One Day at a Time

One day at a time sweet Jesus that's all I'm asking from you
Give me the strength to do everyday what I have to do
Yesterday's gone sweet Jesus and tomorrow may never be mine
So for my sake teach me to take one day at a time.

In twelve days I will have 2,000 days of sobriety.  I remember that first day.  Not a good day.  My friends who had helped Karla take care of me the night before had also cleaned out the house of all alcohol.  And there was a flurry of activity, calls to the bishop, consultation with my psychiatrist, arrangements made for inpatient treatment.  Then the long drive down to Kootenai Medical Center.  I took a deep breath.  "I guess I'll  not have a drink tonight."  Day one.

The staff in the psych ward mentioned that I was headed to the chemical dependency unit.  This was news to me.  I had consented to inpatient treatment because I was concerned about my depression and wanted to be treated for that.  Now it felt like a 'bait and switch' situation.  I was angry.  The rage I had been consumed with during my last night of drinking now had a new focus.  I called my psychiatrist and complained.  They were doing nothing about my depression.  I was being forced to play board games with the other patients.  And what about this whole chemical dependency thing.

"They have to sober you up before they can treat your depression, Dave."  To my way of thinking, I hadn't had a drink in over a day, now, by this time two days.  "I'm sober!"  "It takes longer than that." was the response. The next day I met with the doctor. "You are an alcoholic."  These were the words of my new psychiatrist.  Hard to take.  Day three.

Then my family came to visit.  And my dear Bishop Martin.  Somehow I managed to say the words for the first time.  "I am an alcoholic."  But I wanted out.  I'll attend a few AA meetings.  Maybe.  I can't stay here.  I have a job.  I have responsibilities.  The Bishop was ready to leave.  "I'll let you be alone with your family, you've decisions to make."  I wanted his advice, which initially he was hesitant to offer.  "Dave, you've come so far, don't turn back now."  Day four.  I think.

I told the Bishop that First Lutheran was now his responsibility.  He accepted.  The psych ward staff recorded a 180 degree turn around in my attitude.  There was hope.  A transfer to the chem dep unit.  Day five.  

I would spend 21 days in the Chemical Dependency Unit.  Twenty six days of sobriety seemed like forever.  There was a big change.  I was committed to returning home and not having a drink.  There were things I would have to do though.

It was hard.  When I returned home I was ready to jump right back into my responsibilities at the Church.  "I'm back!"  My council president and vice-president said "No."  They demanded I take more time.  Another month off.  

During that time there was a negotiation about accommodations.  I would no longer set up communion or buy the wine.  I requested that only grape juice be on the altar, and that I not have to handle the wine, at all.  Numerous bottles of wine were stored at church, I asked that they be locked up to remove the temptation.  My psychiatrist wrote a letter to the bishop.  In the end, the arrangements for these accommodations were made.  

I had gone into the hospital on October 15th.  Following the congregation's annual meeting in January I reentered the psych ward for another week.  Turns out alcoholism wasn't the only problem, and sobriety alone was not the cure.  Two years on disability followed.  When I attended church, I would have seizures, partial complex seizures.  By Easter I resigned my call.  And decided to spend a whole lot of money on woodworking equipment.  Olson's WoodWorks was born again.  This was my last manic episode, prior to the diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder.

So, I'm approaching 2,000 days now.  Life has changed.

I'm serving a congregation again.  A small church.  A part time call.  And I work at a cabinet shop in Hayden.  We're getting by.  There have been financial challenges, but every bill has been paid.  

The biggest issue remains the vocational question.  Part of me, now sober, wants some new great challenge so that I can finish off my career with a bang.  I'm far more qualified now that I'm clean and sober than I ever was before.  And yet.  And yet.  There's something to be said for self care.

I'm coming to a resolution.  If my congregation is willing, I have resolved that the best option for me is to commit to serving where I am at, and being at peace, at Peace.  Part of that resolution is to to think just 'one day at a time'.  It's hard to imagine ten years of leaving for work at 4:45 am and sometimes not returning home until nearly 10 pm.  But on a given day, I can do that.  One day.  That's all I'm asking from you, sweet Jesus.  One day.

I realize that grand aspirations regarding the rest of my career may not be realistic.  Just be a faithful pastor today.  Do your best cabinet work, today.  Let tomorrow take care of itself.  

