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“Did you have a good day?”

“This is my little dog, Angel. He helps me on my walks. I live nearby.” The old man sent a wave of calm over me as I started my conversation with him, window rolled down, furiously trying to turn around in the middle in the intersection he was crossing. I was so angry, lost, late for something, with the van full of family in my rearview mirror. Pre-GPS, I was trying to get to the interstate to head north, and somehow I had gotten screwed up in a neighborhood and couldn’t find the street that would take me there. I was fuming, and everyone in the car knew it.

I snapped at him, “Can you tell me how to get to the interstate going north?” His calmness continued as he asked me, “Did you have a good day?” I continued pressing him, demanding, just wanting him to tell how to get to the interstate, and fast. “Did you have a good day?”, he asked again. Aargh, what difference does it make?? “I don’t really drive anymore, so I don’t know very well. Did I tell you about my son, David?” I guess it’s a common enough name, but a little strange to me that this calm soul in front of me decided now was the time to share his family details, and his son’s name was the same as mine. “No, you didn’t tell me about your son, David,” I responded. “He works at a big grocery store two blocks up, then you turn left, and just past it is the interstate,” he shared, then continued, “so, did you have a good day?”

I thanked him, finished turning around and headed the direction he had directed. Sure enough, there was the grocery store, there was the ramp onto the interstate. For much of the way home, my wife and family kept talking about the little old man. How strange it was that his dog happened to be named “Angel”. How strange that his son was named “David.” How strange that he said he didn’t really know the way, and then he did. But strangest of all was the way he kept calming me down, asking “But did you have a good day?” Years later, we still will ask ourselves that when in a particularly frustrating spot, lost, or when stuck in traffic or having missed a turnoff. We did have a good day that day – we had been to Irish Fest as a family, enjoyed the music and the chance to be together. We had a very good day, in fact.

But maybe it took a little old man and his dog, Angel, to make me realize and remind me of that. Again and again. Thanks, Angel.

Did you have a good day?

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Snowblind

Snowblind Moments of Grace

Driving on Hwy 29 east after a meeting in Minneapolis, I had the unusual situation of having three other fellows in the car with me for the trip. Normally I traveled alone. This had been an unusual meeting, as the whole Midwest staff was summoned to Minneapolis for a meeting where they announced not only the merger of two former competitors’ feed divisions, but also shared that about 700 people were being let go in the process. Some were being offered the opportunity to interview for positions in the new organization, and I ended up being rehired later into a different territory, but that’s a different story. The drive home was a pretty somber one for all of us, and it was accentuated by the heavy snow coming down and blowing. I did not have an AWD vehicle, just a standard Chevy sedan, wrangling snow building up on the two-lane highway. Every vehicle that went by in the oncoming lane left you awash in blowing snow and made seeing and driving very treacherous, leaving you in a whiteout for a few seconds. Semis could be seen in the front, but the back parts of each vehicle were invisible.

Explosion of glass

Hidden in the backwash of one, a jacked up pickup or utility-type truck was following way too close for good visibility of their own, but maybe being up pretty high helped them. I cleared the semi OK, but suddenly in the swirling snow behind it I saw the bumper and front tire of another vehicle, way too close to my front quarter-panel, and as it went by, the second truck clipped my mirror. That sedan had a mirror that was integral to the window, and the force of the mirror being hit exploded my driver’s side window into thousands of tiny glass cubes, leaving me with glass peppered into my face and hands, my lap full of small glass pieces, and everyone in the car with glass in their laps.

The truck kept going, and I was able to keep my car under control somehow and pull over after a bit. Traffic was steady in both directions, and the snowdrifts prevented me from immediately heading for the shoulder. When we were finally able to stop, I slowly swung out of my seat and shook the glass bits out of my clothes, and we wondered how we were going to complete four more hours driving with a blown-out window in a snowstorm. I dug in the trunk and took a corduroy sportcoat out of my suitcase, positioned it inside the broken window, and slammed the door to cover the opening. After picking the bigger glass bits out of my face in the mirror, we took off for the rest of the drive east. I think all four of us were thinking that if the truck had been even two inches further into our lane, we would have been in much worse shape. I never even wanted to think how much worse it easily could have been; I just accepted that we either got lucky or were blessed.

Someone was watching out for me that day.

