I have had 3 and only 3 athletic triumphs in my life, 2 of which make perfect sense. The other one was mystical.
In grade six I won the “Field Day” blue ribbon for “Target Pitch.” Field Day was an annual last-event-of-the-year for which no one ever explained the name. To me, the playground hardly qualified as a “field.” I now have to assume they meant “track and field” day, because it was mostly running, jumping, and throwing your shoulder out of joint. But as a fore-runner of today’s school awards days, which go to any length to make sure everyone wins something, my school included the fake Olympic event “target pitch.” I won because for a couple years, Bob and I had been playing “catch” constantly.
In grade twelve I won the archery contest—the concluding event of the archery portion of my “lifetime sports” class. There was much to be thankful for in this class. I was in a senior, so I realized that finally the purgatory called “gym class” would come to an end. Furthermore, this class had no football, volleyball, bombardment, or any other “let’s try to kill a twerp today” activity. The only other sport I remember from this class was golf. We hacked around in the gym for a week or so, then went to the Hiawatha golf course and did a 9-hole round of golf. I shot 93 for 9 holes. But—when we had our archery unit, I was head of the class. And at the final “tournament” I shot all bull's eyes except one which missed the bull’s eye by an inch. The gym teacher walked the row yelling “Paulson won—you’ll need all bull’s eyes to beat him.” I didn’t even know the teacher knew my name! But my archer triumph was no surprise. Bob and I had been doing archery avidly for about 4 years.
Here’s the spooky one. In my 2nd year of Bible college, I led a witnessing team for my Christian Service assignment. One Friday, just for fun, our whole team went 5-pin bowling (note: this is not real bowling—this is Canadian pretend bowling. Sorry). Well, it started out much as any other game/sport/athletic thing does for me. I was doing crummy. But somewhere in the first game, something happened. I was totally conscious of what was happening—I was deciding to bowl great. But I don’t know if I was active or passive in this. I want to get freaky and say that the forces of the universe aligned and I just said “OK, Universe, let’s have some fun.” Suddenly a switch flipped and I was killer. I was winning games. Then there was a game that everyone in the bowling alley played, in which the guy with the microphone gave a series of instructions: “knock out the far right pin; now just the center pin; now get a strike.” I won! The prize was a teddy bear, which I gave to my witnessing partner Yvonne (I had a crush on her—see “Primeval Journey: Girls”).
I’ve often thought about that crazy night of bowling. What if I could harness that power all the time? I’ve bowled occasionally since then, both 10-pin and Canadian-pretend style. Nothing. Back in the old rut. I stink. But that night in 1979, I had mutant powers.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Dad
Grief has caught up to me. Or I have caught up to grief.
Dad died in January 2005 after living with Alzheimer’s disease for several years. We were thankful for a good Christmas 2004 visit. We all gathered in Minneapolis, and spent a nice afternoon at the Veteran’s home as they put on a wonderful Christmas party. Dad was on par with the progress of the disease: untalkative, looking around at us blankly, not knowing our names. But not belligerent, not contrary, not depressed in any obvious way. Just quiet, passive, and empty. A one syllable acknowledgment of a question, maybe a slight grin reflecting our forced smiles. That Christmas, closest thing to a “gift” was captured in one photo. At the veteran’s home, after the party and meal, we took Dad back to his room. We got Dad seated, and Bob and I got down on a knee on either side of his chair. I told Dad what he meant to us and how we loved him. The “gift” came in the way he looked me in the eye. His back was so hunched that even with my head at his level, he had to look up to see my face. I said maybe four sentences, but his eyes stayed on mine for the duration, and someone snapped a photo that captured the moment. Dad’s eyes had the vacant gaze of advanced Alzheimer’s disease, but also the gentle warmth that had always been Dad’s truest quality.
Anne and I and our guys returned to Saskatchewan; Bob and Karen and their guys returned to South Carolina. As always, Jo, Bill, and their girls continued to be the ones close-by for Mom and Dad. We learned slowly over the next month that the meal at the Christmas Party was essentially Dad’s last decent meal. His deterioration accelerated. Maybe it’s more accurate to think not of acceleration, but stopping. Dad just stopped. Stopped eating, stopped walking, stopped looking around at his little world. In a month, he died.