And then there is retirement to plan for.  Some of the pressure I've been feeling has been alleviated somewhat by the realization that next year we can begin moving into retirement.  The first step may be Karla receiving her Social Security benefits.  It will also be an option for me to start receiving my pension, even if I wait till seventy to go on Social Security.  With some additional income, we'll be fine.

But there is a catch.  An asterisk marking it.  All these plans are subject to review by a qualified professional.  For some reason Karla is not comfortable with my making grand plans anymore.  It's a problem for one who is bipolar.  So we'll check with a financial planner.  We'll be careful.  

Day 2,000 is coming.  And after that, maybe 10,000 more.  God willing. 

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.

Shackled. . .

Perhaps, for good reason.  One of the experiences of being in treatment for bipolar disorder, especially when one is open about it, is that of being shackled.  To be restrained, limited, like a horse that is shackled.  A horse that is shackled can move somewhat, but is prevented from running free. 

These restraints can be more perception than reality.  One may feel shackled, when in fact other things are more in play.  In my own situation I have been writing for some time about vocational issues.  Are my options limited by others because of my diagnosis?  Well, maybe.  And perhaps for good reasons.

If  I'm honest I have to admit that nearly a decade ago, during the most manic phase I had experienced, my quest, my crusade, my great agenda did in fact cost the Church nearly 20 million dollars.  We built a senior housing project in Sandpoint for 15 million, bought land in Boise for 3 million, and a hundred thousand or so was spent in the effort to develop the Boise project.  I guess that's only a little over 18 million, but who's counting?

On a personal level, my last manic episode resulted in spending over fifty thousand on woodworking equipment.  It has not yet paid for itself.

OK, so I understand that some people might be a little bit cautious about letting me 'run free'.  It's entirely reasonable.

But, I tell myself, I'm being treated now and my moods have stabilized.  There is truth to this.  One of the things that most amazes me is the difference that knowledge makes.  The truth is that I'm a far better risk in ministry now that I'm sober and in treatment for bipolar disorder than when I was self medicating with alcohol, and didn't even know that I was bipolar.  I may be better suited for many of life's challenges and my vocation now, than I ever have been before.  But now, people, including myself, know that I'm bipolar.  And with that knowledge comes some caution.

And then there is this pesky business about 18 million dollars. 

I can fully understand that people such as my wife and those powers that be in the Church might have good reason to be cautious.  That 18 million dollars could have become 60 million had the Boise project proceeded.  Everybody has their limits.

But another dimension is that the shackles I feel are largely self imposed.  It is entirely possible that other factors are in play regarding my current vocational situation.  I'd like to remain in Sandpoint.  I'm sixty one  years old.  Those two situations alone place significant limitations on what possibilities exist for me.  And neither has to do with my being bipolar.  I may feel its my diagnosis that limits my possibilities when it isn't.  Also, I may be more cautious about what is appropriate for me than others are.

There is some grace in shackles.  Horses used to be shackled to keep them grazing near the campsite, and to prevent them from wandering off into the countryside.  Among other things this protected them from the predators out there.  The bottom line is that my pension funds will fair better if someone controls my access to them and has the courage to say "No."  Certain limitations are good for my own wellbeing.  There is much to be said for gracefully accepting appropriate limitations that are reasonable, given my diagnosis. 

That's not to say it isn't hard to accept.  Throughout our married life I've been in charge of our family's finances.  For me now, to have to say that Karla needs to have the final say in major financial commitments is difficult.  But as difficult as that is, it is a reasonable precaution.  Spending another fifty thousand dollars will not make my business endeavors more profitable. 

In my current call as pastor there are natural limitations in place.  Ironically, there is one woman who really wants to see us develop a senior housing project there.  No sewer system makes it impossible.  Well, that and the fact that we are a very small congregation and couldn't float the money to get such a project off the ground.  So, as tempting as it may be to my manic side, it's not going anywhere.

I'm playing with a new concept.  To simply be content.  There are limitations, yes, but they are not all bad.  I get to preach and teach and care for my congregation.  I have the secondary vocation as a cabinet maker which works for now. 

