A Dark and Stormy Night

Friendship is one of the great mysteries of life.  It is difficult to define, because every friendship is different.  Yes, we can try to find the common denominators, but they don’t always hold.  I might have a friend I turn to when I really need to talk or make a decision, because he listens well, and knows when and when not to give advice.  I might have another friend who is a terrible listener, but I go to him when I just want to have fun and forget the problems of life.

My parents, Edrei and Ruth Erickson, and the family who took my younger brother and me into their home when my parents died, Ansel and Dorothy Haukness, were friends (10/16/2015 Post). In fact, I would call them “best of friends.”  As I was growing up, they lived right across the street from each other.  They were friends as couples, getting together for whist parties or to play couples golf.  I even remember one time we vacationed together as families.  But most of the time, when I think of their friendship, I think of the friendship between Ruth and Dorothy, and Edrei and Ansel.

You could find Ruth and Dorothy dropping by each other’s houses for coffee, often with other friends they had in the neighborhood.  They were involved in various community organizations together.  But what I think of most often is their involvement in church, and their commitment to following Jesus.  Both of them loved the Bible, and led the Women’s Circle Bible Studies, as we called them at the time.  Dorothy was even trained to be a Bethel Bible Series teacher, and Mom and I actually took that series together.

During the months my Mother was dying from cancer (09/11/15 Post), Dorothy was there by her side, as a true friend would be.  I have no idea how their conversations went.  No doubt they included Mom’s worries about what would happen to Alan and me when she died

Ansel and Edrei were twins; twins by different parents.  They were both born on August 19, 1911, Dad in Canada, Ansel in North Dakota.  Dad became a U.S. citizen on September 15, 1925.  Fate would bring them both to Maddock, North Dakota, a farming community of just over 700 people. 

Both Dad and Ansel were great storytellers, and they referred to the night of their births as having been a “dark and stormy night.”

Ansel ran the dry goods store in town.  Dad moved to Maddock to take over a furniture store. He was a schoolteacher by training, and would eventually return to that profession, but decided to try his hand at business.

I think of Edrei and Ansel as buddies.  Oh, what fun they had together!  Every mid-morning and mid-afternoon they headed to Hunter’s Barber Shop for coffee and, as they would put it, “to solve the world's problems.”  They hunted together in the fall, and argued over who shot the biggest and most pheasants.  But their greatest joy was playing golf together.  That meant every Thursday at the Maddock Country Club, a nine-hole, sand-green course, with no water system, which meant, most of the time, playing golf in a pasture (without the cows --they were just over the fence, which was the out-of-bounds line on holes 5 and 6).  Part of growing up, I remember well, was checking to make sure the Foss bull was not in the pasture when you crawled the fence to retrieve your wayward drive.  And the highlight of the year, each August, was going to Detroit Lakes, Minnesota, to stay at the Haukness cabin and play in the Pine to Palm Golf Tournament.

Like buddies often do, Ansel and Dad never tired of teasing each other.  Dad was much bigger than Ansel and could hit the golf ball a lot further.  He loved to hit a big drive, and then, when Ansel moved to the tee box, say to him, “Ok, Ansel, show us what you can do.”  On the other hand, Ansel was a much better chipper, and loved to outmatch Dad in that part of the game.

One time while hunting geese one of them happened to end up lying in an area where a flock of greater Canada geese flew over, and knocked down four of them with three shots.  To this day I am not sure which one it was—I think Ansel—but they sure liked to rib the other.

One day my Mom backed our car out of our driveway and hit Ansel’s pickup parked in his driveway.  Dad went over to Ansel and chastised him, saying, “You know Ruth needs lots of room.  What were you doing parking in your own driveway?  She needs that space also.”

One day Dorothy asked Ansel to plant a tree, and Ansel asked Dad to help.  They raced to get it done before going out golfing.  Dorothy eventually went out to see how they had done. She found that they had planted the dead tree trunk used to keep the live tree straight, which was, in turn, still leaning against the wall in the garage.

Dad’s battle with cancer lasted almost a year (08/12/15 Post).  Ansel was always there, to stop by and visit at home, or to drive Dad to Bismarck for radiation treatments.

The day Dad died, I still remember the sound of the doorbell ringing around noon.  Mom opened the door, and there stood Ansel, tears streaming down his face.  He didn’t say a word; he just held out his hand to Mom.

I don’t know what kind of conversations went on between Ansel and Dad during that last year, or between Dorothy and Mom as she was dying.  What I do know is that the friendships these four neighbors had helped my parents in both life and death, and that Ansel and Dorothy gave my parents the best gift any friend could: volunteering to take us two boys into their home and family.

Dorothy died in 2004, at the age of 87.  Ansel died in July of 2008, a month short of his 97^th birthday.  To the very end I was able to visit with Ansel, never hearing enough of the stories he had to tell, especially of his adventures with his friend, Edrei.  As with all stories, history makes its sure move towards legend, and the factual truth may get lost in the translation.  But, as Ansel loved to remind us, “Do you want the truth, or do you want it interesting?”  To which I would add, “Do you want the exact details, or to be touched by meaning?”  And one of the most meaningful things we experience in this life is the gift of friendship.