We re-gathered in Minneapolis for Dad’s funeral. When everyone else cried, I did not. I couldn’t believe that my brain I was stuck in pastor mode. I’d been a nursing home Chaplain for 6 years, a pastor of an aging church for 7 years, and for 2 years in between I was “on call” with several funeral homes when families needed “protestant clergy.” I’ve officiated about 100 funerals. At Dad’s funeral, whether I was stuck in that rut or hiding in that role, I hated my dry eyes, and the possibility that underneath was a heart too cold or too cowardly to grieve.
Suddenly this summer, 2010, Dad is everywhere. I mow my lawn with a “reel” lawn mower. The pleasant swish of the hand-propelled blades always reminds me of Dad, who certainly was the last guy on our block to graduate to a power mower. I’m also finding myself intensely curious about America in the 1920’s, 30’s and 40’s because those were the decades that Dad lived before I came along (Dad was born in 1918; I was born in 1958). Even my late-blooming ability to celebrate things Scandinavian (see my blog “Primeval Journey: Roots) is in large part an honoring of Dad who is my symbolic connection point to that heritage. As I write this, we are on our annual Minneapolis trip, as is Bob and family, and yesterday we visited distant relatives—the last of Dad’s generation—for the express purpose of gleaning more information about family history and connections. Dad was very present in our reminiscing. This summer I am bathed in the light of “Dad memories.”
Today Mom, Anne and I paged through a few photo albums. Mom is increasingly forgetful and we urge her to try and remember—to try and reminisce. Looking at pictures of Mom and Dad (“Harold and Hazel”) dating and newly married, we saw Dad vigorous, sharp, handsome, and happy. I encouraged Mom to “remember Dad that way.” And I knew that this is what I also need to do.
For me, during these past five dry-eyed years I have not “tried” very hard. My memories of Dad have defaulted to those last years when Alzheimer’s killed his energy, intellect, and humor. It’s easy to feel relief that the Alzheimer’s ordeal is over. If all I remember are the years of pain, I certainly don’t grieve that they are over.
But as I mow with a reel mower, I see Dad the man of the house. As I think about the Great Depression and war years, I see Dad courageous. As I celebrate being Scandinavian, I see Dad the devoted son of the most Scandinavian person I’ve known, Grandma Paulson. As I enjoy the photos of Dad courting Mom, I see Dad the young soldier home after the war, strong and handsome. For 80 of his 86 years, Dad was all of this. I have so much to grieve.
Grief has chased me down. My eyes are wet. I miss my Dad.
Dad died in January 2005 after living with Alzheimer’s disease for several years. We were thankful for a good Christmas 2004 visit. We all gathered in Minneapolis, and spent a nice afternoon at the Veteran’s home as they put on a wonderful Christmas party. Dad was on par with the progress of the disease: untalkative, looking around at us blankly, not knowing our names. But not belligerent, not contrary, not depressed in any obvious way. Just quiet, passive, and empty. A one syllable acknowledgment of a question, maybe a slight grin reflecting our forced smiles. That Christmas, closest thing to a “gift” was captured in one photo. At the veteran’s home, after the party and meal, we took Dad back to his room. We got Dad seated, and Bob and I got down on a knee on either side of his chair. I told Dad what he meant to us and how we loved him. The “gift” came in the way he looked me in the eye. His back was so hunched that even with my head at his level, he had to look up to see my face. I said maybe four sentences, but his eyes stayed on mine for the duration, and someone snapped a photo that captured the moment. Dad’s eyes had the vacant gaze of advanced Alzheimer’s disease, but also the gentle warmth that had always been Dad’s truest quality.
Anne and I and our guys returned to Saskatchewan; Bob and Karen and their guys returned to South Carolina. As always, Jo, Bill, and their girls continued to be the ones close-by for Mom and Dad. We learned slowly over the next month that the meal at the Christmas Party was essentially Dad’s last decent meal. His deterioration accelerated. Maybe it’s more accurate to think not of acceleration, but stopping. Dad just stopped. Stopped eating, stopped walking, stopped looking around at his little world. In a month, he died.