Contentedness.  Such a concept.  Its a bit foreign to me.  I've always been one who envisioned new possibilities and shuddered at the thought of simply maintaining the status quo.  Live as life gives you opportunity.  Contented.  Grateful. 

There but for the grace of God. . .

It pains me everytime that the issue of mental illness comes up with regards to a shooter in a violent crime.  This last week it hit close to home, literally, as a gunman opened fire on two officers just a few blocks from our home.  The officers were both struck twice, though will recover fully.  The gunman was killed in the exchange of fire.

It is reported that he was a depressed and deeply troubled young man.  He had gotten ahold of his grandfather's gun, and his erratic behavior raised the concern of  his family, who called 911.  The arrival of the law enforcement officers triggered a flurry of gunfire.  Two wounded.  One dead.  Its not the way interventions are supposed to go.

My psychologist related yesterday that law enforcement personnel frequently intervene in such situations, and the vast majority of times are able to successfully bring in the person for treatment.

And yet I do find myself wondering if it wouldn't be better to respond first with EMTs or some other personnel than uniformed (and armed) police officers.  I am convinced that in some situations the mere presence of law enforcement can escalate a situation to the point where everything is out of control.

This much I know from my personal experience.  Brain chemistry matters.  And alcohol is certainly no help.

And probably most concerning of all is the reality that there is often an anger lying deep within one who has struggled with mental illness.  "Depression is anger turned inward." is one statement I've heard.  The isolation one experiences during mental illness, the lack of understanding, perceived or real, and the sense that it's "me against the world" can all lead to a deep well of anger within.

Rage.  A violent uncontrolled anger.  I've felt it.  I've struggled against it.  And in my darkest moment I nearly died trying to drowned it in a bottle of Scotch.  That night in particular, in the midst of all the ugliness and rage, grace abounded.  Karla kept her distance, yet didn't abandon me though she had every reason to.  A moment of sanity during a prior episode of drinking a few months earlier had resulted in my requesting my dearest friends to remove the guns from my home.

Rage is never the result of an isolated incident.  A lifetime of internalizing emotions, of seeking to silence the beast, results in a pressure cooker welling up inside one's soul.  It was only a matter of time.  My best friend was also my worst enemy.  I had been guilty of trying to drink the anger away for too long, because it never goes away.  And yet when you feel that rage within you are frightened.  There's not much one can do to remedy it, except for 'nature's cure' as I called it.

What would have happened had those nearest and dearest to me called in the wrong type of help in that moment?  It felt as though the whole world was an adversary, a threat, and that I had to mount my defenses against the onslaught.  Desperation.  Ironically, my drinking that night, though it nearly killed me, at least rendered me impotent after a while.  I went from a raging beast to a passed out drunk.  The latter was easier to help, in the end.  No police required.  Just my wife.  Some friends.  A bishop.  A psychiatrist.  And admission the next day to the hospital.

The rage continued for a few more days until I was broken down.  God intervened.

I'm deeply concerned about the widespread presence of guns in our society for good, personal reasons.  It would have been too easy.  It would have been too easy to turn a gun against myself.  It would have been too easy to pick up the weapon in a valiant, though insane, effort to defeat the perceived adversaries.

I don't know how I would have responded if I had answered the doorbell, packing heat, and discovered the police outside.  I simply don't know.  A raging bull is hard to predict.

What I do know is that I needed medical and psychiatric intervention, in addition to chemical dependency treatment. .  . and I needed it now.  I had been calling for help.  My bishop was the one who had first responded, actually, the day before.  I wish I had calmed down then, but the crisis did not abate at that point.

In hindsight, one of the things that still amazes me is the amount of time a psychiatrist in Seattle gave the following day as he arranged for my admission to a treatment center.  I had seen him previously so I was a patient.  But clearly he recognized that this was not a time to schedule a future appointment.  The healthcare system did not fail me during that moment.  I got the help I needed, even though I didn't fully want it.

Back to our shooter.  He didn't.  A gun.  Two police officers who he obviously thought a threat to him.  Two wounded, and one dead.

There but for the grace of God, go I.  There but for the grace of God, go I.

It didn't have to end like that.  In my case, a different script played out. Would that it was always so.  Would that it was always so.

A Life Worth Living

At the cabinet shop where I work, the boss frequents the shop and is often engaged in what some of the senior cabinet makers are doing, sometimes being quite harsh in his criticism and concerns.  I largely fly under the radar screen.