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Hand on my shoulder – up North

Hand on my shoulder - up North

I went to our place up north to work by myself on several projects, and one of the chores to finish before I went back home was to mow the lawn. Simple enough, and normally goes pretty quick if all the equipment runs well. Some of the grass is out in the open, and some is under some good-sized trees, and there are a couple acres to take care of. On this occasion, I was in a bit of a hurry for some reason, but just going about my business. Mowing one of the paths between trees, and with trees overhead also, I was cruising forward when suddenly I felt pulled backward physically, like a hand had been placed on my chest and pulled me backward while my head echoed with a voice yelling “BACK UP!” I instinctively stomped on the hydro drive pedal in reverse, and narrowly, I mean by a couple inches, missed being slammed by a long log the diameter of my head, now lying in the path in front of me. Shaking, I got off the tractor and wrangled it back off the path and into the woods. It was heavy, and unexplainable. I hadn’t seen it when it was in the air above, and I couldn’t really tell even where it came from. All I know is that I was pulled back, physically helped, that day.

Someone was watching out for me that day.

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Hand on my shoulder – comforting

hand-on-my-shoulder-comforting

My cousin’s wife contracted pancreatic cancer in her 30’s. They had 3 beautiful young daughters, and the fight was gallant, but in the end she lost the battle. Seeing her at home in a hospital gown, IV’s wheeling around, trying to go about her day, was a hard thing for everyone to experience. She never gave up, and my cousin, Andy, was so full of faith and grace and hope all during the year she was undergoing treatment. He is a great inspiration to me and many others, as his faith is so solid.

Connecting, passing in the night

Andy drives semi on a route system at night and has for years, and through the years, when I’ve been traveling late at night, I would call him and we’d talk about everything from the weather to the traffic, or family catch-up, or even what our hopes and goals and fears were. Having gone through cancer treatments myself, I talk about the process more openly than some people might, so we have become very closely connected over the years. One night we were talking, both of us hands-free, of course, and after a few minutes I asked where he was tonight, and he said he was off his normal route (from Madison to either Chicago or Milwaukee) and had been asked to cover another driver’s route from Madison to LaCrosse and back. “No kidding!”, I said. “I’m on my way to Mankato and I’m on I-90 between Madison and LaCrosse right now!” “Get out of here! What mile marker are you at?”, he asked. I gave him the mile marker, and as it turned out, we passed each other going opposite directions less than a minute later, blinking lights to each other. Great coincidence. 🙂 His dad, my uncle, pulled me aside at a family function once and said, “Hey, you know how you call Andy once in a while?” I didn’t know that anyone else knew about our chats, but I answered “Yes?” “Keep doing that, OK?”, he said. And here I thought I was the one getting the benefit of our talks as I always felt better after our calls. My uncle passed away the next year.

The funeral…

Andy asked me to sing a very special song at his wife’s funeral when it came time. It was a song that they had especially enjoyed listening to together, one that meant a great deal to both of them. There Will Be A Day tells the story that one day, the tears will stop, the day when we see Jesus face to face. It would be the toughest song I ever sang, both from knowing the family and the situation, and the amazing story the song tells. It also is a song that has a wonderful presence of emotion built right into it, the mechanics and delivery can be powerful. I practiced it relentlessly, and I was determined to deliver it in my professional best way possible, detaching myself as best I could, to bring the power and a moment of grace to Andy and his girls that day. As the introduction to the song built up, I could feel at first a sweat coming over me, a great lump building in my throat, just feeling the emotion of their loss overwhelming me. At precisely the right moment, I had a feeling of peace on my neck and shoulders, a gentle touch relaxing me, a breath of air even, like a small fan had just turned on somewhere, but of course there was none. I delivered what is quite probably the best song delivery I have ever done, voice full, every emotion full and then drained from me by the end.

I told my wife about the experience afterward, and she calmly shared that she could see the emotion building in me, overcoming me, and that she had prayed right then that the Holy Spirit would comfort me, calm me, bring me peace and let me do the song for Andy and his girls.

Someone was watching over and helping me that day, and I am grateful.

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Easter weekend in Shenyang

Easter weekend in Shenyang

On one of my China trips, I finished my China business in Shenyang, and had the weekend before I continued on to Japan on Monday. Easter weekend as it turned out. Now Easter is not a huge holiday across China, but this one was an especially reflective and spiritual one for me as it turned out. I took a short train ride from Changchun to Shenyang, and I had read ahead about a very special museum located there. It is the home of the 9.18 Museum, a chilling museum which tells such an important story, commemorating September 18, 1935, the day Japanese forces invaded China and subsequently occupied Shenyang and the surrounding peninsula. It displays disturbing photos depicting the carnage of war. The exhibition is cruel, but it tells the critically important history of the early-mid 20th century between Japan and China and how important the peace is. I visited the museum on Saturday and it was a somber learning experience with my Chinese guide. He really did not want to take me there, but I wanted to learn. I now can completely understand why the Chinese are distrustful still of Japanese people.

