A Christmas Present 44 Years in the Making

About two or three feet away from where I sit at work is the drop off site for UPS and Federal Express packages. When it absolutely, positively, has to get there overnight then feel free to cutter the area surrounding my desk.

Normally I don’t give any thought to what is being sent out, but in the mix today is something that has caught my attention. In the middle of all the card board envelopes is a rather large brown box destined for Green Bay, Wisconsin. I don’t know what’s inside, but it has to be heavy. Our Chief Engineer, Dan Ulmer, used a dolly to pull the package all the way from his office.

Dan is one of those coworkers who I really don’t know all that well. We say “hello” to each other in the hallway and exchange in polite small talk when we happen to be at the coffee machine at the same time- but otherwise we’re strangers.

 Still, all the same, it is impossible not to like Dan. He is the personification of someone born in the upper Midwest. He is good natured, kind and thorough- very thorough. Most off all you like how he sounds. He has this dialect that instantly reminds you of the movie Fargo or Sarah Palin.

It’s been my experience that the most mild mannered of people tend to have the best stories.  Dan definitely fits that category but his story does not. What he experienced, what he went through, the way he survived, is nothing short of a tragedy?  In fact it is so sad that I’d never think of telling you about it… if it wasn’t for that box sitting just a few feet away.

On a winter morning back in 1964 Dan, along with his older brother and their father, set out on a snowmobile adventure threw their home town in Eastern Wisconsin. All three were on the same machine with those in the back rapping their arms around the person in front of them.  I am not sure where Dan was positioned. He was only eight years old at the time so I have a mental picture of him being sandwich in between the other two. Maybe he was. Maybe I just made that up.

When you’re from the North it’s the winter that provides your childhood with its special moments. All of us from that part of the country can tell stories about the first igloo we built, or the screeching sound of breaks from a car just hit with a snowball. There are tales of going ice fishing, or getting all the neighborhood kids together for a toboggan run. And for some, like Dan, there was snowmobiling.

When you think about it the sport doesn’t make much sense.  It requires either a certain level of bravery or outright insanity. It doesn’t matter how many layers your mother made you wear, even if you successfully covered every inch of exposed skin, when you jump on a machine that goes 45 miles per hour, in sub zero degree weather…it’s going to be cold.

But that’s the thing about being from the North. Looking back, no matter what the temperature the memories all seem to be so warm.

Well, not all the memories.

Something went horribly wrong that day back in 1964.  It happened when the Ulmers tried to cross the frozen Fox River. They didn’t make it. The ice started to give way.

Dan was telling me the story after he dropped off the package. It was actually the second time he shared it with me. With most people I would have interrupted and reminded them politely; “yeah, I remember you telling me about this before.” With Dan I let him go on. Not only did I want to hear the story again, this time I was hoping he would go into more detail.

 Truth is I am not sure how much he remembers.  He talked about the snowmobile falling through the ice. He remembers his father saying “Save the boys I’ll be okay” and then he remembers that rope that appeared out of nowhere.

Dan was saved because a stranger happened to be at the right place at the right time.

He remembers being in the hospital and all the attention and love he got from the nurses and doctors. And of course there is no way from him to forget that painful moment, just before he was released, when his mom told him that neither Dan’s brother or father made it out alive.

That’s where the story stopped the first time Dan told me. It was back in January, back in a time when everyone at work was in a lot of pain. We had just lost our General Manager Karl Davis in a motorcycle accident. Dan was telling me how the sudden death of our boss reminded him of what happened to his family decades earlier.

Since then a lot as happened. In September this television market became the first in the nation to switch to digital broadcasting. As the Chief Engineer Dan became a leading expert in the new technology. He has been interviewed by reporters all over the country, including one from Green Bay.

“Yeah- this kid actually did a background search on my name,” this time Dan’s story had a new ending. “He discovered that I was the kid from the Fox River and even tracked down the stranger who pulled me out.”

In the last few months Dan has been in contact with the stranger’s wife. The man, now in his 70’s, is in the early stages of Alzheimer’s and is unable to talk.

Consequently the two have never spoken. In fact over the years it appears the man has never told anyone about what happened. It wasn’t until the article came out that his wife and his children even knew about the hero that lived with them. They did, however, wonder why he always kept that same rope in the truck of his car- car after car- decade after decade. Anytime they’d ask him about it he’d try to dismiss it with what they thought was a joke, “Oh, that’s just my life saving rope” he told them.

Dan story is certainly dramatic and tragic, but I bet you it’s not unlike your own. All of us- every single one of us- has someone who came into our life at exactly the right moment in time. They were there to provide a word of encouragement, to help us get our life back on course, to let us know that hope was not lost. Most of the time they figuratively (but as Dan’s life proves sometimes literally too) threw us a rope when we needed it the most.

Have you told that person “thanks” this Christmas?

No matter what’s inside, that box is really just one big thank you note. Whatever Dan gave the family- I am sure it falls far short. How do you express that level of gratitude that rightly goes to the person who’s actions let you grow up, to fall in love, to become a father and a success in your career? How do you say thank you to someone who gave you your life?

On second thought, maybe it’s not that hard. May you just do what Dan is doing and reach out to someone who once reached out to you.

I hope you have a merry Christmas and time to spend with those you love. But most off all, I pray that God will give you an opportunity to say “thanks” this year.

  If you would like to share your stories on the person who came along at the right moment in your life just click the comment button below

If you would like to read the newspaper article from Greenbay click on this link http://www.greenbaypressgazette.com/article/20081209/GPG0101/812090552/1978

Confessions of a Spirtual Snob

There’s a story I’ve been trying to tell you for quite some time now. It took place back in October and ever since then, virtually every day, I sit down at the computer and attempt to put it all together. It just never seems to come out the right way.

