Living Hazzardously

Little pieces of our journey with Jesus

Pages

Saved but not surrendered! A long journey into trust.

by

The year was 1979 and for all I knew, my life was normal, lower mid-class family, living in North Minneapolis. Nothing significant or out of the ordinary. I was baptized in 6th grade at a LCMS right after a service on a beautiful Sunday morning, My mother usually brought us to church on the bus… but today, My father drove us. Dad only stayed for few minutes before he needed to take a cigarette break that lasted the rest of the service. So there I was, “normal”. I had no clue bare butt spankings with a wire coat hanger that left stripes, stripes that fused to your underwear. I knew it wasn’t “right” but was it not “normal”? Public humiliation & belittling for wetting the bed, that is normal too?….Profane insults, horrible words & statements like “you kids are the worst (colorful expletive) thing that ever happened to me” would now set the stage for the next few chapters in my life… but to me it was normal. Trust is never easy for me, even today…

I was working in the garden when my mother called me inside. Grandpa died in some far away state out west. He was my champion! Rumor says he knew every verse in the bible by heart (rumors only? sure). I remember He stood up for me against my father. I was overwhelmed and I remember breaking down and asking God to do something in my life. I dont remember exactly what, but I made a deal with God. I told God that I would always follow him and He would always be the one I trusted. 

Years had past since I had friends in the house. My father’s hoarding took on epic levels. The bath tub, the kitchen sink, the dinette, dining room, living room, basement and finally the our bed rooms… including my bed. I prayed and asked why. I don’t remember a time I didn’t feel Gods presence, but nothing changed!

When my mother fell and hurt her back, the doctors prescribed pain meds, as much as she wanted! Always stoned, never in touch with life. More and more pain meds. 

My rebellion started with a “party” where I learned to drink. I ran into at least three cars while pedaling my bike home. I learned how easy it was to steal smokes from my father.

My sixth grade year: the year I started drinking & smoking cigarettes, but still listened to my Snoopy radio that I had found and fixed.

Fall of 1979 finally came around. I became friends with some of the old timers in the neighborhood. John with the perfect lawn, the Kurkies who always had cookies and Mr Jones who worked in his garage sharpening roofing blades. MR JONES. What happened to me in that garage is something no young boy should ever experience. Scared and confused, afraid to tell anyone, especially my father…. I yelled at God and I determined to fight God over this for about 25 years.

I lived a life trying to prove I was “normal” all I wanted was to be normal, and I tried to prove it alone, without God. I dropped out of school as a sophomore. Started living at friend’s houses and working, Drinking, smoking, doing drugs of every kind and proving I was a normal guy. I tried to show the world I was not that guy in the garage. I was determined to prove to the world “I was normal”. By 21, I had a daughter. I was never there for her; I cant undo that! Not being there for her is my biggest regret in life.

At 25, I got married, had three sons and lived a “normal life”. I was now the dad I should have been. Trying to prove I was a normal guy, a good dad, the classic “man’s man”, I was very good at doing things my way, and I guess I still am. 

At age 34, 9 years into a 20 year marriage that was only getting worse, my MOM was about to give me a Christmas present that would change everything. $200.00 cash.

I decided to tell God he needed to prove to me that he wanted me back. He needed to prove to me he still loved me after all the things I did, after all the girls I hurt. After all the horrible things I had done over the years. (I don’t recommend this approach, its not a good idea.) But our God is bigger than our issues. I was at work one day and I drove by a “Northwestern Book Store”, when a still small voice said, “go” and I went… God “needed” to show me what to do with this $200.00. I knew God would not be able to show me anything in that store… I knew it and I was kinda gloating about it because I have dyslexia and reading for any amount of time is so burdensome that I simply do not read. But, OUR GOD IS BIGGER THAN OUR ISSUES. There it was, I knew in an instant why God wanted me in that store… an audio bible,(bound in a nice vinyl case containing CDs) that cost $199.00… I bought it and it changed my life forever. I couldn’t stop listening, all day at work, at home, everywhere! BIBLE BIBLE BIBLE. For the first time in my life, I read, well listened to God’s Word, cover to cover. 

My marriage got worse. I heard comments like… “Don’t expect me to become some bible fanatic like you!” It was ugly. I don’t have a need to share more of that chapter today. My marital status changed to single.

