When I arrived, I was immediately invited over to Sergey’s (not his real name). He lives in a dorm room with his wife and their one year old daughter. In this small room are all their earthly possessions. They have no kitchen. They cook with a single electric burner and an electric teapot. They have no running water. For water they must go to the not-maintained bathroom they share with dozens of others who live on their floor. This is their home.

For my coming, in typical Russian hospitality, they prepared the best meal they could afford. For them it was a type of vegetable soup. It was, basically, hot water with a few traces of finely cut carrots at the very bottom. It was all they could afford. It was all they had. But I had not come for the food. I had come to spend time with them. It was a time to catch up with what had happened in each of our lives since we had last seen each other. It was a time of deepening friendships. It was a rich time …as we sat on those unpadded wooden crates around a makeshift “dining” table sipping on the limited soup and eventually pretending we were full.

At one point in the conversation I found out Sergey was going out in a couple of days to the potato fields to dig potatoes. I thought back on the day during my previous time in Russia when I was at their home and Sergey came with a bag of potatoes. He had just bought them. His wife was very excited. Now they h

ad potatoes. She exclaimed, “Potatoes for breakfast! Potatoes for lunch! Potatoes for dinner!” She was not apologetic about it. She was sincerely happy. It would be what they would be living on. It was, for them, life.

Now it was time to dig the potatoes Sergey had planted last spring. He was offering anyone who would come and help with the digging a bag of potatoes. While I was hoping to start a discussion group with Sergey, and others, I instead found myself telling Sergey I would come and help him dig potatoes. It just seemed to be that which God was saying to do.

Sergey had graduated a couple of years before from the university in engineering and was now an engineer at a factory. He made about $100 a month. With this he must support his family.

The factory rents fields outside the city for its’ employees to raise potatoes for food. When it is time to dig the potatoes, the plant closes for the day and rents dozens of buses to bus its’ employees out to the potato fields. The buses were leaving at 8AM on Friday morning. Sergey said to meet him at his dorm room at 7:30.

I lived on the opposite end of the city from Sergey. It takes about an hour and a half to get to Sergey’s, taking various buses from where I lived. The first bus in the morning started around 6 AM (bus “schedules” are not exactly exact in Russia).

On Friday I got up early. It was cold and windy and dark. I dressed as warmly as I could. I walked in the dark to the bus stop and caught the first bus. It was still dark when I arrived at Sergey’s. He was surprised both by the fact that I had actually come and that I was on time. He gave me a bucket and we headed out to catch the buses that were heading out to the potato fields.

Casa also joined us. Casa is from a different ethnic group. She had just graduated from the university in architecture and had not yet found a job, had no place to live (her family lives in a different region, and had little money for food. She was willing to help Sasha dig potatoes all day to take him up on his offer of a bag of potatoes as payment.

I wasn’t sure where the factory came up with the buses, but most of them looked like they wouldn’t, couldn’t, or shouldn’t work. By the time we loaded our bus, it was standing room only. As we waited for the bus to leave, I looked around. I was standing on an old bus which by all appearances was filled not with engineers, but with peasants wearing potato digging clothes, colored plastic buckets on their laps or on the floor next to them, and all holding assorted rigged-up digging tools.

It was an hour-long standing bus ride out into the country. The hills were almost more than the buses loaded with people could manage. There were times, as we were ascending a hill, that one wondered if the bus would even make it. It always did.

While on the bus we only whispered English to each other. It was not that there were a lot of secrets out in the potato fields, but there was no point in making a scene. I was trying to just be another Russian peasant going out to dig potatoes.

As we neared the potato fields, the roads looked less and less like actual roads. In the end it was simply a deeply rutted dirt track in a field. When the buses reached the limit of what they could traverse, they stopped and let us out. Before us were the potato fields.

Sergey’s plot of potatoes were with hundreds of others covering the hills. Except for where some potato plots had already been dug, the fields were mostly still all green. There had not yet been a frost and the potato plants had not yet turned brown. The people were spreading out across the hills to their plots. Casa and I followed Sergey to his.