Shenyang is also the home of the largest Catholic cathedral in China, the Sacred Heart or NanGuan Cathedral. It turned out that it was only two or three blocks from the hotel I had chosen in the heart of the city. Friday was Good Friday, and I walked over to the cathedral to check it out and say a quiet prayer. When I got back to my room, it was just coming up on sunset, and through the incredibly dirty windows, I looked out on the silhouette of three construction cranes that instantly had me thinking of the three crosses, outlined at dusk. Easter Sunday service was the absolute most packed, standing-room only service I have ever experienced, the organ music was great, and I stood out like an albino moose in a herd of reindeer, head and shoulders taller than any other person there, and easily the whitest. They were kind, but that is most certainly not the way to just “blend in” with the local population.

All in all, a tremendously spiritual and introspective Easter weekend. A “moment of Grace” that lasted several days.

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Our dad’s last week

Our dad's last week - moments of grace

After a year of enduring a multitude of procedures, chemo, and radiation for his bladder cancer, Dad was sent home from the hospital with hospice support after his ureters became blocked in the end. Doctors estimated he had a week as his kidneys backed up, but he had decided, with a great deal of discussion and forethought, that if this happened, he did not want any more surgeries or the rest of his time to be spent in a nursing home. His call.

He had been our mom’s caregiver for several years as her Alzheimer’s progressed, and she really didn’t process what all was happening, but she still had smiles for all her children who came to spend some final time with Dad. He appreciated the visit from his next younger brother at the hospital to say final goodbyes, and you could see that there was peace between them, washing away whatever it was that had caused a rift in their family for decades. He was extremely relaxed and thankful, almost blissful, when I shaved him at the hospital and he could just enjoy the warm washcloth on his face afterward. Funny how it’s the simplest things that can produce joy in these times.

Hospice helped set up a hospital-type bed in their living room, and we settled in with the fire crackling, and Dad was able to switch easily from family memories in one direction and gazing out on the pond they had come to enjoy so much in their retirement years. The days went by quickly together, catching up with siblings, preparing meals together, with Dad having less and less interest in food as the days went by. In the final hours, we sang songs together, held his hand, told him one more time about our favorite memories together and how much we loved him. He came from that greatest generation, the generation that grew up immersed in the Depression, graduating high school only to go straight into military service, then raising a family through the turbulent ’60’s, and his case, working to help put a man on the moon. He had survived two decades of farming, and kept learning new skills his entire life – sewing and becoming a paramedic were two he added during retirement.

The day he would pass away, there had been a steady, beautiful snowfall, building up over a foot of new snow – the thick, fluffy snow that hangs and piles up on every spruce bough and twig. His breathing continued to become more labored, and even the morphine seemed unable to keep him comfortable. Time seems to stand still when your emotions are wrapped up this deeply, but the first strange element was that just as Dad’s breathing wavered, then restarted, for just a minute or two, the power flickered on and off, on and off, then went completely off. We had the light of the fire still, and we lit candles quickly. Everyone had their last chance to give Dad a kiss, a hug, a hand squeeze, a whispered goodbye and “I love you, Dad.” As we heard his last breath, a rich, deep voice behind me, with love and a feeling of deepest admiration, said simply, “A mighty oak has fallen.” It took a moment to sink in, but I turned to my siblings and asked through my tears, “Who just said that? Who said that?” “Said what?” they asked. “Said that ‘A mighty oak has fallen’,” I said. “That was so beautiful.” My sister had heard the exact same thing, and sensed it with the same tone. We remain convinced that it was Dad’s younger brother Darell’s voice, the same Darell whom Dad had felt such great loss for since he died in an Air Force training accident in 1955. That he always felt was the most senseless loss of potential. A classmate of our mom’s, Darell was the epitome of everything fun and good that could be blessed upon a person. Leadership, athleticism, a warm smile and loved by everyone who ever had the good fortune to meet him. We sang Amazing Grace together in the candlelight.

