Cat Conundrum

It is not true that we have two cats as before. You may be thinking something happened to one – one got hit by a car (as one of our cats did ten years ago and had to be scraped off the pavement with the help of the neighbor) – and two minus one equals one, which in my book is a very nice number – very close to zero – so we are getting someplace, aren’t we?

No, the above car incident didn’t happen anytime remotely soon, nor did one of our two cats accidentally ingest poison while roaming outside killing all sorts of small game, nor did some other calamity descend on the unwitting animal – no, nothing like that happened.

No, it didn’t.

In fact, the math is going in the opposite direction: two plus one equals three. So now we have three cats!

Two Cats eating, with one sniffing the flowers!

My dear son happened to be staying with another friend up in Oswego recently, and this other friend, so it happens, got engaged but was encumbered by a cat he owned – a cat the fiance didn’t like – so he gave his cat – in a great act of generosity – to my son. So now my son has a cat, and this son had to move back in with us.

What can you do with a cat, except bring it home with you to enjoy all the accouterments of living in the Stahl household: food, doors opened pretty much at anytime to the outside, as we have seven kids at home that can open such doors, many warm beds that the seven kids and two adults sleep on, warmth from the cold of winter and so I ask you: for a cat, what’s not to like? And for him, to have his cherished cat live thusly?

And so Brutus moved in. I kid you not. That’s his name.

So we have Melcore, a big – some would say fat – golden kitty afraid of even the mice scurrying in the kitchen, and Ukie, who is not full grown yet but seems to have balls the size of New York City itself (more on that in this post), and this new cat, Brutus, who seems pretty chill and is a whole size bigger than the upstart, Ukie.

Ok.

I have come to co-exist with cats; I feel no love for them, but I had to admit – upon my other sons intense questioning – that the Ukie kitten is cute. It is, but I patiently explained to him that they grow up into something called cats. They do. If they stayed cute kittens their entire life long, that might be acceptable. But they grow up, just as ever so cute toddlers do, into something very different.

Ok, they are cute when they’re kittens

But three cats is a bit over the top for me. They are just everywhere, sleeping someplace in every room I go into – everyplace I go in the house there is a relaxing, luxuriously lounging animal always catching some Zzzzs while I’m busy trying to raise children, keep the house from falling down, pay those bills that keep rolling in and keep the vehicles running to boot, as well as buying – and I put three exclamation points after this next item – these cats their food!!!

But there they are, and here am I, caught like a mouse in an evil maze with no way out, because in no way can we rid our house of these ever-so-cute animals, and according to my children it’s clear to me that if they go, then I’ll have to go as well, so we’re all living here in one happy animal house with some kids scattered about, with me laboring to keep the ship afloat while the cats lounge. Just how it is.

Regarding the above maze analogy, I’m just glad the cat hasn’t found me running through it naked and wildly screaming “I can’t take it anymore,” with my hands flailing over my head- finding no way out of this cat-infested house – for then I’d be a nice morsel to pounce on, torture and kill. Only now there would not be one of them pouncing after me in gleeful expectation of torture, but three.

What a nightmare!

Another Good Scan

That’s four in a row, folks!   How cool is that!

A year ago almost to the day I was in Cyberknife treatments (see here, here and here), laying there as the robot danced around me, me wondering where all this would lead.  It led to four more good scans: one – two – three – four, but who knew at the time!

I saw my survivorship doctor this week, and she said, “Even though they compress the treatments from six weeks down to three sessions with Cyberknife, the effect of the radiation is the same in terms of the fatigue it causes.”  I told Angela that, and she said, “Why didn’t anyone tell us that!”

A good question.

(Sometimes the last person to know is the patient!)

I had fairly brutal fatigue right up until about April, and you can read about it here.  Things were not going well, and when you’re part of a big family – which means lots of people always and they want to talk –  and a Church that (rightly) puts a premium on fellowship, the poor old cancer survivor experiences that he is – to put it mildly – toast.

But about six months after the Cyberknife treatments, my body began to heal and I could once again talk to people.  It’s nice to be able to talk to people.  Don’t take it for granted.  (And why could I barely talk to people?  Obviously:  because it took too much energy to carry on a conversation.  Just how it was.)

That’s all water under the bridge, and I’ll just leave you, dear reader, with these other posts about the joy of a good scan if you feel to look them up, to experience the high:

Another Good Scan – And a PET Scan Even!

The Joy of a Good Scan

Living Life in Three Month Increments

 

 

 

 

 

 

Forgetting Cancer

I want to take this time now to talk something that is extremely common in the human nature: forgetting – specifically something bad – when perhaps we should not.

Suddenly one day in 2007, I had cancer and the world had gone off its orbit and was now flying off into the blackness of space. Then came the operation and the chemo, then lots of radiation for good measure and – presto – the recipe was done. I was one cooked cancer patient!

What followed was a roughly year and a half of fairly difficult recovery but, bit by bit, I regained my life. We took one step at a time, but eventually we got somewhere. By year four, I had at least returned to the work world in some semblance, though in a part-time capacity. Still, I was working and that in itself was great.

Lets return to the human nature thing mentioned above. Something amazing happened at some point; which point, I don’t really know. The amazing thing was this: I who had gone through so much and found how happy it was just to be alive, I at some point – who knows where – I completely forgot about cancer. I completely forgot I ever had a diagnosis, had cancer treatments or had an extended recovery.