We re-gathered in Minneapolis for Dad’s funeral. When everyone else cried, I did not. I couldn’t believe that my brain I was stuck in pastor mode. I’d been a nursing home Chaplain for 6 years, a pastor of an aging church for 7 years, and for 2 years in between I was “on call” with several funeral homes when families needed “protestant clergy.” I’ve officiated about 100 funerals. At Dad’s funeral, whether I was stuck in that rut or hiding in that role, I hated my dry eyes, and the possibility that underneath was a heart too cold or too cowardly to grieve.
Suddenly this summer, 2010, Dad is everywhere. I mow my lawn with a “reel” lawn mower. The pleasant swish of the hand-propelled blades always reminds me of Dad, who certainly was the last guy on our block to graduate to a power mower. I’m also finding myself intensely curious about America in the 1920’s, 30’s and 40’s because those were the decades that Dad lived before I came along (Dad was born in 1918; I was born in 1958). Even my late-blooming ability to celebrate things Scandinavian (see my blog “Primeval Journey: Roots) is in large part an honoring of Dad who is my symbolic connection point to that heritage. As I write this, we are on our annual Minneapolis trip, as is Bob and family, and yesterday we visited distant relatives—the last of Dad’s generation—for the express purpose of gleaning more information about family history and connections. Dad was very present in our reminiscing. This summer I am bathed in the light of “Dad memories.”
Today Mom, Anne and I paged through a few photo albums. Mom is increasingly forgetful and we urge her to try and remember—to try and reminisce. Looking at pictures of Mom and Dad (“Harold and Hazel”) dating and newly married, we saw Dad vigorous, sharp, handsome, and happy. I encouraged Mom to “remember Dad that way.” And I knew that this is what I also need to do.
For me, during these past five dry-eyed years I have not “tried” very hard. My memories of Dad have defaulted to those last years when Alzheimer’s killed his energy, intellect, and humor. It’s easy to feel relief that the Alzheimer’s ordeal is over. If all I remember are the years of pain, I certainly don’t grieve that they are over.
But as I mow with a reel mower, I see Dad the man of the house. As I think about the Great Depression and war years, I see Dad courageous. As I celebrate being Scandinavian, I see Dad the devoted son of the most Scandinavian person I’ve known, Grandma Paulson. As I enjoy the photos of Dad courting Mom, I see Dad the young soldier home after the war, strong and handsome. For 80 of his 86 years, Dad was all of this. I have so much to grieve.
Grief has chased me down. My eyes are wet. I miss my Dad.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Weirdness
I have a theory about weirdness. This is just my musing, so it is probably bogus, but I think it is true of me. I put it forth as a general theory of weirdness. But if nothing else, you are about to learn more about me. Sorry.
OK, here it is. Weirdness blooms from a root of insecurity. I base this on the simple fact that I am insecure. And Weird.
Insecurity. It’s social. It’s a shyness, a fear, a lack of confidence, a touch of shame, a cocooning, an overacting, a trying too hard. It’s flying under the radar, afraid of failure, just as afraid of success, falsely thinking that the comfort zone is a place of comfort. It’s hiding, hiding, hiding, ducking and wincing at nothing but thoughts. It’s cringing at the thought that everyone thinks you are as worthless as you think they think you are. It’s seeing social events as pecking-order competitions, threats to self-worth, requiring either fighting or fleeing. It’s seeing any random group as a reincarnation of that bunch of brats who were cruel to you when you were a kid. Everything is a battle that you are sure you will lose, so you either fight like a maniac, or run away like one.
(I don’t accept insecurity as an intended aspect of the Christian life. God has better for us, and I’m going after it all the time. I pray, strive, abide, trust and obey my way each day, to realize my birthright Shalom. But for you my blog friend, I’m letting you in on my real reality).