A couple hours earlier, my wife and our daughter had gone back to the little motel up the road where we were staying, and I had to go tell her that Dad had passed. As I drove out the driveway into the absolute darkness, huge snowflakes still softly falling in my headlights, I noticed that up and down the highway as I drove, no other homes were without power, as they had lights on in the yards, and the power was on at the motel. I recounted Dad’s final moments with them, and they quickly got dressed and jumped in the car with me. By the time we got back to the house, the power had come back on, just as mysteriously as it had gone off earlier.

Over the next few hours, I finished calling the siblings who weren’t there. Fernando (one of our adopted siblings) shared that not long after he had come to the farm and our family, Dad had explained that the boys were now in their forever family, that there would be no more moves or rejections for them. Dad had then given him a hug. As Fernando explained through his tears, he said that he had stood there and cried like a baby while Dad hugged him, and he told Dad that he could not remember when the last time was that he had been hugged. By anyone. He was 16.

The next morning, Fernando texted me and shared that he kept a poem and picture of an oak tree above his own two boys’ beds:

The strongest oak of the forest is not the one that is protected from the storm and hidden from the sun.

It’s the one that stands in the open where it is compelled to struggle for its existence against the winds and rains and the scorching sun.

He told me how that poem always reminded him of Dad, sheltering him, Adriano and Roberto as new arrivals, despite the winds that blew, and encouraging them to face the winds of life head-on. So I called him and shared the events of the night before, this time including the “Mighty Oak” part.

Fast forward

In the spring of 2019 we came together with extended family to inter the ashes of our parents in a cemetery in Fergus Falls, Minnesota, Mom’s hometown. Two of our mother’s classmates attended. After talking with one of them for a while, the conversation turned to things serious and spiritual, so I decided to share the story above, about Dad’s final night. The classmate shared with me the following sincere advice: “You were visited. Don’t ever doubt it.“

A moment of Grace.

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I lost a friend last week

prayer

A very good friend of mine took his own life last Wednesday. He had struggled with depression for several years, but I’m sure that the isolation of COVID-19 contributed. How could it not? He had been a multi-site department manager in healthcare, but had lost his job a few years ago, and never was able to shake that loss or shame, never found that “what next?” moment in his life after that. I tried to get together with him a number of times, but now I feel as though it was not nearly enough times for me to feel OK. I tried, but not enough. How I wish I had made even one more effort to reach out to him, have a beer, a coffee, anything. He was tremendously talented and a smart guy in areas that I know nothing of. He always seemed to gregariously attract helpers for any home project or tree cutting adventure, and was quick to lend a hand in return. I don’t think any of us realized, or at least were willing to admit, that he was churning inside so deeply.

A second friend, a fellow who is even a few years younger than me, is holding unconsciously onto the last threads of his life while having been in hospice for the past two months due to a genetic neural disease that has dragged at him for years. I learned so much from him over the years of working together. He had been in the Peace Corps in Ecuador and had a great understanding of Latin American cultural perspectives, absolute advanced command of Spanish, and a love for the benefits that dairy cows and farms can bring to families in developing countries, just as I do. He married later in life, and leaves behind a wife and 14-year old daughter. He was so proud of both, always popping up his latest photos when I’d see him, and telling me how smart his daughter was in school. What a wonderful mentor and example.

A third friend posted on LinkedIn that he had seen his first COVID-19 death notice of someone that he knew, and shared how it hits a person differently, cuts through the arguments, when it is someone you knew. I think that’s true whether it’s COVID-19 or any other cause of loss.

Three friends suffering. Three friends in need of connection. We need to stay connected, especially with the folks that we know in our heart of hearts need help. Just a call maybe, until we can get together.

Moments when we need connection. Moments of Grace. 