It’s amazing how much I forgot. I look back on it, and wonder how I did it. For two years I lived, breathed and ate cancer. Then it was over and I forgot about it. Maybe I didn’t want to remember it, and I know with a large family there was enough life to be lived each day just with that alone and new and various challenges arose in my life that took all the oxygen in my thoughts, and it could be we are creatures who are very prone to forget the bad and just move on with life, and – lets just say – I did move on.

Many would say all this is a good thing, and I agree. Why dwell on the bad, the negative? Why sit around living in the past, thinking of how horrible the chemo was and how the operation halved several body parts – once a full esophagus, now a half; once a full stomach, now a half etc. – and also a replumbed digestive system, and the radiation, day after day for six weeks, and the stricture in my esophagus, where I threw up all food for three weeks.

Who would want to remember that?

No one, I agree.

But there is another aspect of this: not only did I forget the cancer – the chemo, the surgery, the radiation and the recovery – but the amnesia was so complete, so thorough and the life at my doorstep so engaging and totally engrosing, that I forgot not only the cancer but to be thankful I was still alive. I forgot, and in forgetting I forgot to be thankful.

I think that’s why the shock of October 2013 hit me so hard. I had lived life outside of the cancer world, almost as if I had never been in it; the scans were just a formality, right? One after the other came back clear, and this for years. Then that fateful October day, my doctor said he had found something and soon I was dragged back into the cancer world. It was deja vu, but that on steroids.

We cancer patients are known to cherish life and every day, but that is not a given, especially if you recover and get on with your life. It’s good to remember. It’s good to be thankful that you’re alive. It keeps you humble. Even joyous. How great is that!

Norwegian Adventures – Episode 3: Train Trials Redux, and Can I Just Get Off this Rock Called Norway?

November 6th, 2016

[Episode 1 is here;  Episode 2 here.]

My flight leaves at 6:05 pm, but I am taking no chances with this Norwegian train system: I plan on getting a bus at 10:47 am and being at the airport about 4 hours early. Why? So if something happens and I end up taking a train to the North of Norway, where the sun only shines for 4 hours a day, I will have time go get back to the airport and get my flight out.

I’m really not up for any more adventure, if you know what I mean.

A very nice friend drives me to Stokke – remember that place from the previous journey? It is cold out – biting cold, especially with the wind, and there is snow on the ground. Off to a side a lady is waiting in the cold in a part of the building that shelters her from the wind – but not really that much. A big, black bus waits on one side of the station, so I of course go up to the driver and ask, “Is this the bus to Drammen?”

Stokke Train Station – red ticket machine to the far left

“No, I am only a local bus,” he says. All Norwegians seem to speak pretty good English, and that’s a huge help.

“Oh,” I say. “My bus is supposed to be here at 10:47.” The time was about 10:38.

He looks at me. “Then you will just have to be patient.”

Fair enough; I back off and go back to the car, which is nice and warm.

At 10:47 there is no bus, and at 10:50 or so the big black bus takes off, and is gone.

I get out and talk to the lady. She is older, about 50, and the type of person with all their ducks in a row but is able to be nice under the circumstances, and says that we should wait and see if our bus comes. We do. No bus.

I wonder if I should be driven to Tonsburg, the next station up and about 20 minutes away; in Tonsburg there are people at the station – more than this outpost on the Norwegian train system. My friend turns on his cell phone hot spot so I can get internet, and the web pages says the bus has left.

The bus left.

I go back to the lady, and she says that she too had asked the bus driver if he went to Drammen, and he said he didn’t. “There is always a bus from Stokke to Drammen,” she says.

In a few minutes, another bus pulls up, but it is white and the lady is out there, talking to the bus driver in Norwegian gibberish and I am soon behind her with my bags, expecting to board and be off for the airport. Only problem: this bus goes to Sandefjord, and there is a long conversation back and forth, jibberish going both ways, but the end result is that this is not the bus.

This does not sit well with the lady, and she decides to take matters into her own hand. “I will call,” she says.

She calls and says it is being taken care of but I realize I don’t have a ticket and, of course, the ticket machine is outside in this hole-in-a-wall train station. Not a big deal under normal circumstances, but the wind is really blowing and I’m not dressed for it. Never thought I’d spend this long in Norway, and Winter has come.

There’s a lot of “Of courses” here, and when an “of course” comes you just have to say, “God, whatever you want is best for me,” but the of course at this junction is that of course my debit card does not work in the machine. Of course it doesn’t. It can’t. The bus will be coming, it will pull up all warm and comfy inside, and everyone will get on but me, stuck at the Stokke train station without a ticket. I knew it would go like this.

I try another credit card. Always travel with two types of plastic and never ask why. Just do it.

The second one doesn’t work either.

Ok, this is getting ugly. I call the lady over to help me, and we go through all the screens and the card – which one I forget of the two – does not work again.

“That’s odd,” she says.

We try it again, this time with the other credit card. The Gods have woken on this Sunday morning in Norway – perhaps the great Gods of the Vikings have rolled out of bed and decided to bless me, a poor American standing in the freezing cold, with only a thin jacket, who only wants to leave this country carved out of rock, and the credit card works. Two tickets get spit out at the bottom.

The lady smiles in amazement. “I don’t know why it worked that time,” she says.