(Ansel and Me, Age 96)

Witnesses in Green Corduroy

When it comes to pain, suffering, and grief, the most important gift we experience is the love and presence of others.  It is not their words, usually.  In fact, often words simply get in the way.  It is the presence, the compassion, and the tears others shed for us.

This past Sunday was All Saints Day, a day in which we remember and give thanks for, as we say, “those who have gone before us.”  But their going is not really “away.”  They go to form a circle around us.  In the words of the book of Hebrews: “we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses.” [12:1].  That surrounding includes, again in a traditional phrase, “the living and the dead.”

In my last blog entry I described how, after the deaths of both of my parents, four families in my hometown offered to take us into their families.  Prior to that, as my Mom way dying, family after family had invited my younger brother, Alan, and me over for dinner.  Both the community of Maddock and the members of North Viking Lutheran Church surrounded us with their love and presence.

As I mentioned in my blog entry of August 12, 2015, my Dad died shortly after I had returned from spending the summer working as a Counselor at Red Willow Bible Camp in Binford, North Dakota.  Dad’s funeral was on August 16, three days before his 54^th birthday.

The way our sanctuary was set up for funerals, the family entered the sanctuary from a side door near the right front of the altar area.  I had picked our entrance hymn, “Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, the King of Creation.”  We walked into the sanctuary as the congregation sang it.  I sang along, but looked down at the floor as we processed in, unable to bring myself to meet the eyes of the congregation.  We took  our seats in the front pew, turned towards the altar, and continued singing.

Now, Maddock was known to be a musical town. Not only did we have good choirs in church and in school, but we also had community cantatas from time to time.

However, that day, the singing of the entrance hymn seemed more powerful than ever.  I felt like I was being surrounded with love and lifted into the heavens.  Finally, I just had to look back to see this congregation of people singing from their hearts.

To my surprise, there, scattered throughout the congregation, were nearly every member of the Bible camp staff I had been a part of, some forty-strong, in their green corduroy staff jackets, with tears in their eyes, singing with heavenly gusto.  I had no idea they were coming to the funeral.

Then I understood, in a way I have never forgotten, what it means to be surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses.

I am the fifth from the left in the back row.  Many in this picture are friends to this day.

I Will Not Leave You Orphaned

Dorothy (1916-2004) and Ansel Haukness (1911-2008)

With the death of my Mother when I was 16, following the death of my Father when I was 14 (see 4 previous posts), my older brother, Neil, our legal guardian (9 years older than me), and the small community in which I lived, Maddock, N.D., faced a decision: where shall the two Erickson boys go (younger brother Alan, then 14, and me).

I have no idea what kind of discussions went on.  I only know the result:  at least four families in Maddock offered to take us in.  I am also not sure how the final decision was made, but the option chosen made the most sense to me.  We would sell our house and move across the street to the home of Ansel and Dorothy Haukness, who had been good friends of my parents for nearly twenty years.  They had four children of their own, but the autumn after my Mother’s death, their youngest, Margaret Ann, was heading off to college.  This left the entire upstairs empty, including a large bedroom that had been shared by their three sons.  That is where Alan and I took up residence.

From that bedroom I could look across the street to our house and home.  Almost every night, as I was getting ready for bed, I would look out that window, filled with that strange melancholy and nostalgia that was so much a part of my life in those days:  longing to be home with Mom and Dad, and yet grateful to God and the Haukness family that the promise Jesus had made to his disciples was true for us: “I will not leave you orphaned.” [John 14:18]

From the beginning Ansel and Dorothy took an insightful and pragmatic approach towards the Erickson boys.  They knew we had had wonderful parents, and they consciously decided not to try to take their place.  They would provide for us and welcome us into their home and family, but they would not try to take on the parenting role.

And welcome us they did.  The Hauknesses provided not only a home, but also a family.  Steven, Paul, Robert, and Margaret Ann treated us as their siblings.  The Haukness living room formed a kind of rectangle, with chairs in each corner, and a couch along the wall.  I remember the whole family gathering there for Christmas Eve, sharing gifts.  I loved the holidays, when as many of us as could would gather together, telling stories and bantering back and forth about economics, politics, religion.

Ansel and Dorothy were always such a welcoming couple.  Each new pastor would be invited over for dinner soon after their arrival.  At Thanksgiving the family table would be joined by one or two widows from town.  Ansel and Dorothy and Mom and Dad had a wonderful circle of friends, and those folks would often stop by.  I cherished the many opportunities I had to sit in that living room, with family and friends, to share what was going on and to discuss the issues of the day.