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The Jewel Tea Truck

hope

In the subdivision where I spent my earliest years growing up, there were several dozen kids within five years of my age, and we all spent summers outside of our houses, often cruising the neighborhood in large groups on our bikes. Simple riding could turn into races once in a while, and my first summer with my new “racer” was an exciting one. It was a rebuilt older single-speed bike, but one that had the skinnier 26″ tires than some of my counterparts who had fatter tires on their bikes. Amongst all the kids, only my oldest brother had a 3-speed. So we started a round-the-block race, which in our case were not city blocks – the subdivision had a cross street only about every 12-15 homes. At the first intersection, we came to a “T” in the road, and the group headed right while I turned left at full throttle. I was looking backward over my shoulder, yelling at my brothers that they were going the wrong way (while I must have been the one going the wrong way, as everyone else turned right). The next thing I knew, I was on my back, looking into the face of a truck driver who had a terrified look on his face and tenor to his voice. As I had turned left, I had ridden my bike full-tilt right into the hood of a Jewel Tea truck. At that time, Jewel Tea trucks delivered small quantities of household goods, consumables, etc. to homes in the neighborhood. Sort of a low-tech Amazon delivery service. I had hit the truck and sailed over the hood, across the entire street, and landed on my back on soft grass in the ditch on the opposite side where the panicked driver was offering me, then all the kids, candy, gum, anything he had that kids might like. He kept saying, “You rode right into me! You rode right into me!” I think that he wanted to confirm to all of us kids that he hadn’t driven into me, that I had ridden into him. Funny, I realize now that we never got his name or his license info or anything. I had to limp my “new” bike home, frame bent and unable to roll the back wheel. The much greater injury for me was that when my dad got home from work, I got punished in the worst possible way – he refused to fix my bike until I had learned my lesson. Six weeks with no bike in the summer.

Someone was watching out for me that day.

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Palm Sunday miracle

God moments

Our little St. Peter’s Church had beautiful stained glass windows. It had a small organ, small choir, but we made good music. Our pastor always believed that we could do big things, even if our congregation was small. Even though it was a task that should be performed by a deacon, he taught me how to sing (chant) the Great Litany during Lent, and it remains one of my favorite service elements of the church year. The significance of The Great Litany is deep: It is the oldest original English language rite, dating to 5th century Romans, it is all-encompassing and focuses prayers for ourselves and for the world, and it is the strongest way to begin “keeping a Holy Lent.”

After the service on Palm Sunday, one of our traditions was to strip all the vestments from the altar, and cover all the icons in the entire nave and sanctuary with purple drapes, to be lifted off on Easter. Our parish was very “Catholic” in a sense – they had a very visible Mary shrine, with many votive candles below her. It is believed that sometime the night of Palm Sunday, one of the purple cotton drapes fell from Mary, and onto the burning candles below. It smoldered and smoked, filling the sanctuary with smoke and keeping the fire as a slow burn. Eventually, the fire slowly spread to the floor and first pews near Mary, but continued as a slow fire, almost like coals or embers, they would say later. The heat within, though was so great as to have melted and distorted the brass candelabras standing on the altar nearby. Late that night, a person who lived nearby was passing by the church and noticed what they thought were some low lights on in the church, and when they peered in a window, saw that there flames near the floor in the corner. They called 911, and the firefighters described the blaze as amazing that it was so hot, yet so muffled by the smoke itself, and they were able to contain it with mostly foam, avoiding lots of water damage, but they had to break out a single stained-glass window by the Mary shrine to get at the source. Opening a main door would likely have caused a huge backdraft and immediate spontaneous combustion explosion. In the end, there was lots of smoke damage, several pews and the floor caved into the basement near the Mary shrine, but a lot less structural damage than the firemen expected to find.

The Mary statue hung on a standard plaster and lath wall, not a brick wall, and immediately on the back side of that plaster wall was the sacristy, a small anteroom where some of the nicest ones of the pastor’s vestments were kept in big, flat drawers, and on top of those drawers, just lying on the top of the table, were the candles set up in preparation for the upcoming Easter services following Holy Week, basically directly behind Mary. Remember that the sanctuary was hot enough to have distorted and melted brass candelabras. Behind a simple wood door and plaster wall, the Paschal Candle lay unblemished. Not melted, not marked, not damaged in any way. We held our Easter Vigil and Easter weekend services at a neighboring church down the street, and we used the Paschal Candle that had been prepped the week before.

Thank you, angels.

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Hand on my shoulder – staying safe

prayer

A few times each year I need to take big junk to our local recycling center. Metal stuff – old fencing, pipe, or a tank or the like. Either in the truck, or on this occasion, I needed my large trailer to haul the stuff. Going to the recycling center is always a great chance to catch up on the most local of news – what’s going on in our township. The exit heading out of the recycling center is wide open from a visibility standpoint, level, two driveways, allowing for entering and exiting vehicles to each have a space, and you can see way up and down the road in front easily. Ideal, really. I pulled up to the stop sign at the exit, looked left, looked right, and was putting my foot on the gas to pull out when I felt a hand on my shoulder again, urgently pulling me back, and this time I heard a loud “Look left again!” I slammed on my brakes at the sound and the feeling, and there on my left was a big Harley or GoldWing, full speed just a few car-lengths from my truck and trailer.

Someone was watching out for me that day. And the motorcycle driver.