I mused the other day that either I'm that good, that he rarely has anything to say about my work, or that irrelevant.  Its that latter possibility that is unsettling.

One of my favorite contemporary songs, is a song that Pat used to sing at my first parish by Steve Green, the chorus of which is:

Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful
May the fires of our devotion light their way
May the footprints that we leave
Lead them to believe
And the lives we live inspire them to obey
Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful

For me, one of the driving forces in my life has been simply "to have made a difference".  Sometimes I need a reminder of the difference that I have made in the lives of the people I have served.  The actual impact of our ministry is often intangible.  In the cabinet shop I can step back and look at what I've accomplished that day.  Even take a picture of it.  Not so in ministry.

One of the things I have done is kept a file that contains the cards I've received from parishioners over the years.  These words of appreciation that they have shared with me can sustain me during tough times.  In each of their lives, in a least some small way, I've made a difference, at least significant enough that they took the time to write a note and say so.  I also drive by Luther Park, the senior housing ministry I helped build, and have a very visible reminder of the difference that I made.

Is it ego?  Well, of course, to some extent it is.  But to another extent it is simply a  matter of desiring meaning and purpose in one's life.

Since Dad died, death seems much closer than it did before.  All four of Karla and my parents have now died, and we are officially the 'older generation'.  On a more immediate level, retirement is now within sight, though it may be another ten years or so away.  I keep getting notices from AARP wondering why I haven't signed up yet.  I'm reviewing our potential Social Security benefits, and our pensions, and all that good stuff that goes with preparation.

And I wonder what's left to do?

I waiver back and forth.

My manic side wants more than anything else to have yet another crusade, another major agenda, something more.  I look at the  time I have left prior to retirement and hope for the opportunity to surpass that which I've previously done.  Perhaps it is ego that drives this part of me.  Measuring one's life by the legacy one leaves.  And perhaps it is a more humble aspiration, to simply be a contributing part of the team.

The depressed side of my brain resonates with Jesus' words from the cross, "It is finished".  For the most part my life's work is nearing completion.  It is was it has been, for better or worse.

In between those poles, lies a contentment that simply is at peace with the transition that is taking place.  I may have the opportunity in ministry to contribute more toward the greater good.  And, it may also be a time to look forward to retirement and a different way of living life and achieving meaning and purpose.

I wonder about retirement.  One of the casualties of the last ten years or so of my life has been a loss of a rewarding and engaging 'private life'.  The last five years at First Lutheran were so dominated by the development of the senior housing that hobbies and leisure time activities were lost.  And then came disability and the inability to engage in anything, followed by my current load that leaves little time or energy for anything.

What will make life enjoyable and engaging in the  years ahead?

Grandchildren.  We have one.  We look forward to more.  Is there any higher calling than that?  To make a difference in the life of a child?

Earlier in my life, hunting, fishing, golf, and woodworking as an avocation, not a vocation, filled my off time.  Right now, there is little time for any of that.  But maybe in the future. . .

I also realize that my current call to serve at Otis Orchards maybe a very significant part of my ministry when all is said and done.  I began ministry with the hopes of becoming a  mission developer.  If I could finish my career redeveloping Peace Lutheran it would be a fulfillment of that first desire.  And the part time nature of that call means that it could continue into retirement.

Friendships.  One of the more difficult things about our current circumstances is that we continue to live in Sandpoint, and have developed relationships with many people here over the years. but, because I'm now the 'former pastor' there is an expectation that I limit my interactions with my former parish.  Some of our closest friends are leaving for the coast and so we are left wondering about interpersonal relationships here.  There is another aspect to this, a steep learning curve for pastors in retirement.  Throughout our careers ministry has formed the basis for the majority of our personal relationships.  Take the ministry away and you must now find different avenues for interpersonal engagement.

I'm also reminded of my psychologist's concerns as he retires.  There is an intimacy that comes with the vocation that is hard to replace.  Though our vocation focused on the other, the truth is that this intimacy fed our souls as well.

I must add, that above all else, I am blessed to have a wife whose stood by me through thick and thin, and whose companionship is itself a major part of what gives life meaning and purpose.