Of course, as in all families, suffering could not be held outside the door. Steven, the oldest, a classmate of my older brother, got a degree in law and joined the State Department.  He was stationed in Vietnam, and during the Tet Offensive of February, 1968, was captured.  For seven years his wife, Alpha, and their twin sons, Brad and Brent, along with all of us, would have no idea what happened to him.  We prayed that he was a prisoner of war and would eventually be returned, but that hope was dashed when his remains were uncovered in March of 1975.

When I was married to Pauline in May of 1972, Ansel and Dorothy were there as my parents.  They served in that role again, after Pauline died and I was married to Mary in June of 1984.  My two children, of course, would never meet my parents.  However, they had grandparents on my side of the family as well as Mary’s: it was always Grandpa Ansel and Grandma Dorothy.

In their retirement, Ansel and Dorothy spent their summers in North Dakota and Minnesota, and their winters in Phoenix.  In 2001 I left my call in Fargo, N.D., and took a call in Phoenix.  Part of the blessing of that move was being able to be with Ansel and Dorothy during the last years of their lives.  Brian and I played golf with Ansel, and he was able to see Brian play in a high school golf tournament.  Dorothy and Ansel were able to go to Jessi’s piano recitals.  We had the opportunity to have many meals at their place, and to host them in our home for Thanksgiving and other gatherings.

Dorothy died in January of 2004. Our family was able to be with her as she was dying, and to attend her funeral in Sun City West.  Ansel died in August of 2008.  Our whole family gathered back in Maddock, and I was able to speak at his funeral, thanking the community, and especially the Hauknesses, for making us a part of their family at our most desperate time.

If you were to wander a half-mile out of Maddock, to the community cemetery, there you would see buried, side by side, Edrei, Ruth, Ansel, Dorothy and Steven.  Not only was I not left orphaned.  God gave me two more parents and four more siblings.  The blessings of that large family continue with me to this day.

Mom, Part II: Thank You, God, for Helping Me Say Goodbye

[Mom and Dad, with brother, Neil, 1942]

       

After each of my parents died, if I had to use only one word to describe my feelings, it would be guilt about my Father [Posts 8/12/15 and 8/25/15], and anger at my Mother [9/11/15].  As I wrote in those posts, it took years for me to deal with and be healed of those emotions, because first they had to be brought from the unconscious to consciousness.

However, sometimes there is a shortcut, one that is spiritual rather than psychological.  It is provided by God’s Spirit.

I believe God tries to bring us healing by using dreams and increasing consciousness (which can come through prayerful reflection and/or the insights of others) to move us toward greater wholeness.  However, sometimes God's Spirit moves us toward healing even when we are still operating mainly unconsciously. This happened with my Mother, long before I fully understood the reasons for my anger at her, or the guilt I felt about avoiding being with my Father in the last weeks of his life as he was dying.  Part of that guilt was not only because I was not with Dad when he died, but because I also felt like I had not adequately said goodbye to him.

Mom was diagnosed with cancer about a year and a half after Dad died, when I was 16 and my younger brother, Alan, 14.  She was treated for awhile at the hospital in our little home town of Maddock, North Dakota.  But eventually she had to be moved to St. Luke’s Hospital in Fargo, which is 200 miles from Maddock.  My older brother, Neil, took leave from his work and stayed in a hotel near the hospital.  Various folks from Maddock would give  Alan and me rides to Fargo so we could visit Mom.

Eventually Neil called us to say Mom was nearing death.  This time it was our pastor, Elmo Anderson, who took us to Fargo.  Mom was so weak by then that we all had to wear gowns and masks when we went in to see her.

One of the things I have noticed over my many years of making visits to hospitals is that when folks are anxious and fearful, they tend to jabber.  A person can be dying right before their eyes, and folks will talk about the weather and whether the Twins won the baseball game last night.  That is why I take the family outside of the hospital room and instruct them:  I suggest that each of you go into the room alone, and talk to your father, mother, etc. alone.  Do two things.  Ask for forgiveness for anything that bothers you, and then tell them how much you appreciate their love and how much you love them.

Back to my Mother.  I stood off to the side, focused strictly on her.  I have no idea what everyone else was talking about, but I noticed she kept trying to raise her arm, which she could barely do, as weak as she was.  I could not figure out what she wanted or was trying to say. Finally I noticed that the sun was shining directly into her eyes.  I said, “Mom, do you want me to pull the window shade down?”  She smiled, and I went ahead and pulled it down.

Finally Pastor Elmo took out his bible and led us in a devotion and prayer.  Then everyone, including me, left the room.  As we entered the hallway and everyone began to take off their gowns and masks, I left mine on, told everyone to go on ahead, and explained that I would be along shortly.

I went back into Mom’s room and this time went right up to her bed.

She looked at me with such love, and the tears began to well up in my eyes.  “Mom,” I said, “I’m sorry I have to wear this mask because I really want to kiss you.  But I want you to know how much I love you and how much I appreciate all the things you have done for me.”

“Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words.”  [Romans 8:26]