In 2015, I married Jessica, my best friend and helpmate. We met at church, in choir. She stole my heart! We are now a blended family of 8 guys (if you include our two dogs) and one gal. I had never known a God centered marriage, but together we are both discovering how a God centered marriage works. (I am still a hard man to live with, but she has more grace than I have issues). She is absolutely the greatest. 

I don’t know why God chooses to keep me safe and helped me endure the hard-aches, sufferings, abuse & self destructive behaviors. I have experienced a father who was abused by his drunken father. I have experienced a mother who was checked out on pain killers for years. I have experienced first hand the self-destruction of drugs and alcohol. I have experienced a marriage destroyed with infidelity and drinking. I have experienced a friend that drank his life away after being laid off. I have experienced survival. I have experienced the joy of a Godly wife that learned how to manage her addiction(through faith in JESUS). I have experienced so much, both good and bad. It’s hard to believe that Our God is bigger than our issues at times. BUT HE IS

I have a tattoo on my chest, it is a reminder of so much. I guess in a way its a life verse. It’s written in Hebrew, it reads… “there is a time for love and a time for hate, Ecclesiastes 3:8” there is a time for everything, good & bad. This tattoo is a reminder of where I have been but more than that it reminds me that JESUS was always there, in all the pain, sorrow and struggles but even more-so, Jesus still is here with me.

Everyone has a story. Your story is different than mine, but every story is just as important as the next story… Please ask yourself these two questions: What are you going to do with my story?, What are you going to do with your story?

RAGE is normal

by

Have you ever been ANGRY?

Have you ever been upset?

If you answered yes, this is the blog post you don’t want to miss!

I have talked about some of my past with you. I have talked a little bit about what its like to become an autism step dad. I want to tell my story. I want you, the reader, to see through my eyes, to feel what I feel and to know what I know. BUT… that’s not exactly possible, is it? 

I got a call from my brother shortly after my last post about our father locking me in the basement as his form of “rehabilitation”. I don’t remember my brothers exact words but it was something like this: “So, I wasn’t the only one to survive those childhood traumas?” This got me thinking this morning about how everyone has a time of trauma in life, some are more severe than others and some are so severe we can never actually get past them, but everyone has a story to tell.

As I grew up, my father was a major source of constant childhood trauma, the beatings, the verbal abuse, the work-load… it was good and bad growing up. I wanted a “normal life”,  but what is normal anyway? Normal is what we see as common. Normal is what we see on the other side of the fence… Normal is fantasy… or is it? Is it really fantasy? 

Organized hoarding, that’s how it started.

Before we continue, I want to clear the air, set the stage and paint the picture for you. There is a difference between hoarding houses and trash houses. Hoarding can become trashy (as in my childhood home) but they start very organized, categorized and arranged. What you are about to read was not, at its core, saved pizza boxes and dog poop. It was stuff! Bought for the sole reason that it actually has value.

The day started as a normal day. My brothers and sisters woke as normal. We ate our day-old oatmeal, carved out of the big pot that was left on the stove. We found joy in having food, yet again, it wasn’t much, just cold, congealed oatmeal stuck in an aluminum pot, sitting on the one open burner. The same stove that had a small path in front of it. This path was cutting its way through the house like a snake in the tall grass of a forest. We had no more access to the kitchen sink. We had been washing dishes in the bathroom sink next to the toilet which was usually plugged and in need of the plunger. Our kitchen had become another holding area to dads “stuff”. The dinette was filled from ceiling to floor. A foot path leading from the dinette, though the formal dinning room and across our “spacious” living-room to the front door. This path was only used for accessing the mailbox.  The front door was also blocked and hadn’t been opened in years. The mail slot went from outside to inside the house. Situated near the end of the path was a spot where I could sneak away and hide from my “normal”…. a hiding place, a void in the collection that dad didn’t know about. If you knew where to look and could crawl on your belly, it was a hole into a mysterious land of safety from the pain we kids all felt. I didn’t go there often. I guess I didn’t want it to be “discovered” and filled with more stuff. Our bathroom had also come to the same fate as our kitchen. It was a great place to store more stuff, leaving a small space in front of the toilet and sink, but totally blocking the bathtub and vanity. The sheet draped across the unusable door was our only privacy, but it was better than nothing, maybe. The attached garage hadn’t been entered in years, blocked by the back door that barely opened now. The entryway was also access to the basement.  By the time I entered the 9th grade, I was bathing in the basement laundry tub. Avoiding the sewer rats that would frequent the home from the open sewer pipe in the basement, which made it easier for dad to clear the plugged pipes. The old ringer style washer stood next to the laundry tub and allowed me some stable hand holds to climb into the laundry tub for my bathing. I would usually wash my cloths while I bathed in the laundry tub. Looking for a safe place to set my feet as I climbed out. The two concrete laundry tub configuration That dad fixed the plugged pipe by knocking it out of the way…. It drained well now, onto the floor. This house wasn’t some dramatic scene from a tv show. It was my home! It was my normal! I was embarrassed. I was defeated. I was learning how to handle traumatic life everyday. God grew me where I was. God gave me strength to overcome and not quit. God was there when I didn’t really know who He was.