I’ve just got this continual, vague awareness that my weirdness—being too quiet or too talkative, trying too hard to entertain or to please, smiling a lot, gesturing too much, joking too much—is often my best in-the-moment attempt to deal with/wrestle with/conquer…or alternatively hide from/fly under the radar of/pretend there is a comfort zone in which I’m safe from…insecurity.
Extrapolating, I wonder if it’s true of the weirdnesses I notice in the world. When someone has annoying habits in their social interactions, I suspect I’m seeing a symptom of underlying insecurity. When someone is rude, I suspect insecurity. When someone over-reacts, I suspect insecurity. When someone is remarkably quiet or remarkably loud, I suspect insecurity. When someone wields authority like a drunk carrying an eight foot two-by-four, I suspect insecurity. When someone uses threats instead of humble honesty to try to convince, I suspect insecurity. When someone can’t make eye contact—or can’t break eye contact—I suspect insecurity. When someone just has to win every debate—or won’t even engage in debate, I suspect insecurity. I assume every jerk is radically insecure.
I work on my insecurity junk every day with the resources of faith. By faith I access the security that “there is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” and knowing that I’m invited (commanded) to abide in Christ. As I pray daily for God’s grace and peace, I’m picturing myself reaching up to Heaven to access the resources of the Kingdom of God, and bring them right down here to be used in this present evil age of “world-flesh-devil” lies and wounds.
And I really look forward to the fullness of God’s kingdom in the age to come, when there will be no more insecurity. Then, any and all weirdness will only be the beautiful bubbling over of grace.
OK, here it is. Weirdness blooms from a root of insecurity. I base this on the simple fact that I am insecure. And Weird.
Insecurity. It’s social. It’s a shyness, a fear, a lack of confidence, a touch of shame, a cocooning, an overacting, a trying too hard. It’s flying under the radar, afraid of failure, just as afraid of success, falsely thinking that the comfort zone is a place of comfort. It’s hiding, hiding, hiding, ducking and wincing at nothing but thoughts. It’s cringing at the thought that everyone thinks you are as worthless as you think they think you are. It’s seeing social events as pecking-order competitions, threats to self-worth, requiring either fighting or fleeing. It’s seeing any random group as a reincarnation of that bunch of brats who were cruel to you when you were a kid. Everything is a battle that you are sure you will lose, so you either fight like a maniac, or run away like one.
(I don’t accept insecurity as an intended aspect of the Christian life. God has better for us, and I’m going after it all the time. I pray, strive, abide, trust and obey my way each day, to realize my birthright Shalom. But for you my blog friend, I’m letting you in on my real reality).
I’ve just got this continual, vague awareness that my weirdness—being too quiet or too talkative, trying too hard to entertain or to please, smiling a lot, gesturing too much, joking too much—is often my best in-the-moment attempt to deal with/wrestle with/conquer…or alternatively hide from/fly under the radar of/pretend there is a comfort zone in which I’m safe from…insecurity.
Extrapolating, I wonder if it’s true of the weirdnesses I notice in the world. When someone has annoying habits in their social interactions, I suspect I’m seeing a symptom of underlying insecurity. When someone is rude, I suspect insecurity. When someone over-reacts, I suspect insecurity. When someone is remarkably quiet or remarkably loud, I suspect insecurity. When someone wields authority like a drunk carrying an eight foot two-by-four, I suspect insecurity. When someone uses threats instead of humble honesty to try to convince, I suspect insecurity. When someone can’t make eye contact—or can’t break eye contact—I suspect insecurity. When someone just has to win every debate—or won’t even engage in debate, I suspect insecurity. I assume every jerk is radically insecure.
I work on my insecurity junk every day with the resources of faith. By faith I access the security that “there is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” and knowing that I’m invited (commanded) to abide in Christ. As I pray daily for God’s grace and peace, I’m picturing myself reaching up to Heaven to access the resources of the Kingdom of God, and bring them right down here to be used in this present evil age of “world-flesh-devil” lies and wounds.
