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]

I'm Sorry, Mom, for Being So Angry at You

                               

                     (Ruth Lois Brown Erickson, 1918-1967)

Shortly before my first wife, Pauline, died (7/31/15 Post), she asked me.  “Bear, how come you talk so much about your Dad, but not much about your Mother?”

“Well,” I replied, “that’s because I’m angry at my Mother.”

“Why?” Pauline inquired.  “I thought she was a very gentle, warm, kind person, who would never hurt a soul.”

“Well, that’s true.”  I countered.  “But I am still angry at her.”

One of the most famous lines that came out of Watergate was Senator Howard Baker stating that the task regarding President Nixon was to find out what he knew and when he knew it.  I suppose that is an apt statement about the struggle for mental and spiritual health.  In these last reflections, as I have written about emotions like anger and guilt, I am looking back on my childhood experiences, and it is nearly impossible to know when I first consciously became aware of these emotions.  They start out unconsciously, and at some point force themselves into consciousness.

I don’t know what I said next to Pauline, but either then, or sometime later, I would explain my anger like this:  After my Father died, I really needed my Mother.  I did not want to be an orphan.  I knew she really missed my Dad, but why didn’t she struggle harder to survive?  Was her grief more important to her than her three boys?  Did she really try to beat the cancer?  Or did she just give in to it?

The passing years, including my work as a pastor, did not help matters.  As I saw some people just give in to illness, and others do everything possible to survive for as long as possible; as I learned about the psychological dimensions of some cancers, and the importance of the “will to live”; well, all that simply reinforced my anger.  Simply put, Mother should have fought harder to survive.

Now, of course, these are not the reflections of a rational and mature adult.  They are the reactive, emotional response of a lost, hurting, lonely and scared child.

In my last post (8/25/15) I wrote about the 10 years it took me to find healing for the guilt I felt about not having spent more time with my Dad as he died.  In my post of 7/31/15 I wrote about the 17 years it took to find healing of the anger I felt at God for the deaths of my parents.  Well, it took 15 years to find healing of the anger I felt towards Mom, and it finally occurred about a month and a half after Pauline died.

I had just returned to work.  I couldn’t concentrate.  I had no appetite.  I would go home at noon, and rather than eat, I would lie on the couch and cry.

One day, as I lay there, I reflected on an experience I had had between the deaths of my parents.  I had been in my room practicing my guitar, and then gone into the kitchen for a drink of water.  Mom was standing over the ironing board, working on a pile of clothes, and the tears were streaming down her face.  I asked her what was wrong, and she replied, “Oh, Brian, it’s nothing.”

Now, lying on the couch, remembering her gentle but sorrow-filled face, words burst forth from deep inside of me:  “Mom!  I love you!  I love you so much!  Now I understand.  Finally I understand the unbelievable emptiness you must have felt when Dad died.  Mom, I’m sorry for being angry at you!  I love you so much!  I need you so much!”

Then I addressed Dad in the same way.  And then Pauline, concluding, “The three most important people in my life are dead. They are gone.  Why must I live without the three people who loved me so much?”

Lying there, exhausted, it occurred to me. I had addressed Mom first.  Then Dad.  Then Pauline.

So often in life it is difficult for us to understand those we love most.  When we are young we often assume their struggles and pain are because of us.  This breaks our own spirits and keeps us from being able to truly understand those we love the most.  Sometimes it takes years before we go through our own experience of suffering in such a way that we finally understand the pain of others, including those we love most.

I lament that healing often takes so long, but I rejoice that it is always possible, if we don’t give up on the spiritual journey, even with it’s many, frustrating meanderings.  Life is a labyrinth, not a maze, and if we don’t stop, we will make it to the center, where insight and healing await us.