The adventure continues, because in a few minutes a bus comes that will take us to Tonsburg and then another bus will take us to from there to Drammen and the train will take us to Oslo Center and then onward to the airport on yet another bus. Simple, isn’t it? Lots of buses, to be sure. I board the bus that happens to be right in front of me and of course ask the bus driver if this bus is – indeed – going to help me on my journey to far away places (the airport) and mention I am an American (as in a dumb American), and he says it is.

Great.

A black car pulls up beside the bus, and the lady is out talking. There is now a third bus next to the taxi, so there’s three in a row. It is the first van that had come back – the one that left without us.

The bus driver then says I should get out of the bus, which confuses me, and he and the lady continue talking, and now the taxi driver is out also. They are all taking, just ripping with the Norwegian language, but I don’t understand anything. Obediently, I am out of the bus now and just standing there with my luggage like a big dumb American who only knows his native tongue, and though I don’t know Norwegian I do know that several times they mention the word American and know who they are talking about.

It turns out that I should get into the taxi with the lady. “It’s because I called,” she says. So I get in the taxi with the lady and with the taxi driver who is now listening to American music all the way up, driving in a taxi through these many Norwegian tunnels on the Norwegian highway system, and the thought crosses my mind: How did I get a taxi to Drammen for about 50 miles, in this ever so European and Norwegian country?

But I did.

The lady is asleep but wakes up as we approach Drumman. I turn to her, “Did you ask the bus driver why he left?” He had come back in the midst of the Norwegian language fray, and I had seen her go over to him before the taxi took off.

Very precisely she says “He said he made a mistake.”

I say, “Oh.”

I am at Drammen Train Station now. Of course I couldn’t find track 3 at Drammen for the express train to the airport, but I asked, and a gentleman pointed to stairs down to Track 3; the elevator was out of service, and I didn’t see the signs for this alternate method from where I stood. No big shakes. You just ask. For entertainment, there was a lady there with a big bird cage, covered with an off-white cloth, but I know there was a bird in it for its squawking. Went into a Norwegian store and bought chocolate for the family – gifts, as Norwegian chocolate is always a worthy gift.

I find the train and board it. Things are going well now. It rattles on, and I write this account while we wiz along the countryside.

After a while the train pulls into the airport and I hear over the loud speaker – in English after being first said in Norwegian – that I should have my ticket ready for presentation when I get off the train. At least someone is checking tickets, I think. I get off. You go through these stiles, four in a row, and everyone is putting their cards up to the infrared reader, then a gate opens, and on they go. I can’t figure out what part of my ticket to hold up to the reader, but then see at the far end there is a man who seems to be taking tickets, not cards.

Four stiles passengers must pass through upon exiting the train

I go up to him. Per the train announcement and like a responsible train traveler, I have my two tickets ready to present to him. I do. He looks at it for a long second and is not happy. In a crisp voice, he says, “These are not valid tickets here. You took the express train,” and folds my tickets in half and gives them back to me.

I kid you not.

Then he says, “Don’t do it again.”

I am not up for causing a stir. I just want to get out of this country. Yes, I do.

“Ok,” I say sheepishly.

I pass through.

Now, when I was back at Drammen I had looked at all the departures and the next several were express trains for the Oslo airport. I didn’t see anything else. I don’t know what I did wrong. Not a clue. But I won’t do it again, if I could ever figure out what I did.

Anyway, I got to the airport at 1:40 pm, which is over four hours early. You see, I’m not chancing anything. It might be boring, but at least I’m reasonably confident that I’ll get to ride at 36,000 feet toward New York City sitting in a chair up in the sky. Just fly West over that big ocean and keep going until land is sighted. Not that I have anything against Norway, but I hope the pilot doesn’t get confused and hook a huge turn in a sleepy stupor and end up going back to Europe. Let’s hope not.

Anyway, the plot thickens. I haven’t gone through security yet but start thinking: why do I have two train tickets? When I came from Oslo down to Stokke when I first arrived in the country, I only had one ticket. So I take my tickets out and look at them. They are nearly identical. I have some time, so I search out the train ticket counter and only see machines, but when I ask, I am pointed to the Service Desk. I explain my predicament, that somehow I got two tickets and ended up taking a Taxi to Drammen, and the train representative is sympathetic.

“I can exchange one,” she says and apologizes. In a minute, I have about 300 Norwegian crowns. I ask if it can go back on my credit card, since I’ll soon be flying out of this country, and she says, “No.” So I end up with what the Norwegians call Penger. This means I can buy something at the airport – perhaps more gifts – but this entire line of thought is destroyed when I check-in.

Here’s the story. I wanted to check in with someone inhabiting a warm body just to make sure there are no mix ups. Who knows what horrors can happen at a Kiosk! I’m gun shy, or train-shy, or transportation-shy or automated-machine shy – however you want to say it, that I am. I wait in line 20 minutes and end up talking to a man who, unfortunately, does everything by the book.

I explain to him I don’t have anything to check below, and can I get a boarding pass here?

“Yes,” he says, but then says, “Place your carry-on bags the conveyor belt.”

This confuses me, but I don’t want to anger the official who might have the authority to make me not get on this flight, and on the belt I place my baggage. My carry-on baggage that is. The belt is only two feet and I figure out this part of the belt is a scale.

“You bags are overweight. And you can only have one bag.”

What? I explain to him I came with these bags (backpack and pull-behind), and two bags were allowed on the plane.

“And it’s too big,” he says.

I know it’s not too big. I measured it carefully before I left on this trip and bought luggage that was exactly the right size. There is a cardboard cutout of how big the bag can be next to the conveyor belt, and I pick up the cardboard cut-out and show him that each dimension – height, width and length – are truly within tolerances.