And I really look forward to the fullness of God’s kingdom in the age to come, when there will be no more insecurity. Then, any and all weirdness will only be the beautiful bubbling over of grace.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Believing
I heard and believed. I was a kid, hearing the Bible’s teachings from my parents and other grown-ups who had my parents’ stamp of approval. I never doubted that the Bible is “capital ‘T’ True.” Granted, the “trust” aspect of belief was more complicated, and it took a while for me to become settled re: the issue of my own salvation. But re: the “intellectual assent” aspect of belief, I never doubted that the Bible is God’s Word, and I never doubted that the God of the Bible is the one true God.
Of course the time came when I began to face the hard questions: why do I believe the Bible to be “capital ‘T’ Truth”? Why do I believe the Bible to be uniquely the Word of God to the exclusion of the books of the other religions? For these forty or so years I’ve tried to stay honest with myself, holding the Bible and my faith up for examination in the face of valid questions. But this examining of the evidence took place after belief, and has served to corroborate – not convince. Somehow I was already convinced.
I can describe my “experience of believing” as an inner, unshakeable conviction that there is a “ring of truth” about the Bible. I have this surprisingly settled assurance that the Bible is God’s written revelation in which he tells us who he is and what he is up to. Yes, my experience of believing is subjective; it’s just what is happening in me. So I don’t pretend that it has the kind of clout to intellectually convince anyone else. And while I call it “unshakeable,” in no way do I feel trapped against my will. I can’t shake it, and I love it. I recognize that I’m accountable to it, and I love it. I’ve surrendered to it, and I love it.
But my experience of believing—never doubting the truth of the Bible—how crazy is that? If I could have written the script, the Jim Paulson story would have included years of wide-ranging, deep, agonizing, intellectual searching, giving all competing systems a fair hearing, and finally landing me in a relationship with Jesus. Obviously, that is not the Jim Paulson story. Rather, to lean on Donald Miller’s expression, faith just seemed to find me.
So I ask again about my experience of believing: how crazy is it? I think maybe only as crazy as God’s crazy ways. In the Bible, I’m seeing a human side and a divine side to the experience of believing. Humanly, “hearing” is the key. “Faith comes from hearing” (Romans 10:17). Divinely, “shining” is the key. “For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ” (2 Corinthians 4:6).
I heard and believed. I think that my simple experience of believing sounds rather foolish. But I think it makes God look very good. When I heard the Truth, God made it shine.
Of course the time came when I began to face the hard questions: why do I believe the Bible to be “capital ‘T’ Truth”? Why do I believe the Bible to be uniquely the Word of God to the exclusion of the books of the other religions? For these forty or so years I’ve tried to stay honest with myself, holding the Bible and my faith up for examination in the face of valid questions. But this examining of the evidence took place after belief, and has served to corroborate – not convince. Somehow I was already convinced.
I can describe my “experience of believing” as an inner, unshakeable conviction that there is a “ring of truth” about the Bible. I have this surprisingly settled assurance that the Bible is God’s written revelation in which he tells us who he is and what he is up to. Yes, my experience of believing is subjective; it’s just what is happening in me. So I don’t pretend that it has the kind of clout to intellectually convince anyone else. And while I call it “unshakeable,” in no way do I feel trapped against my will. I can’t shake it, and I love it. I recognize that I’m accountable to it, and I love it. I’ve surrendered to it, and I love it.
But my experience of believing—never doubting the truth of the Bible—how crazy is that? If I could have written the script, the Jim Paulson story would have included years of wide-ranging, deep, agonizing, intellectual searching, giving all competing systems a fair hearing, and finally landing me in a relationship with Jesus. Obviously, that is not the Jim Paulson story. Rather, to lean on Donald Miller’s expression, faith just seemed to find me.
So I ask again about my experience of believing: how crazy is it? I think maybe only as crazy as God’s crazy ways. In the Bible, I’m seeing a human side and a divine side to the experience of believing. Humanly, “hearing” is the key. “Faith comes from hearing” (Romans 10:17). Divinely, “shining” is the key. “For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ” (2 Corinthians 4:6).
I heard and believed. I think that my simple experience of believing sounds rather foolish. But I think it makes God look very good. When I heard the Truth, God made it shine.
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