Sergey’s plot was 6 potato rows wide and stretched up the hill beyond where we could see. I hadn’t asked many questions about this thing I had volunteered for and thus did not rea

lly know what I had gotten myself into. I did not know how many potatoes he had to dig or how many of them we were going to dig today (all of them).

To dig potatoes, there are two critical things one needs: a flat fork to dig with and large sacks to put the potatoes in. Sergey had neither. He could not find a fork to borrow, so he borrowed a dull and previously misused spade. He found some sacks to borrow, but they were in bad need of repair. He had spent the previous night trying to sew the holes shut in them. We started digging with the only previously misused spade we had.

How we worked with just one spade was this – while one dug up the potato hills, the other two, on their knees, dug through the dirt with their hands to find the potatoes. Each potato, no matter how small, was precious. It was food. It was life. Hitting and cutting an unseen potato with the spade was like a knife to the stomach. It would mean the potato would spoil. It was one less potato. It was one less meal. It was life shortened.

Sergey and I took turns digging with the spade. We worked back and forth across the 6 rows and gradually up the hill. We would collect the potatoes first in buckets and then, when full, would dump them into the large sacks. It was a system most of the others around us were also using.

As I dug with my hands through the dirt for the potatoes on this wind-blown hill, in Siberia, I thought of what I had been doing just a few days earlier. I had been designing exclusive homes and executive offices for clients in various locations across America. Today, I was on my hands and knees digging potatoes in Siberia. I thought, “What a life!” There is nothing I would rather be doing with it. To be able to both design projects and dig potatoes on opposite sides of the earth in the course of just a few days is awesome. Why, when not designing, would I want to sit on a beach working on my tan when I could be digging life-giving potatoes with friends in Siberia?

We worked very steadily. We needed to get all the potatoes dug, bagged, and loaded on the trucks before the end of the day. The work was back-breaking.

At times we would stand up to stretch and straighten our backs. It was amazing looking out across the landscape. One could see for miles. It was beautiful.

The landscape was of hills covered by various crops with stands of birch trees mixed in. The various crops were of various harvest colors. Some fields were green, some were golden, and some were earth colored, as they had already been plowed for spring. Amongst these rich colored fields were the white barked birch trees. Many of the birch trees were in their autumn splendor of yellows and golds.

The sky was filled with white puffy clouds moving swiftly across the blue sky. As their shadows moved across the landscape, the colors of the landscape were in constant change. Where the sun shown, the colors were vibrant. In the cloud shadows the colors became muted. It was glorious.

The hills we were on were covered with people, all digging their potatoes. As the day went on, the color of the hills gradually turned from the green of the potato plants to the brown of the freshly dug earth. With the hundreds of plots being dug at once, the pattern the plots made on the hills were ever-changing. As the potatoes were dug, hundreds of bags of potatoes began to appear spread out across the potato plots.

We continued digging our way up the hill, only stopping briefly for some lunch and warm tea (thermos). The wind was cold. It was one of those cold winds where you find your nose running even though you don’t have a cold.

At last we finished. I stood up and thought of how bad I was probably going to ache tomorrow based on how much I was already aching today. But, it really didn’t matter. We had dug all the potatoes. They were all bagged.

And the sun was setting. Sergey and Casa would have never gotten them all dug and bagged on their own.

Sergey got one of the large flat-bed trucks to come over to our plot and we loaded the sacks onto the truck. Some of the sacks required two of us to lift them onto the truck bed. Sergey made arrangements with the driver where to bring his potatoes, and when he should meet him there.

With the potatoes dug, bagged, and loaded, Sergey started doing some figuring. He was very excited with the amount of potatoes he got from his plot. He figured how much money he had “made” by not having to buy potatoes.

But most exciting to him, as he calculated the potato harvest, was when he realized he had enough potatoes to feed his family for the entire coming year.

Despite how much my muscles ached, and while knowing I will probably never experience the joy Sergey was experiencing, there was a satisfying joy of knowing, and being, a part of his.

And potatoes are now thanked for …with a bit more gratitude.