I remember a hymn, that perhaps is a good prayer to conclude with:

Jesus still lead on
Till our rest be won;
And although the way be cheerless,
We will follow calm and fearless;
Guide us by your hand
To our fatherland.

If the way be drear,
If the foe be near,
Let no faithless fears overtake us,
Let not faith and hope forsake us;
Safely past the foe
To our home we go.

Me Too

It's hard for me to fathom, and it was one of the hardest things for me to admit, that I was a victim.  The abusive relationship took place beginning the summer following fifth grade, and the relationship lasted through my sophomore year in college, though the abuse had waned sometime before that.  It took another twenty years for me to recognize those experiences as abusive.  Rape would have been easier.  So obvious.  Recognizable.  Help would have been sought out.  And received.  It wouldn't have lasted.  And I wouldn't have been as consensual.

I listen to music on my way to work.  Jesus Christ Superstar has been on my playlist this last week or so.  I love that musical.  I love the music.  And then I remembered that the original album that I had was a gift from Tony.

That summer, a year after we had arrived in Irene, SD I had become close friends with the next door neighbor boy, Jimmy F.  We were pushing the limits.  Some of the adventures I remember:  Accidentally breaking the flagpole at the city ball park and sneaking out at night to dispose of it on the roof of the gymnasium; attempting to break into the City Bar where we hoped we might get a six pack or two; and getting picked up for shoplifting at White Drug in Yankton.  This last episode caused the wrath of my parents to rain down on me, resulted in my terminating any further relationship with Jimmy, and resulted in my being emotionally isolated and alone.  (I remember the night following the arrest.  We returned home from the police station and my older brother was home from Augustana Academy where he attended high school with a couple of friends- Mary Harum and her brother.  Mary went on to become Miss South Dakota, and  eventually Mary Hart of TV fame.  That my moment was witnessed by others added to the shame.)

Enter Tony.  Tony was a Sicilian from Long Island.  How he had ended up at Dakota Wesleyan University, nobody knows, including him.  But now he had been hired to be our new band director.  My desperate need for a friend found its fulfillment in him.  One of the first things that I had shared with him was my shame at what had happened the last summer.  He laughed.  My father had declared that I would forever be tainted with a criminal record.  Tony laughed it off.  It was an absolution.  And I knew right there and then that I had a friend.

"Laugh In" was the rage.  Tony invited me to watch it with him.  Every Monday night.  Lily Tomlin was his favorite.  He even went so far as to attempt to get her to come to Irene for our Pop Concert.  I'd sit at Tony's side during those episodes.  Shortly, the physical contact began.  He was Sicilian, he would explain.  Craved physical contact.  And so his hand would find its way to my belly, skin to skin.  I felt a bit like a puppy, getting petted.  It was a small price to pay for the friendship I so desperately needed.

We became inseparable.  One of the things Tony set out to do was fatten me up.  I had sprouted about 6 or 7 inches that summer between fifth and sixth grade, but hadn't added any weight.  Monday nights, after eating a full meal at home, we'd eat again.  Tony was obese.  And short.  I was neither.  And the T-bone steaks he fed me did little to add to my weight.  As a special treat, I would make Rhubarb Delight for us, a rich custard and meringue desert.  We'd finish off a 9 x 13 pan in an evening.  He'd gain weight, me, not so much.

He switched me from playing Baritone Horn to Tuba.  I just wanted to please.  So I took on the challenge.  He would take me to the neighboring town for lessons.  When everything was said and done, my efforts to please him resulted in my being selected for All State choir four times, Honors Choir my senior year, and All State Band three times.

On the weekends we would venture out to Sioux Falls where he often had to go to the music store.  Movies were the treat.  He took me to "Straw Dogs", "the Graduate", the "Exorcist", and "Clockwork Orange", to name a few.  I also was given a monthly copy of Playboy, and what more could an adolescent boy want.  It was 1969.  One of the pieces of pornography he gave me was titled simply '69', the content of which you can imagine.  He also "educated me" about sex, including what women like, etc..

I learned to drive his Pontiac Grand Prix, when that was a individual luxury car.  Leopold he had named it.