“It’s overweight,” he returns to his original point. What should be easy has turned into an issue.

I ask him how much it is to check it under. About 400 crowns or $50.

Money just must hang from trees here in Norway, but not where I come from. I explain that I’ll repack the stupid thing myself and throw away clothes if I have to in order to make it all a nice, perfect Norwegian-certified carry-on.

We go back and forth for another minute or so, and he says, “Ok, but they may have a problem with this at the gate.”

I manage to thank him and trudge off toward security.

So much for buying more gifts!

Security. I am convinced that they will think I’m a terrorist and do a strip search of me and take apart my cell phone to make sure there’s not a bomb in it. It just has to be. It turns out that after I take off my belt and empty my pockets and walk through the scanner (that does not go off with 29 lights and the blaring of ten horns), I am through! I just have to get re-belted again and collect my belongings, and away I go.

I am really early for he plane, which is what I want. At this point, ten hours would not be too soon.

I go through passport control, and they let me through. I’ve got this Norwegian penger in my pocket and think to get something to eat. It’s not good in the US, so why not? I’ve always known airports are expensive, but lets say I wouldn’t go bargain hunting at Gardermoen Airport in Oslo. I survive it, though, without going into Cardiac Arrest because, after all, to me it’s all funny money, and find a place to sit and collect my thoughts. I need to collect them.

I’m terribly afraid I’ll go to sleep in a chair and wake up and guess what: out the window my plane is flying toward the great and blessed New York City, so I set my alarm on my phone just to make sure. A friend suggested this, and it was a good idea.

While waiting, I go through my luggage, ditching several items in the trash can and putting everything in my suitcase that I don’t want off to one side. If I get caught at the gate, I can throw the less valuable (and worn) clothes away and take only what I need. It’s a lot like the early Oregon Trail settlers did when they jettisoned trunks, furniture, dishware etc. to make the load lighter and get over the mountains. The analogy is apt, as we will be soon flying over Norwegian mountains.

I look up and the board says, “Go to gate,” next to my flight, so I do this. More waiting. I am in a line to board, and as I get to the front an agent busts a passenger for having over-sized luggage. I am in the stream of people moving forward and while he makes my fellow passenger have a bad day, I pass by and am on the walkway. I’m free.

Soon I am sitting on the plane. It’s a low-cost fare which means I am in the center between two strangers, but it’s a great place to be. Before I know it, I’m back in America, leaving all those trains behind. Oh, by the way I could have taken an American train home from JFK (next morning) but opt for a car. A US car. You go where you want. Just like that. Amazing.

Norwegian Adventures – Episode 2: A-Team

[November 5th, 2016]

[Episode 1: How I ended up on the A-Team here]  I am in Norway with the A-Team. The A-Team is a bunch of young people from all over the world who come to Brunstad to help with the work there: construction (of which there is lots), general maintenance, preparing meals and other such tasks. There are about 200 young people here and, in addition, many more have come from an A-Team in Oslo for the weekend. Pretty cool.

It’s quite amazing that I’m here. Right from the beginning, they told me I could be a part of everything the A-Team did, from taking meals with them to attending a transmission and evening entertainment and food\snacks. So I was able to just hang out, meet new people and relax. It was really quite special.

The Hall at the A-Team

What is really special about this is that many, many youth come to A-Team, but the parents of course don’t fully understand the inner workings of it. Oh, of course they know the job their youth is on and hear stories, but who has actually had the opportunity to be on the A-Team for a day and a half? No one, I don’t think. And I’m not exactly young: 56 years old, but I still seem to fit in.

Even more, a few of my kids might go to A-Team next year, so now I have a frame of reference to understand how it is on the A-Team. I’m convinced that God wanted me here, that he had the Norwegian trains go psychotic just for me, all because he saw I needed this.

I had a great time. They play chess here, so I’m in my natural element. I beat everyone pretty easily, but I notice a game where both players seem to be making mature moves. I’m pretty sure I can beat one if I’m careful, but the other might give me a problem. The one who might give me a problem and I agree to play afterward, as there is an activity just starting, and I am hoping it works out.

I also get to talk with a young girl from our fellowship. She had heard that “Dave Stahl is here” and came over to the chess playing area to look for me. “What are you doing here?” She asks. I tell her that her father sent me here to check up on her – to make sure she is being good. She asks again I say the same thing, but of course she doesn’t believe it. Then I tell her. She is amazed.

Later we get to talk at length after lunch, which is very nice. I see another youth from our fellowship as well, plus a youth I know very well from out West. Again, what could be better?

In the evening is a very edifying transmission named To Action, followed be entertainment. Entertainment means that three-hundred youth are sitting behind tables placed on end in a square, with the center open for activities. I can’t understand a thing, as it’s all in Norwegian, but it is quite zany and at one point one of the teams, consisting of about 20 people, are standing on their chairs and shouting. Everyone is having a blast. Then an American I know from Delaware gets up and hits a home run: he sings Let it Be by the Beatles, and the crowd goes wild.

I do take the time to figure out my attack plan for tomorrow, when I will be leaving. Yes, I ask three people including two Norwegians about my proposed plan, and all agree that it is reasonable. I don’t want any mix-ups. I just want to board the bus at Stokke and find my way to the Oslo airport via the train at Drummond and the bus at Oslo Central. I am leaving a lot of time for this: the bus departs at 10:47 am, and my plane takes off at 6:05 pm. What could go catastrophically wrong with that amount of time!