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Mom, I’ve known you longer than I’ve known anyone.  I’ve known you since before I was born.  Only God, who claims to have known me since before there was time, has known me longer.

I can’t say I remember a lot from those first months we spent together.  There was not a lot to see or do.   It was kind of dark   …and cramped – I hate it when I can’t stretch my legs out.  But it was warm.  I thought the food was good and there were no dirty dishes  …but that was before I tasted your baking.

I’ve been told many times I was born during threshing.  Sorry I was so difficult.

I can’t say when I started remembering things long term.  Having home movies brings to remembrance things one might have no longer remembered.  Whether from an old home movie or from my remembrance, these are a few of my favorite things:

Your apple crisp. You would take it from the oven and sit it on the counter by the doorway.  I ate many pieces of the topping walking by that counter.

Family trips.  Our family trips (they were trips, not vacations) were one of the highlights of each year.  They were great family times.

My guess is we will never know or appreciate the work you did to make them happen.  While dad had us washing and waxing the plane – to get it to fly faster – you were washing and ironing clothes, packing, making arrangements, etc., etc.  Then you continued to do so for the entire trip,

I don’t know that I ever thanked you.  “Thank you.”

Your style­. You’ve always had style.  And you did your best to pass it on to us.

I remember going back-to-school shopping at the end of summer.  We did not go to Wal-mart or Fleet Farm.  We went to Daytons   …and the other “good” men’s shops.

Have never understood why you wonder why we like better things.  You are our mom.  We grew up that way.

Your clean home.  Your home has always been an example of a well kept home.  One never has to wonder if something is clean.  You won’t go to bed until the house is clean regardless of how tired you are or late it is.  You relish waking up to a clean home.

Me?  When it’s late and I’m tired, I relish different things.  To me, cleaning will always go better in the morning.  Then, of course, the next morning, if it could wait till morning, it can wait till tomorrow.   You know that designer dummy in your front yard?  I’ve been walking through the carpet, fabric remnants, and sawdust left from him for over a week now.

Bike training.  I remember how you would run along side, holding the bike up, as I tried to learn how to ride the thing missing a wheel.

I also remember when you let go.

Meal time. You made, and still make, great meals.  And having meals together, as a family, as we did, was awesome   …even when Lisa came and crowded my corner.

Walks. I remember one time when you took us all for a walk in the pasture with the abandoned house behind the hanger.  What I remember is a question you asked.  It happened when I was sitting by myself next to the stream staring at the water.  You came over, sat down, and, very sincerely, asked, “What are you thinking?”

I’d have given anything to have been able to say something profound at that point.  The truth was that I was watching the bubbles and pretending they were clouds.  I never answered your question, but I learned the impact a sincere, probing, well placed question can have.

Sunday nights.  The best time of the week – the popcorn and the whole family in the den watching Walt Disney, followed by as much ice cream as would fit in the bowl.

Bedtime prayers.  I remember how, each night, after we were all in bed, you would stand in the hallway just outside our bedroom doors and lead us all in prayer.  They were pretty much the same prayers each night, but there was room to add one’s own meaning.  And there were times you added your own prayer   …like the prayer you added for your grandma Sundet when she was not doing well.

We always closed our prayers with “God bless Dad, Mom, Tom, Dona, Jane.  I remember how different it sounded when we added Steve and then Lisa.  It was o.k.

Now you say God bless when you say goodbye.   Sweet words.

Saying goodbye when I left home,   I remember well that day when you helped me move from home into MIddlebrook Hall at the U of M.  After we carted my things into my room, we went to Mr. Steak and had a very slow meal.  Then you dropped me off at the dorm and while we both worked hard at keeping our Norwegian composure, there were cracks in it.  You said good-bye and I watched as you drove out of sight knowing things would never be the same.  I had left home.

Freedom to climb trees. I don’t recall you ever saying, “Don’t climb that tree” or “Don’t climb that high.”  Your thinking was that we knew our abilities and what we could do.  You were willing to let us take risks.  I was free to climb whatever.  And to climb it however high.