Overcoming. Is that what life is about? Taking your knocks and not giving in? In many ways, God was preparing me for this very day, today… March of 2019. I am reminded to not give up, to not quit, to keep going… because our God is bigger than our problems. Becoming an autism step dad is a challenge. It’s not all roses. It’s not all fun. Don’t get me wrong, it has its rewards… many rewards, but it also comes with its challenges. Challenges of the mind, body and spirit. Challenges that some may never know and yet others know all too well. For me the challenges are foreign, but for Jess it’s just normal. For me, things need to make sense, for Jess it’s just normal. For me things need to be fixed, for Jess things are just normal. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying Jess is just sitting back, taking things as normal. What I am saying is that Jess has adapted, learned and overcome (or should I say “discovered contentment”). Sometimes the emotions come back from when I was still in my old house as a child, learning how to manage life. Learning that all things do not make sense. Learning that order can look different to others. When you look at my tool box, unless you know what to look for, it looks “dis-ordered”,  but to me, I can see order (not as much as I would like), but its ordered in many ways. When I look at Autism, I don’t see this order. I see random chaos. I see confusion. I see something that needs to be fixed… BUT…. the reality is, it’s not broken, dis-ordered or chaotic…. it’s normal! It makes perfect sense and the reality is, the deficiency is found in my perception of the situation. Don’t get me wrong, I do see clearly to know there must be some controls put into place for health, safety, well being and so on. BUT!!!! It’s not totally my perception that is right. Where sometimes I see no “segue” … Al moves from one scene of his life to another, seamlessly. I get confused and loose track of his fluid connections. It’s a new world, a new way of seeing life, a way I never knew existed.

I told you in the beginning of the blog post you should read it… IF you have ever been angry, well… stay tuned.

Jess says I have incredible patience with Al. In someways I don’t feel patient, and Al knows. He can tell when I’m worn thin. He can tell when I feel like “butter spread over too much toast”. How is it I could ever be considered to be the least bit patient? I’m not good at waiting. I’m no good at sitting around. I AM THE LEAST PATIENT PERSON I KNOW! And yet, my loving bride encourages me with edifying words to build me up, not bring me low. How is it I have come to deserve this woman? How is it she can see such good in a man with the past I have? It’s simple. She is forgiven and in that forgiveness from God, she has grace for me. She can see the good because she has received good and she now overflows with that same grace from God.

Growing up, all I ever saw was an angry father, yelling, screaming, blaming, profane words like I have never heard elsewhere (I was in the NAVY), and name calling…. OHH THE NAMES!! Every racial slur, demeaning terms for women…. stereotypes….if it’s PC now, he violated it then. My father was anything but PC and likely the number one violator of the new “PC WORLD”. I still feel that learned response at times. That unrestrained emotion that leads so many people to hurt others. I don’t let it control me. I wont! Camping there is deadly to self. It takes practice, control and mostly, it takes GRACE. The Grace that God shows us everyday. Autism is difficult. Autism is different. Autism is normal. 

Being angry is a decision to react to the environment in a way that is damaging to self. Choose to find joy, when Its difficult… keep choosing and don’t give in. I’m not saying its easy, just possible.

Dark places, triggers and time

by

“YOU G$&@$? KIDS ARE THE WORST $@!:;)$&@ THING TO EVER HAPPEN TO ME”

This statement was one of my fathers favorites. Colorful expletives, horrible names and physical beatings were a daily occurrence for my siblings and I growing up.

My first traumatic memory was in the big house in South Minneapolis, I’m not sure what year it was, we moved in my kindergarten year, so it was before that. I had done some “horrible deed” that my father determined was nearly a capital offense. The punishment was banishment.