Around 9 pm there are hot dogs but no mustard (do Norwegians believe in mustard?) and at 11 pm desert. Desert is vanilla ice cream with a choice of three toppings: grapes, red apples cut up into small pieces, or green apples cut up into small pieces. From this I deduce that Norwegians just don’t know how to live.

I never get to play the very good chess player, which is a sorrow, and decide to mosey up to bed at midnight. What a great day! But I do have a flight to catch tomorrow and need my sleep.

Norwegian Adventures – Episode 1: Train Trials

The day began innocently enough, getting up on time and out the door for the train station in Porsgrunn, Norway; the train would, if all went well, get me to the Oslo airport a full two and a half hours before my flight flew out for New York City. With the time zone changes, I would leave at 5:35 pm but land at 9 pm, even though it was a six hour flight. At the station I bought the train ticket but when I walked to the door, I saw the train was already in motion, so I ran out and flagged it down as it moved – along with another person in the same predicament – and it stopped. On I got, and away we went.

This was a bad omen, right from the start.

My friend who was with me at the station had studied the train timetables at his house and told me that when I got to the Oslo Central transportation hub, I should take a bus to the airport. This was no big deal; I just thought I’d just figure it out, and I had time anyway. Ominously, on that fateful day the ticket lady had not given me – the American – any further details about the trip that might help me and – hey – all seemed well:  when I had arrived in Norway a week before I rode a train right from the airport to my destination; it was a straight shot, with no connections. We were all set, it seemed.

The train lurched through the Norwegian countryside; it was an old train, not modern at all, and definitely not like the train I had taken from Oslo down, but I didn’t think much of that. Just a Norwegian train. I looked out the window like an American tourist and saw lots of hills, trees, lakes and valleys. Beautiful. I, being an American, hardly ever get to ride a train and liked the experience very much. I felt so European. Opened my laptop and got some work done. Life was good.

The Beautiful Norwegian Countryside

Unfortunately, after a while rolling through the Norwegian countryside for about an hour, the train stopped at this little station – like really stopped – and made a final hissing sound as if it had died; then all the passengers got off. This was odd, so I thought I should get off also and found a conductor. Turns out this was the end of the line, Notodden Station; I should have gotten off two stops back at Nordagutu Station. Oops. I told him my problem and he got another conductor involved – a tall one with a really official Blue hat and a nice smile – and both agreed I would have to go back to Nordagutu, wait an hour and a half and take the next train to Oslo. I asked more questions and if all went well, I would be at the station at 5 p.m., and my flight took off at 5:35 p.m. Not good, as rarely everything goes stopwatch perfect when traveling, but we could try. Hey, if the plane was delayed I might even stand a good chance!

Back to Nordagutu Station we went on the old train, taking about 20 minutes or so, and I disembarked at the provincial station with a small waiting room and no internet. I waited here for an hour and a half, and whenever a train stopped, I stood outside window of another nice railway worker who also had a nice smile just to make sure this wasn’t the train I should get on. Every time he saw me there, he came out and said, no, that is not the train, and he continued to be nice. I was impressed. I did manage to endure an hour and a half without internet, and soon found out via the loudspeaker (in Norwegian then in English) that the train was 20 minutes late, then 30 minutes late. This was not good.

I didn’t have much time to waste.

The train came, and I hopped on it – of course now asking on average three people, “Is this the train to Oslo?” It was, and it was much bigger, with outlets for charging phones, impressive European train bathrooms, comfy chairs and the most important feature: internet! Of course, when I tried to make some calls to Norwegian Air to tell them of my predicament, I couldn’t get through. I searched for the number on a few more web pages and tried again; I even tried Norwegian Air in the US but no dice. The Gods then shone upon me and I found another phone number that actually worked. The recording said there was unexpected wait times, but in about five minutes I was talking to a warm-blooded human being.

We start the conversation: what happened, my confirmation number etc. and begin getting to the meat of the situation: what to do.

Then they are gone. I look at my phone. “What?”

Turns out we are in a tunnel. There’s a lot of tunnels in Norway and, in case you don’t know it, cell phones don’t work in them. Bye bye call!

I call back, hoping we are not in another tunnel situation, and get farther with the airline this time. My ticket is a low-cost ticket, so I have to pay to change my flight. I hang up and decide to think about this. I’d rather get all this done at the airport, talking to a live human being, than over the phone on train that goes through tunnels and out goes the phone, but in my thinking it occurs to me: is there some stupid rule about when you can change your ticket? This is a lightening bolt! I know how these people work. So I call back and go through the telephone menu – which I know very well by now (0 for English, 1 for Booking and 2 for Changes) and ask the question. Yes, you have to change your ticket thirty minutes before the flight leaves, and I’ve only got like 15 minutes left.

Fifteen minutes!

I can do this online, the lady tells me, but I decide to do it over the phone. We only have like12 minutes left by now, and though the train does have internet, you know how that can go. Flakey, and should I trust Norwegian internet on a train? I’m not sure. So I get out my credit card and, after a conversation where apparently the Sunday flight is much cheaper, I book it for 6:05 pm, two days hence. The Saturday flight didn’t seem to be an option anyway.

There’s some problems with this arrangement, like what am I to do for two days and where shall I stay, but we’ll figure that out in its own time.