This freedom to climb trees, or mountains, or whatevers, is a freedom you, and dad, have always given, even when it was not the tree or mountain you would have chosen for me to climb.

Thanks for the freedom.

My favorite things?

Apple crisp and family trips and meal times together,
Sunday night popcorn and walks by the water,
Your classy style and your way-too-clean home,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Training on bicycles, running beside me,
Saying goodbye with prayers and “God bless you.”
Freedom to climb whatever or high,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Thanks …for all the things   …and for being my mom.

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8 July 2001

Grandma “Fingerson” died this morning.

Grandma was 95 years old. While her mind was still very good, her body had been steadily failing her. Life was hard for her. She could no longer do any of the things she most enjoyed doing. Performing even the simplest of tasks was a major and exhausting undertaking. She was ready to go.

There was, I believe, only one thing that kept her willing to stay here as long as she did. It was her love for us, her family. In the end, when God said it was time, He honored her love for her family by giving her one last special day with us.

Friday started with an early morning call from the Care Center. Grandma was not doing well. As her children arrived and saw that she was unresponsive to anyone or anything, they called the grandchildren and their families. As many as could, came. Family soon overflowed her room.

In the afternoon, as more family arrived, she gradually became more and more responsive. She started recognizing us. She started calling us by name. At first she did not get the right names with the right people, but as she became more alert, she even started getting our names right. She knew she was surrounded by family. We took turns sitting next to her. We held her hand. We talked as much as she or we were able.

I arrived when she was doing better. When I sat down next to her, she knew right away who I was. She also immediately wanted “to visit” …but I could not. I needed some time to adjust to seeing and being with my Grandmother who was, obviously, dying. I wanted to just sit and hold her hand, but she wanted “to visit”. She kept saying, “I can’t hear you”. I kept trying to say, “that’s because I’m not saying anything”. But, even that would not come out.

For me it was enough to just be with her, at her side, and hold, and rub, her hand. It was enough to look into her eyes and see that she was seeing me. It was enough to smile at her and have her smile back. It was, I believe, a precious gift from God, not only to have been able to be there, but also to have her know that I, and the rest of the family, were there.

When I did get to the point of being able “to visit”, I was at a loss for what “to visit” about. I wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye and many of the things one often “visits” about seemed way too trivial and unimportant at a time like this. When one is about to die, what is important? What does it matter how good the ice cream is?

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How does one say goodbye when there is so much one is saying goodbye to? How does one say goodbye to such a rich chapter of life?

For her children and their spouses, she was the last living (on this earth) parent. For them it was saying goodbye not only to a mother, but also to parents. For her grandchildren, she was the last living (on this earth) grandparent. For us it was saying goodbye not only to a grandmother, but also to grandparents. And for her many great grandchildren, it was saying goodbye to a very loving great grandmother.

Saying goodbye to Grandma also meant saying goodbye to anymore handmade Christmas ornaments.

It was saying goodbye to her Christmas plates filled with Norwegian Christmas cookies.

It was saying goodbye to anymore ice cream buckets filled with cookies to take back to Minneapolis.

It was saying goodbye to sitting around her kitchen table and “visiting” over coffee and ice cream.

It was saying goodbye to going through old photo albums with her and hearing the stories behind each picture.

It was saying goodbye to a whole generation’s stories of what life was like when they were young.

It was saying goodbye to anymore birthday cards signed “Love, Grandma”.

It was saying goodbye to anymore letters from her with her usual bit of humor included.

It was saying goodbye to e-mails from a Grandma when on the other side of the world, in Russia.

It was saying goodbye to the one who I shared a thing called Parkinson’s with.

It was saying goodbye to her smile that she gave you when you walked into her home or room.

It was saying goodbye to the kiss she loved to give you before you left.

It was saying goodbye to her hands that would not let go when you needed to go.

It was saying goodbye to one who prayed for you.

It was saying goodbye to one who loved you.

It was saying goodbye to one whom you loved.