And we sat watching "Laugh In".  It was during one episode, after he had questioned me about whether or not I was circumcised, that his hand slid down my belly where it often was, into my pants to feel my genitals.  "Yup, you are!"  "You fag!  You Queer!  I'm telling my Dad and you'll lose your job!"  An apology and a defense.  I let it go, his friendship being so important to me.

When I later described my experiences with a psychologist, he classified much of what I experienced as 'grooming behavior'.  It would have escalated.  But Tony moved on.  I'd travel to his new home so that I could take Tuba lessons in Sioux Falls, which he had arranged.  Then came college, and a distancing.

I met Karla during the summer following my freshman year in  college.  Our romance flourished long distance, and I arranged to transfer from Augustana to Pacific Lutheran for my junior year.  At the end of my sophomore year I called Tony to let him know I was leaving.  He came to town, we went out for dinner.  I had grown my beard, a goatee at the time, quite scraggly, and he was not happy.  "It hides your cute face!"  I've never shaved since, and never will.

The last I heard of Tony was about 1990 when my sister had informed me that he had died from complications of his diabetes.  It was at that moment I realized that our relationship had not been healthy.  And yet at the same time, I had received so much affirmation and affection.  Abuse is the price those starved for intimacy are willing to pay.  What tipped me off to the abusive nature of the relationship was when I realized that I would kill anyone who did that to my children.  Well, at least press charges.

I set out on a crusade.  During our time in Gig Harbor my pastor confessed to sexual misconduct.  Though he had been my closest friend since Tony I saw to it that he was defrocked.  I was suspicious of my internship supervisor, merely red flags going off.  As a young pastor, the concern continued.  The most important sermon I preached during my first parish ended up opening the door for a woman to leave her abusive husband of twenty five years and become free.  Venturing into dangerous territory I hoped that I could save many more.  My manic side had started to kick in.

At one time I became convinced that healthy intimacy, with God, self, and others, was the key to freeing people from abuse.  When sex is used to achieve intimacy, as opposed to being the result of proper intimacy in an appropriate relationship, abuse is the potential.  I would write the definitive book.  In retrospect, my deepest fear in ministry was that my own brokenness might result in my doing harm to others.  Though I've never had sex with anyone but my wife, I've been concerned about my need for intimacy, and the potential that the quest itself might have been abusive.  I hope not.  But it is a fear.

I wonder about the long term impact of these experiences.  To what extent might they have shaped my psyche?  One clinical psychologist suggested that the harm caused by long term moderate but chronic abuse was potentially greater than that which results from more intense and acute but short lived abuse.  One of the reasons is that often the victim doesn't realize the abusive nature of what is being experienced, and so willingly accepts it, leading eventually to even greater shame.

I didn't deserve it.  No child does.  Recognizing this was important for healing.

But believe me I understand why gymnasts would tolerate the abuse of an Olympic doctor.  Small price to pay for the opportunity to wear gold around one's neck.

It is not good for the man to be alone.  Loneliness, deprivation of health intimacy, a deep need to connect, also pave the pathway to an abusive relationship.  Its one of the reasons so many victims are unable to leave.  The affection, even when accompanied by abuse, is better than the isolation, especially because at this point one is most often not at all at peace with one's self.

The one thing I continue to resist is having my life defined by the abuse I experienced.  I can affirm that I am more than a victim.  Yet, at the same time, those experiences are part of the fabric of my life.  One of the things I am most angry about, deep within, is that my father's stern warning that my shoplifting had permanently damaged my character had created within me the circumstance that made me ripe for an abusive relationship, and that, is what truly damaged my soul.

Those years of adolescence were formative years.  They impacted me.  Sometimes in the aftermath one can only hope for healing and resilience.

Holy Ground

"Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground."

I sit at my keyboard this morning in the spot where a few months ago my father breathed his last.  My desk fills the space where his bed once stood.  Here in this spot, inconspicuous though it may now be, heaven's portal opened and received my father.  What that moment was like for him remains a matter of faith and hope for us.  I've often wondered.  Were there angels in this place?  Or simply the hand of Jesus lifting up my father as his body slumped down.  Whatever else might be said, I am convinced that from this place my father saw the face of God.  Holy Ground.