We are getting to Oslo, and people are getting up, so I ask the obvious question: Is this Oslo? It is, the lady says, but in foreign countries you have to be careful. Always use the three person rule (meaning: always ask three people), but this time I didn’t. Didn’t think of it. Train stops, masses of people get off including me, and as I watch the train drive away, I remember the kind gentleman next to me saying that Oslo Center is the last stop. The problem is the train is still going – without me on it – and I am suddenly aware by the station sign that this is not Oslo. No, it is not. I am somewhere else – where, I don’t know, and, no, I can’t pronounce it.

I go down an escalator and wander into a room with ticket machines and schedules; there’s no people at these stations, it seems, just machines, so who can you ask? I look at the schedule and – guess what – there’s a train going to Oslo in a few minutes, track 3, it says. Well, I think, isn’t that just my luck! I move out, a busy boy, and go up the escalator – I do, and there the train pulls in, the waiting people are just getting up from their benches or are lingering while the train comes to a stop, and it does.

I use my three person rule and, yes, this train is going to Oslo. Even better, it is going to the airport, but only two out of three say this, so I can’t be 100 percent sure. We arrive at Oslo Center now – where I should have gone to to begin with – and I am talking to another nice man, well groomed and in his 40s, and tell him my predicament. The odd thing is, though, I really don’t know where to go. To the airport, but what for? On the train I had checked the flight status, and it was on time, so I have officially missed my plane. Stay in Oslo, but I don’t know the number of any of my friends living there. I’m thinking of going back where I came, as there is snow out and I really don’t want to be a homeless person in Oslo this evening, and all I know is there’s a town called Stokke – a city close to our Church’s conference center where I know some good friends – and a Norwegian friend I made on the train says he will help me, having an hour to kill. The terminal is really busy, but he sees that a train is leaving for Stokke in about three minutes.

We run.

I’m really not sure that what I’m doing is right. I could stay in Oslo and hope to contact my friends there via a third party, or go way back to Porsgrunn (but I’m afraid of the train situation there that messed me up in the first place), or go to my Church’s conference center. I don’t really know what to do.

But my new friend is running, and I’m running with him because he’s running, and if you’re running you seem like you know where you are going, so I run.

Outside the train there’s a conductor, so I ask if this train does go to Stokke, and she says, yes, but it goes to Drumman first and then you have to change there and take a bus. The track is down for a month for maintenance; just how it is. I am talking to the conductor, and my new friend jibbers in Norwegian, and I ask a question, but then she says I have to make a decision: either get on the train or not. It’s leaving in a minute.

It’s not easy making decisions.

I decide to get on the train, of course asking three people on board if, indeed, this is the train to Stokke. Technically it’s not, as the train goes to Drumman and then there is a bus to Stokke, but the general idea is correct. I end up sitting next to a young man who has a very well trained dog on his lap, and of course my data doesn’t seem to be working or my internet for that matter, so I reboot the phone. Just reboot and ask questions later. Once back online, I continue an email I had started to my friend (Vern), who lives at the Church’s conference center (close to Stokke), and it turns out he is not there. Not only is he not there, but he is in South America – really not there. But he gives me a number to call once I get there so someone can pick me up – though he said that person had a really bad cold – and he will also email me other numbers as he can find them, and I ask for the number of the leader of the workers at the conference center, whom I happen to know. He also says I should be able to stay at the conference center. That’s good, I think. We can use some good news.

Of course when the train stops at Drummand, I ask three times if this is the right stop – though the train LED screen says it is – as I’m not in any mood to trust these Norwegian trains. As soon as I exit, I am led along in a river of people moving someplace, but I do see stores in another direction and think of eating, which I haven’t done in a while. It’s been all too exciting, so who has time to eat, and at the first little train station there was nothing – not even a vending machine – and along my travels I haven’t had any time to stop and get a bite. Who has time to eat when you’re running around Norway like a crazy man?

I follow the river, though, just because it is flowing and it snakes around a building and – guess what – there I see about 15 buses lined up, just like big American buses, sitting there in the snow; it’s cold out now, and I should put on another sweater but really, who has the time? All the buses seem to go to Tor (wherever that is), and I ask every third bus driver: where is the bus to Stokke, and all point further down the line. Finally I ask a bus driver and hit the jackpot: the driver says he is going there, so life is good once again.

Of course, it can’t be that simple. No, it shall not. He says that I actually take his bus to Tonsburg and then I’ll have to switch and take yet another bus to Stokke, but Stokke isn’t far from Tonsburg. Well, that’s good! I am now officially running around the Norwegian countryside, jumping on trains and changing buses just like we know this Norwegian transportation system. I’m starting to feel like a local. Not sure if that’s good or bad, but it’s how it is. Like getting shot in the water to learn how to swim, and I’m swimming for my life.

Busses are of course so American, and I should mention there isn’t a toilet (or WC for Water Closet in Norway) on the darned thing, but I believe I have enough strength to hold my own against my pee. Luckily, the bus is empty – about four people on it – so I can stretch out in the back and watch the awful Norwegian weather go by, and the tunnels are now fun since I’m not on my cell phone but – and it’s a big but – there is no internet to be had. Still, there is a possibility that there’s a bed in my future for the night, and that can’t be too bad.