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Friday night, after most had left, I went back into Grandma’s room. The lights were turned off. The curtains pulled. There was, in the room, only Grandma quietly sleeping, and her daughter, my mom, sitting next to her, quietly looking into her face.

I pulled up a chair next to mom and asked how she was doing. She said “fine”, but I knew that was the Norwegian in her covering for all that was truly going on inside. We sat and talked and looked on Grandma as she slept.

After a time, Grandma woke up. She opened her eyes and looked into mine. I knew it was time. It was time to do what I both most wanted to do and what I most wanted not to do. It was time to say goodbye.

I got up and took her hand in mine. She smiled a big smile and said, “You came back.” I said, “Yes”, even though it was only the room I had left. She asked me to raise the head of her bed so she could sit up more. I raised it. She said, “Good morning.” I said, “Good morning” back, even though it was still evening. She asked me to hold her other hand also. I took her other hand and held them both. For a time it was all I could do.

Then, after a few moments, I leaned over her and said into her ear, “Goodbye.” She squeezed my hands with both of hers and also said, “Goodbye.”

There was one thing I knew I had yet to say. It was how we usually ended our times together. But this was, it seemed, going to be our last time together. I fought back the tears and tried to keep my voice somehow operational. I was successful with neither. I tried to speak but nothing came out.

Our usual parting words were only two one syllable words, but they were rich and God-filled. The words were “God bless.” They were now, however, two words which took on a whole new meaning. I knew that what I was about to say, what I was about to ask God to do, what Grandma very much wanted, was for God to this time bless her with a new life. I knew it meant God taking her from me, from us, into His presence, to the place He calls heaven. To say these words now meant things both beautiful and heart wrenching at the same time.

Finally I took a deep breath, leaned over her ear, and said, “God bless.” She in turn, said to me, “God bless”, and gave my hand a squeeze so hard I wondered where the strength for it came. I think I know.

It was now time to go. I leaned over and gave her a kiss. As I stood up she turned her head. I knew what she wanted to do. I put my face back next to hers and received her last kiss.

It was a rich and precious time. It was all I could have asked for. It was a great goodbye.

It was also the last goodbye, the last “God bless”.

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Dear Dad,

Today’s the 24th.

It’s been a whole month …for you. We don’t keep track of such here.

I thought I’d surprise you with a letter. I doubt you were expecting one.

When I was with you I did not spend much time writing letters. I actually didn’t write at all. I left before I could figure it out. I was only 4 months old.

Leaving you when I did left you with no letters to read …and reread. You have no letters like those I would have written from camp – my first time away from home. You have no letters from when I went to college. I never had a chance to write you about the sweetheart I met and would later marry.

You never taught me how to spell “dad”.

A life of 4 months leaves a lot of life unlived. It leaves a lot of letters unwritten.

It leaves a lot of words unspoken.

I never understood how to speak words. I never figured out how you could blow air in ways that people understood what you wanted to communicate.  When you whispered in my ear, I could feel the air. I could hear the words. But as hard as I tried, my air, my words, were always just cute sounds to you.

I would have enjoyed seeing the expression on your face when I, for the first time, said “daaa” and you were convinced I said my first word – naming who you wanted to think I thought was the most important person in my life.

It’s strange how one can miss what one missed.

There’s one thing I miss more than anything. It is the three words you spoke to me often. It is what you told me repeatedly. It is three words you would whisper in my ear every chance you had. These words became my life.

And they are the three words I most desired to say back to you. They are the words I so wanted you to hear before I left. I wanted so much for you to know.

Hear me whisper:

I love you.

And please tell mom and sis. Whisper it in their ears just like they did to me. I want to make sure they know too.

Love,

Johnny

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You’re free.  No more wires attached to gadgets constantly beeping what is wrong.  No more tubes putting things in and out of your body.  No more trying to move only to realize you’re tied to dozens of blinking and gurgling machines.  God, in his extraordinary love, has reached down and set you free.  

And while we’re stuck with YouTube, you’re experiencing what we can only begin to imagine.  Yes, the heavens declare the glory of God.  But they are not God.  They are not his glory.  They only point to it.  Oh, to see what you are seeing.  To experience what you are experiencing. 