A friend, a colleague, a dear person transitioning from emergency room care to hospice.  I cannot help but believe that she is standing upon Holy Ground and entering a Holy Time.  How long she will remain in that Holy Space is not for us to know.  I remember Bob, another dear friend and colleague, who got kicked off hospice after a while.  He didn't die according to schedule, and no longer qualified for hospice care.  So who knows?  And yet there is the voice of God saying "Remove the sandals from your feet."

Barefoot.  Touching the ground upon which God stands.  Feet are sensitive.  Highly sensitive.  Probably an evolutionary necessity of balance.  And to touch one's feet is a moment of intimate connection.  Too bad we have not retained the fine art of footwashing, it probably should be a sacrament in the Church.  We fear such intimacy, though.  Remove the sandals from your feet.

A prairie church.  "Holy, Holy, Holy" is playing on the organ, as it always was.  One person after another climbed those well worn stairs to the sanctuary.  There they had baptized their children.  There they had buried their dead.  White steeple soaring high above the graveyard surrounding the building.  "As a called and ordained minister of God, and by his authority, I declare to you the entire forgiveness of all your sins."  This is my body.  This is my blood.  Holy, Holy, Holy.  There in that place, they saw the face of God.

There are moments in our lives that transcend the mundane reality of earthly life, but often they are hidden moments, recognizable only in the rear view mirror.  The most heartfelt prayer I ever offered is this:

Hold me tight, most precious Lord,

                That I might follow you.

Grant me grace to live each day,

                May I be born anew.

Lift me up whenever I fall,

                And never let me fade

From the grace filled light

                Of your own sight

                That turns the night to day.

"Lift me up whenever I fall. . ."  I vaguely remember falling that night.  As I lost my balance I reached for the bedpost but missed.  It was my wife, and a couple of close friends who nursed me through the night, who stopped the bleeding, who watched for signs of concussion, and most important, woke me periodically to insure that I was still with them.  Then came the humiliating reality of morning, the journey to the hospital, and four weeks of chemical dependency treatment.  And new life.  Amid the ugliness of this world's worst, a Holy Time, a Holy Space.  Behold the salvation of your God!  The hand of Jesus lifting me up.  

Russian sanctuaries are visually stimulating, almost to the point of wearing one down.  So much to see and comprehend.  But there is one common feature of them all, they are so conceived as to draw one's eyes up from the earth below to the heavens above.  Holy Space.

We don't know for sure what to do with Sacred Space.  Preserve it just as it was?  Or adorn it to resemble the glory that for the moment was associated with it?

Sacred Time.  I am convinced that one of the reasons I cannot sleep through the night is because this time has become for me, holy.  Amid the silent stillness of the dark night, I hear the voice of God.  And who can sleep?  I write.  Sermons flow.  Meditation is focused.  My time in the presence of God.  And so I keep my vigil.  Interesting to me that the most restful sleep I experience all week is Saturday mornings, after I have spent the night writing my sermon.  

There are times when I wonder why, after all I have experienced at the hands of the Church, that I remain there.  It has been for me both a place of healing and wounding, of belonging and being cast out, of living and dying.  In the months following my collapse, and getting sober, and dealing with the conflict that had arisen within the congregation, I began going to another congregation for worship.  Every Sunday, for months, I would experience a partial complex seizure during worship.  Perhaps it was a reaction to the 'unrighteousness' of the Church and my experience that provoked the seizure.  Perhaps it was my own unrighteousness in the presence of the Holy One that caused the uncontrollable shaking.  But there I was.  Shaking in the presence of God and receiving from his hand grace and mercy.

I saw a vision of the new Jerusalem.  John's Words.  Every word spoken there, a song of praise and worship.  Open gates.  Golden streets.  And the home of God is among mortals.

"You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in You."

There will come a time when we will each sing our "Komm, süßer Tod",

Come, sweet death, come, blessed rest!

Come lead me to peace

because I am weary of the world,

O come! I wait for you,

come soon and lead me,

close my eyes.

Come, blessed rest!

And my heart goes back to my Father, and his last moments, here in this spot.  94 years of living in this world, and then heaven's portal opened.  We do not know how many steps each of us will take on this journey of life.  I anticipate many more in my own.  For all I know, I may have yet forty more years of wandering in the wilderness.  Along the way there are those Sacred Moments, Holy Spaces, and Beacons of God that lead us onward with all the other pilgrims.  And then the hope, that one day, one holy day, we will see the face of God.