One thing I find odd about this advanced Norwegian transportation system is this: no one seems to check tickets. On the first train, no one checked; indeed, I never saw a conductor, and maybe if he walked through the car he would have told me to switch trains. Besides this, I just hopped on that train that took me from the station I got off by mistake to Oslo Center, and no one checked. The conductor on the train to Drummand (and by extension Stokke) not only checked but wanted me to buy a ticket, which I did on-board, but I’m convinced if hadn’t run into her at the train-side I could have jumped another free ride, like the indigent families did on trains during the depression. And the bus driver never checked – I just hopped on. Not that I would want to take advantage of the system, but I could have.

Anyway, I am writing this account in the back of the bus when – guess what – I think I should get up and see where we are. We’d been on the road a while, several tunnels behind us, and I was wondering. Up the bus I go and ask, “Are we close to Tonsburg?” “It’s right here,” the man says, who I’m sure never smiled once in his life. We go through the town of Tonsburg and stop at the bus station, across from which are storefronts advertising – guess what – food! I wonder if I should get off here, get some chow, since Tonsburg isn’t that far from the conference center either but I have already gotten on the second bus by now and, in a split second, I decide to go to Stokke, which is closer to my eventual destination.

We are traveling along the dark, Norwegian rainy roads now, and I am looking out, dreamily. Now always conscious of where I am going and what I need to do to get there, I ask, “How far to Stokke?” “Only seven or eight minutes,” the bus driver says. That’s good, I think. The only problem is that when I get there, I really don’t know what to do, and it’s one of those train stations with no personality and no food, either. I’ve been there on the trip down from Oslo. I have no idea who will pick me up. And It’s about four miles through the dark Norwegian countryside from the train station to the conference center, and if I walked it, I would be navigating with my GPS lugging a travel case and a backpack, all in the rain – how fun would that be? Luckily I did get a number of the person who happened to have a cold to call but who knows if they would be home? And would they really want to go out on this dark night to get me? I think not.

I’m daydreaming about all this when I happen to look out the big bus windshield and see a sign for Brunstad Conference Center\Oslojford just up ahead. That’s where I want to go! I bolt up and ask the driver if I could get off the bus here – right here – and just walk into the conference center. He says, “Let me find a place to pull over,” and wallah – he does! I’m there!

Who says there isn’t a God!

There is a problem, though. It’s raining out pretty good and it’s a long walk into the conference center. A long walk. But we are walking it, every step of the way, pulling my little travel bag behind me; you would think its another limb by this point. Got my backpack on also. The Norwegian rain in November is cold. Remember that if you ever find yourself in my predicament. Bring an umbrella.

We trudge on for over a mile, me and my luggage, and then I turn a corner and see an amazing site: four red lights in the sky. I know what those are: they are the tops of big cranes. There’s a huge building project going on, and when I was at the conference I saw them. That was a week ago, and now I’m seeing them again.

More steps though, and soon I’m at the meeting hall. Back where I come from, the meeting hall is always open, and regarding this conference center, there’s workers who live here, so I figure it’s open. I can get my bearings there, warm up, and take the next step. There’s only one problem: the door is locked. I trudge around to the other side; that door locked also. Another door. Locked.

Of course.

Now what do I do? I stand under a balcony in the dryness and think. I actually think for a long time. What do I do now? I really have to contact someone, but I really don’t want to go out in the rain again, and if my friends were here and not in South America all would be well, but they are not. Hmmm.

A Pictorial Essay of How I felt at that Moment

I have a Hmmm moment for a long time and decide to find help. I have to. There’s four young men walking around talking loudly, having a good time, their shoulders up to avoid the rain and their hoodies on, and I yell for them but they are too far ahead by now. I try to find one of the cabins of the leaders of the workers – a friend pointed this out to me when I was at the conference – but that fails also. I decide I just have to give up, in the sense of letting go, and tuck in closer to the building. Amazingly, my phone picks up the wifi – or right then the email is delivered – and my friend in South America has emailed me the phone number of the person who oversees the workers there, and he can help me.

Wow.

I call this person, and there’s no problem to put me up.

Wow again.

You would think it would be all over, but I get a call a little while later from a very nice young woman who will be helping me. She says I can stay at House 33 with the workers and said she would instruct the kitchen staff to put aside some food for me. That’s great. She hangs up, and I realize I have no idea where House 33 is.

I should call her back and, though I have a general idea of where House 33 is, I really don’t want to wander around in the Norwegian rain any more. Should I venture out or call her back? At some point I’m going to break and call her back, but then a very clean-cut youth walks across the patio toward me. Has she sent him? I wonder. I introduce myself and ask him where House 33 is, and of course he knows. Even better, he’ll walk me there, and he does.

I get to House 33 and it is warm and big and filled with young people, and I find a spot in the back. I’m old, at 56, so this isn’t my crowd. The nice young lady I had talked with on the phone finds me and says I’m in room seven, and when I look quizzical, she says, “I’ll walk you there.” She does, and it is perfect. Kinda like a small hotel room, but cozy, and with heat and a bed. What more could a man want?

I didn’t sleep well the night before I left for the train, so I’m tired now – very tired – but for some reason I go back to the main hall and do not stay in my cozy bedroom. Ended getting into really nice conversations with many young people, and one asks me, “Have you just come on the A-Team?” (The A-Team is the work project.) I say, No, and tell him my story. I’m telling my story to a lot of people, although an abbreviated version. I meet some young people from America, some even from my own fellowship, who cannot believe I am here and nor can I! I end up playing a few games of chess, even one with a young person from Hungary and another with someone from Turkey. Here I am playing chess at 11 pm at the Conference Center on a Friday night when I should be 30,000 feet in the air, but still: how cool is this!