Yes, you left behind your tiny body with a heart not right.  Don’t worry.  We’ll take care of it.  We’ll bury it.  And we’ll mark the spot as a remembrance of your life you shared with us on this pea-shaped planet.   

We’ll cry many tears.  It’s good.  It’s how we’re wired.  But they won’t all be tears of grief for that which we have lost.  Some will be tears of joy for that which you have gained.

And our hearts will ache – not for the body you left, but for you.  We’ll miss you.  We’ll miss the boy behind those eyes who wore those tiny fingers.  Someday we’ll reconnect.  Someday we’ll enjoy with you that which has to be indescribable. 

For now, we’ll watch YouTube to behold that which the heavens declare – the glory of God and try to imagine the full glory of God that you are experiencing. 

Enjoy, Johnny, your God.   

(Interesting…  WordPress does this related writings search and lists the 3 or 4 it deems most closely related below the writing.  Out of millions of writings, it connected this one with only one other – the earlier one I wrote before Johnny was born:

It wasn’t long and two sad people came slowly walking down the hall.  They were “composed” although there were plenty of signs of non-composure – swollen eyes, red noses, and wads of tissues at hand.   

We hugged.

I asked if there was anything I could do.  They said it would be great if I could get one of their vehicles home.  They did not want to drive separate.  They wanted to be together. 

As I drove Lea’s car (with the engine light on – if anyone wants to help with something, her car needs servicing), I looked around at the changed landscape.  It’s interesting how, at a time like this, the world changes before you.  Things I would have been interested in were not interesting.  Things I normally would not have noticed became fascinations.   And I thought of things I’ve never thought of.

As I drove, I looked back.  There in the backseat, strapped with a seat belt, was an empty car seat.  It was too small for Jules.  It was Johnny’s. 

And it was empty. 

I thought of how hard it would be for Lea, Johnny’s mother, to see that empty car seat.  I wondered if she would see it empty or would she see it with Johnathan strapped in.  Either would be hard.  Just the simple act of removing the car seat from the car could overwhelm one with what doing so meant.   

I thought of Dave and Lea as they drove home without Johnny.  I thought of what it would be like to never bring your child inside your home again.

I thought of what it would be like to walk into Johnny’s room – a room they would never see Johnny in again.  I thought of the tears that will flow in the days to come in that room.

As I waited at a stop light, a man carrying a model plane crossed in front of me.  The plane was bright yellow.  Walking next to him was his young son carrying the controls.  I thought of Dave going to the park with Johnny to fly a bright yellow plane against the deep blue sky.  I thought of how it will never happen. 

At Dave and Lea’s, after parking the car, I walked up to the front door to give them the key.  The flowers in the pots lining the entry steps were all wilted.  They looked to be in mourning. 

I saw a hose in the bushes, turned on the water and watered the potted plants.  Then I watered the planter box.  As I looked around, all the flowers growing on this side of the house were wilted (here’s another way people could serve them – do some watering for them).  It was a home in mourning.

Soon my ride showed up.  I got in, sat down, and glanced back.  “Wow,” I said.  There were 4 young children strapped in behind my seat.  I couldn’t help but compare the ride to Dave and Lea’s with the ride back.  One was with an empty car seat.  This one filled with children.  I wondered how Dave and Lea would feel.    

As we turned into the sun, I saw a front windshield full of little fingerprints.  Normally I would wonder why they didn’t clean their windshield more often.  Now I didn’t.  The windshield wasn’t dirty.  It was a display of the presence of children.  It was a beautiful sight.  

Dave and Lea have a long road ahead of them – first a funeral, but then days and months of mourning.  Pray for them.  Pray for them as they take out the empty car seat, put away his toys, and take down the crib.  Pray for the huge hole they now have in their lives.  And pray for them not just now, but in the hard months to come. 

And pray for Jules – for the hard lessons of life Dave didn’t want her to have to learn so early in her life.  

And give thanks for fingerprints on your windshield.