 It’s not so much a case of writer’s block in fact it is just the opposite. What I want to share with you was such a powerful experience that I know- if told correctly- it should be the best thing I’ve ever written. And yet, no matter how much I struggle, whatever comes out on paper just seems to be lacking the true essences of the moment. The worse thing about trying to write isn’t so much figuring out what you want to say; instead it’s always in finishing what you failed to get off to a perfect start.

That Sunday morning back in October really did seem like the perfect beginning. Not just to the day, but perhaps even to a new career and maybe even a new me.

For the first time ever I was asked be a guest speaker. A church in Leland, North Carolina invited me to address its congregation.  They were actually using my appearance, along with that of a traveling Southern Gospel singer, to drum up new members. The pastor had published thousands of flyers and paid to have them inserted in the local newspaper. This may have been a small country church, but oh, how it seemed like something so big. It was only a matter of time before I’d be playing in bigger venues.

My plan was to talk about community. After all, when you think about it, the hundreds of people who’d show up were actually shoppers.  They were really just folks searching around for the perfect spiritual home. I’d tell them that they can worship God anywhere, that they didn’t need to belong to a church to do that, and yet that there is something undeniable that you cannot get when you go it alone. How important it is to surround yourself with other believers- only then do you understand what it’s like to be held accountable.

 The speech would include a long section on my first impressions, misconceptions really, of what it meant to belong to a church. As a child it always seemed like appearance mattered most.  To us the cliché “Put on your Sunday Best” didn’t just refer to your clothes, it went far beyond that, it really had more to do with the entire image you projected. Back then being a churchgoer meant playing the role of a problem free individual who magically had it all figured out.  If there was something wrong, some type of crisis, something traumatic, you simply failed to reveal it. Instead you masked it under the smiling faces of the All American Family.

This type of church meant mom and dad never fought, that the kids always obeyed and honored their parents, that there was never a worry about how that month’s mortgage payment would be made, or how to afford braces for your daughter or Little League for your sons.  The problem-free lifestyle only lasted for that one hour.  As soon as we got in the car, and started fighting about where to go to lunch, the reality sunk in- even to a young child- we were  not exactly the Brady Bunch and no where near whom we just pretended to be.

The feeling of fakeness probably keeps a lot of people away. If you’re lucky though you get to come back. Because as an adult you discover that being part of a church, being part of a community, has nothing to do with covering up the pain but everything to do with sharing it.

Pacing outside the church in Leland my mind was rehearsing the talk. I knew what scripture I’d quote and even the humorous anecdotes I’d share. That’s when I first saw him. Just a few yards away from me was a man in his fifties doing the same thing- aimlessly walking back and forth. It was clear that he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. I watched as he sat down on the bumper of his mini-van. Just a few feet above him, on the rear windshield, was a pink cancer ribbon and the words “in loving memory of my wife.”

“I am sorry about your loss.” Even as the words were coming out of my mouth they seemed so trite.

“Thank you,” he told me. “We just buried her on Wednesday.”

The two of us didn’t talk that long. Our conversation was interrupted when we were waved inside. Things were apparently getting underway. There was only one problem, a big problem; no one- I mean no one- showed up! If you took the Pastor and his family out of the mix, if you didn’t count the traveling Gospel singer and his wife, all you had left was six people. Probably the same six who showed up week after week.

“Hey, someone is coming!”

The shriek came from a man sitting near the window. I looked out to see a gray SUV pulling into the parking lot. I recognized the vehicle right away. It belongs to my boss. He was coming out to support me. It was a nice gesture but as I watched him get out of the car I wished he had stayed home.  I felt bad for being embarrassed, but I was embarrassed all the same.

Part of it was the people around me were so excited that someone had actually showed up that I was ashamed that it was someone I invited and not someone who responded to their massive advertising campaign. But it was more than that, much more. I was also embarrassed that my boss would associate me with this turnout. After all I belonged to one of these massive, modern day, mega churches. Some of our small groups had more members than this entire congregation.

The traveling gospel singer went on before me. His wife pressed a button on a lap top computer and suddenly music started to play. The vocalist belted away holding on to a microphone that I am not even sure was plugged in.  This was nothing like the 8 piece band that performs every week at my church.

 My speech was nothing like it was supposed to be either. It didn’t make sense to talk about community. What community? We didn’t even have enough people to fill a booth at a restaurant. I tried my best to sound profound, but basically just him-hawed around and got off the stage as quickly as possible.

After my performance the pastor introduced the same man who I had talked to outside.  It was a bit of a surprise because he wasn’t on the official agenda. The man had no intention of giving a speech; he just wanted to give thanks. Holding back the tears he told everyone how much he appreciated what they had done for him in the past few days. He talked about the long illness that took his wife and the courage that she showed. He said if it wasn’t for this church, this little country church that he would never have been able to get through this. And then he said; “We may be small in number but we’re big in heart.”

As he talked I started to sink further and further into my chair.  His words were convicting me. Some time along the way I had turned into a spiritual snob. How did that happen? Where and when did I start putting so much emphasis on numbers and size? It never occurred to me before, but bigger isn’t necessarily better. Certainly there are people, even in my own church, who get lost in the shuffle and never feel a connection? Something like that couldn’t happen in this country church. Here it is impossible to mask your feelings or to hide your pain.  It is simply too small for you to get away with that.

I left the church, on that autumn Sunday, with very mixed emotions.  There were feelings of failure, my speech fell far short of the mark and yet I had gained so much. In the ironies of ironies I had come with the hopes of talking about community, only to end up seeing it in action.