I learn that the next day I will be able to eat with the A-Team and participate in A-Team evening activities, and then go to what we call a Feast. Pretty special, I have to say. Even better, two of my sons have applied to be on the A-Team next year, so I will have some experience with it all!

Anyway, at midnight on the day I arrived, I find my way to my warm, dry room with the very nice bed in it. What a day! If someone in the morning had said I would end up on the A-Team in the evening, I wouldn’t have believed them. But God saw me here. Only He could have done something like this! And through it all, he watched over me and took care of me at each step. Amazing.

Now lets hope my flight on Sunday isn’t as adventuresome!

Picking a President

We can ask, “Who am I to pick a President?” and I would agree I have no skills in this regard but still: they let me vote, so I might as well make use of the opportunity. I’ve never taken a course in college on “Picking a President 101” and I can barely keep my personal life under control, what with eight kids and two cats and the craziness that goes with it all, but still: since they let me vote, I guess I will.

This leads to the question: what criteria will I use to pick our next president? That is a good question. For the moment I am going to set aside the issue of candidate’s appropriateness for the office; whether someone who should probably be standing trial and perhaps be in jail should even be on the ballot and alternately the same for another who is arrogant and vulgar and probably groped woman, but that’s another story. Such is our democracy in 2016.

Who is this guy?

I’m going to concentrate on policy here.

I evaluate the candidates mainly on two policy criteria, and most would think them odd. So be it. My beliefs spring from the Bible, and everything I will mention hereafter is only my own thoughts on the subject and not something that is taught in our church. I think independently, with all that that entails, and some might say it’s a weird way of looking at the world, but it works for me.

The first policy criteria is – you guessed it – Israel. I look very carefully at how the candidates think about Israel: will they support this tiny island of democracy in the crazy Middle East or just let it sink; will they make a big issue of the settlements and require nothing of the Palestinians; will they – and this is really important – stand up for Israel at the United Nations or not, when all other nations are against it, even to the point where UNESCO recently said that the Jews have no historical connection to Jerusalem. This is important, because it says in the Old Testament: “Those who bless Israel, I will bless.”

On this score, Obama failed miserably. There has never been a president who has been more against Israel – his fine words notwithstanding – and has turned a large part of his party against it as well. If we look at the candidates, Hillary in my mind is questionable. I get the sense that she wants the Jewish vote but doubt she really has Israel’s good interests at heart. We shall see – if she is elected. Trump is more of the same. He claims to love Israel – as he also loves the people of New Jersey – but has also said he would like to be an honest broker between the Israelis and the Palestinians. His son-in-law is Jewish, so he gets a point for that. But on this and pretty much every other issue, I’m not really sure what he would do. Maybe nuke the little bastard country if Netanyahu insults him. I wouldn’t put it past him, but that’s another story.

So it is not clear to me where either of these candidates stand on Israel. It’s a tie.

The second policy I look at is what many would consider odd: the candidates stand on LBGT rights. How weird is that? The thing is, I consider this a bell-weather issue on where the entire country is going in a social sense. “Sin is a reproach to any people,” it says in Proverbs, and this should be taken to heart. I also think this is the issue that will lead to some sort of Christian persecution sometime in the future – hopefully far out in the future, but we shall see.

On this score, Hillary would definitely follow in Obama’s footsteps – this Obama who flooded the White House with the rainbow colors after the Supreme Court decision to allow gay marriage. In my mind that does not portend well for our country but even more than that, for the social fabric of our society. Trump has been more equivocal but, I believe, in the final analysis would cave, as nearly everyone has done. I doubt his commitment to the Christian social agenda and think of him more as a huckster than a serious politician, but he has gone far in this very interesting election year, and what does that say about us?

I should note that these two policy issues seem totally unrelated but are actually very much are. One involves the persecution of God’s people of the Old Covenant, the Jews, and the other involves the persecution of those in the New Covenant, the Christians. They go hand in hand. Just how I think. An, no, all this doesn’t portend well for Christians going forward, but there is nothing to fear: God is with us.

Oh, of course, there are other important issues to consider as well. Yes, there is. Ok, but I kinda’ think it’s all irrelevant. Let’s take the economy: both candidates are an unqualified disaster. Foreign policy is important, isn’t it? Yes, it is, but we get more of the same: Clinton following in Obama’s catastrophic foreign policy or, alternately, starting World War III with the Russians vs. Trumps psychotic break that at best can be labeled coherent. How about immigration? Don’t get me started.

From the above nuanced policy analysis, neither candidate shines, and then we get into questions of whether we should vote for the lesser evil or go rogue and vote for a third party candidate. I’m opting for the second: either Vermin Supreme in an outlandish protest vote or someone else. Not sure who. I guess I’ll have to start looking. I wonder if there’s a Picking Presidents for Dummies out there someplace – perhaps on Amazon.com.

[Update: Monday, November 7^th, 2016: I have picked a Candidate! I couldn’t find Picking Presidents for Dummies so free-lanced the operation back to myself and started doing an internet search. Turns out I think I’ll go with the Constitution Party again, whom I voted for in 2012 and happens to share many of my beliefs. The above guy is Darrell Castle, Constitution Party Presidential candidate.  So I’m throwing away my measly vote, but at least its someone I can get behind with a clear conscience.]