for shoplifting set me up for the abuse that was to follow.  Father's are supposed to protect their children.  I think I've forgiven him.  But that's easier said than done.  There is something to be said for years of psychological therapy.

Now there is just grief.  Both for the Dad I lost, and the Dad I never had.  I wonder what affect Dad's losing his own mother during his childhood had on his emotional development.  Alice had contracted tuberculosis, spent time in a sanitarium, and then subsequently died when he was about 12, curiously enough, about the same time in his life as the abuse occurred in my life.  Two wounded souls.

And we both found ourselves called into the ministry to care for other wounded souls.

There's something fearful about grief when one is bipolar.  Will it trigger something far worse.  I've achieved functional stability, but grief can destabilize.  Will the medications I'm on prevent a relapse?  Will I be offered the opportunity to experience 'good grief'?  Or will circumstances rage out of control.  Thankfully, I've maintained therapeutic relationships.  There is some comfort in that.

In so many ways Dad lived a remarkable life.  Much of what I am is a reflection of the gifts he and Mom gave us throughout the years.  I've joked that I inherited my Mom's bad knees, and my Dad's bad heart (we've both had mitral valve surgery, a genetic condition).  But there is much good I've received, as well.  My resourcefulness and independence are gifts of my parents.  I'm a builder like my Dad.  And faith.  In the midst of all the hurt in life, I have faith.  Dad's gift.  And that is sufficient.