The big house was a duplex with “druggies” upstairs. I got the bed in the bay window, basically a foam pad shoved into a window opening. I don’t remember much of that house now. Between my fathers cigarette smoke and the constant inflow of marijuana smoke from upstairs, I was either being made strong or it was a sure thing what my future held.

This is where I started in the “Jonny jump-up” and grew up until my “all day kindergarten” class at Greely elementary a couple blocks away. We lived on 24th and 12th, on the Southside of Minneapolis, the house we lived in was torn down many years ago. It was a horrible place in a horrible neighborhood.

Our basement was right out of a horror movie, big stone walls, musty and dark, junk filled every turn and every damp corner. IT WAS A SCARY PLACE.

My punishment must fit the crime, and at less than 6yo, banishment into the basement was the only solution to my rehabilitation. As the lights were turned off at the switch located above me, I watched the trap door being lowered over my head until the last flicker of light was extinguished and the horror of every noise, every imagination and every nightmare played out in my young mind at full intensity. I remember screaming, crying and begging for help. My mind began to play out how I would be devoured in this dark hole. I curled up on the steps and literally screamed until I was horse, until I could scream no longer…. this was my father’s cue that I was fully reformed and my banishment was fulfilled.

We moved to 35th and Sheridan on the north side, a big, nice home. Two fireplaces, finished basement, two stories, separate bedrooms for boys and girls. We had a play area upstairs and the big bedroom was just for us three boys. My two sisters had the pretty bedroom next to us. I got my own bed, the upper bunk, my little brother got the lower and my older brother was in a single bed by the window. Life was “good” and I was finishing k-grade in Penn elementary. I was making friends when I could but usually I was at home “working” on my fathers projects. Going the the store to buys smokes and Pepsi for dad was my most common job in the evening. Two packs of smokes for the next day and an 8-pack of returnable bottles that my father would share with us on occasion. He didn’t mind sharing the Pepsi after it went flat, but to me it was liquid heaven.

The year was 1976, I was now 9 years old. My siblings and I had worked all day cleaning the house, top to bottom! We had expectations of our efforts to be rewarded by letting us invite our friends over for a “BICENTENNIAL PARTY”…. this would be a rare experience, to have friends over? It was unheard of, at least not in the house…. that’s not allowed! Maybe outside but never in the house. As I hid under the dining room table to covertly capture the surprise and delight that would surely flow from my father as the obvious labors over the coarse of our day were to be revealed as the man I called dad traversed the interior of our home.

Yes this was it! Here he comes! The door swung open, the footsteps approached, the hacking cough…. “clomp, clomp, clomp”…. he couldn’t see me, I was hidden well, table over the top, between the wall and the radiator. I heard the plastic wrap from the new pack of smokes… “crackle, pop” watching with joy and pride… The plastic cigarette wrapper and the foil top hit the floor…. moments apart…. landing like cluster bombs in my mind. Smashing into pieces the days labor…. the dusting of pictures, the cleaning of windows, the scrubbing of floors all became ashes of a war zone. The clean floor, dashed into pieces with the plastic wrapper of a cigarette pack.

Something changed for me that day, never to return, I no longer wanted to clean the house, I no longer wanted to invite friends into my home, my fathers actions had “triggered” a new perspective, and even today, it brings back memory’s of deep sadness, 43 years later!

I really enjoyed growing up in that house, but like most things in life, time changes…. in 6th grade, things really got bad, but that’s another day, a different blog post.

The balance of marriage, family, extended family and friends is delicate at best and can be destroyed in seconds. It’s not one that comes easy for me. In the great words of the country song “life’s a dance, you learn as you go….”

I think back to my childhood and I remember the trauma of my youth….. But I can’t stay there…. I’m a dad, a stepdad, a husband, a friend, a business owner, a man! I need to find a way to rise above my past, to step into the rolls of my life. My boys deserve more than the sum of my past. My bride deserves more than my brokenness. But how? How can I be this man that God has called me to be? “I” can not! But with Jesus, I can do God’s will, I can be more than the sum of my past, I can be a man! A man after God’s own heart, I’m not perfect and my wife has an abundance of forgiveness, she was blessed with being able to see beyond my hard exterior and keeps forgiving me every day, sometimes more… but she never quits on me.

Life gives lumps, hard trials but Jesus gave more than we can ever imagine and that’s the hope I’m living in. That’s how I get up and do what he has for me. Greater are His plans and blessings than anything I can do alone. His grace is sufficient.