What I waste my time doing on a day off.

There is no such thing as a stupid question. This I know because it was reaffirmed during elementary school. And since there are no stupid questions, I will pose one to you. One that is integral to our faith as Christians.

Ask yourself this:

If basketball were invented in Jesus’ day, and he had to pick a starting five from all the apostles and early Church leaders, what would it look like, and what NBA players’ would their game resemble?”

So here it is, straight inspired for the edification of the Bride of Christ.

POINT GUARD

BARNABAS

Plays like: John Stockton

Barnabas is my choice at point. He doesn’t play for the recognition, he plays for love of the game and for his teammates. He’s a natural leader, who can  do so behind the scenes when needed.  After four successful seasons, Barnabas was first in scoring for the Apostles. But shortly after Paul was drafted, and he slipped into a secondary role.  There was media speculation this would stir up some controversy in the locker room, but Barnabas supported the risky drafting of the six-foot-five shooting guard out of Jerusalem – despite protest from his entire team. Barnabas – like all the apostles – was one to sacrifice the body, and believed in his teammates.

SHOOTING GUARD

PAUL

Plays like: Charles Barkley

It’s a given that the Apostles would be anchored by their leading scorer. Writing most of the New Testament and developing most of the core theology of the Early Church, he simply did it all. “He plays everything,” said Bill Walton. “He plays basketball. There is nobody who does what (Paul) does. He’s a dominant rebounder, a dominant defensive player, a three point shooter, a dribbler, a playmaker.”

It wasn’t simply the versatility of Paul, it was the excellence and aggressiveness he brought to the court. It was not uncommon for Paul to offer up a stern rebuke to a squabbling Church, or throw an appropriate elbow to heretical false teachers. On top of this, he was the kind of player not afraid to go into the paint, even when he knew he would meet some resistance, or certain death for that matter. His defensive capability of the Gospel was impressive, and he was not one to stray away from controversial comments when asked by reporters.

SMALL FORWARD

STEPHEN

Plays like: Scotty Pippen

Despite having his career cut short by Martyrdom, there was never a better high-flying defender than Stephen.  A defensive first-team all star  every year he played, solidifies his reputation as a doctrinal  specialist. His sheer ability had Luke write of him in Acts 6  that he was a player ” full of God’s grace and power, did great wonders and miraculous signs among the people.”

There may not be a better single game highlight than was seen denouncing a hostile Synagogue. In this encounter, Stephen effectively dismantled the opposing team, breaking them down with dazzlingly quick crossovers, spin moves and redirects. After finally throwing down a monster doctrine dunk over the entire opposition squad, he was flagrantly fouled after the whistle and suffered career ending injuries.

POWER FORWARD

PETER

Plays like: Kevin Garnet

Peter leads the team in technical fouls, but don’t underestimate his ability on the court. There is not a more intense competitor. Down low, he cannot be stopped, and when the heat is on, the entire team is carried on his shoulders. There is a natural edge to the way he plays and it can strike fear into his opponents. Peter contributes handily in every category. And though he leads the team in no particular statistic, he is the glue that keeps the defense together. His drive, determination, and ability to constantly improve from his mistakes creates the player of any coach’s dreams. In fact, Jesus said it best. “On this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it.” Hands down, he is the single player any coach in league would wish to build a team around.

CENTER

JOHN

Plays Like: David Robinson

It’s hard not to like John, maybe that’s why Jesus called him “beloved”. Regardless, his character is matched only by his ability. He, along with Peter and his brother James, made up Jesus’ inner circle. John plays big, and does not back down from anyone. His bravery saw him stand by Jesus’ side at the foot of the cross, while the others were hiding. He was also the first disciple to follow Christ.

Though he is known as a lover rather than a fighter, and his critics say he lacks the aggresiveness of his ministerial counterpart, Peter, he is known to have a temper. In one instance, he and James practically begged Jesus to rain fire down on another team who opposed the Gospel message. This may be why Jesus called him “Thunder” John.

McDoctrine meal – hold the resurrection, please.

 

I do solemnly pledge to make all my meals hot, fresh and ready to order, so help me God.

I have a theory about late night eating at McDonalds and it goes something like this: The later the hour, the weirder and more complex the orders become. There’s something about being hungry in the a.m. that just makes a person crave strange things. Last month the unfortunate staff of an unsuspecting fast food chain bore witness to the indecent and peculiar appetites of myself and a group of other McDeviants.  

Worker: Welcome to McDonalds what can I get for you?

Me: Yes, I’d like a double cheeseburger meal, please.

Worker: Coke to drink?

Me: No, I’d like Frutopia.

Worker: O.K.

Me: But I’d like you to mix it with half Sprite and iced tea.

Worker: So, half iced tea and half Sprite?

Me: Yes, but it’s Frutopia. Half Frutopia. And the Other Half is iced tea and Sprite.

(He blankly stares at me. he’s wants to pull the ‘I don’t speak very good English card’, but it’s too late for that now.) 

Worker: So one third Fruto–

Me: No, no. Half Frutopia. Quarter Sprite, quarter iced tea. 

 (I can tell he understands now because he lets out a dejected exhalation of comprehension and disappointment. Comprehension at my idiocy, and disappointment at the group of eight man-children behind me in line.)

Worker: Supersized?

Me: Yes. And I would like Mac sauce instead of ketchup and mustard, no pickles, extra onions and lettuce.

(20 seconds elapse as he keys in the order. Sweat begins to bead on his forehead.)

Worker: Is that everything?

Me: No. I would like there to be a Jr. Chicken in the middle of my double cheeseburger.

Worker: I don’t think we can do that.

Me: You can and you will. split the patties, and put the other sandwich in the middle.

(He attempts to type in this segment of the order. Apparently there is no “insert chicken burger” button.  He turns to the kitchen and yells in Filipino something I can’t understand, which gets a questionable reaction, and a reply that seems to say “it’s not my fault, this guy is a moron. Just put the sandwich in the sandwich!”)

I guess I’m picky.

Aside from chance encounters in fast-food restaurants, I’m really not a terrible person. But, since I enjoy the Bible more than I like Mac sauce, it got me thinking about Paul and what he wrote in 1Corinthians about  the church struggling with choosiness.  Certain people within the Church in Corinth were able to accept the the Gospel as long as it pandered to their idea of social acceptability, in particular the miracle of Christ’s ressurection. The Corinthians wanted a more realistic account of what happened. They wanted something they could digest, as it were.

Paul saw fit to write these words to the Church in chapter 15. 

“But if it is preached that Christ has been raised from the dead, how can some of you say that there is no resurrection of the dead? If there is no resurrection of the dead, then not even Christ has been raised. And if Christ has not been raised, our preaching is useless and so is your faith. “

I’ve notice more and more people try and explain that their faith hinges not on any particular scripture, but their relationship with Jesus. This frame of mind is presumably a reaction to those religious types who love to bring glory to doctrine; lazy people who bow down to the Bible, instead of the one who inspired it. “I hate religion” is the catch-phrase of this decade. However, Paul says there are pieces of theology that are non–negotiable. What’s more, he says we can’t call ourselves Christians without them.

The Corinthian’s problem was they wanted to believe in a “have it your way” kind of Jesus. But, as Paul reminded them –sternly I must ad – he isn’t Jesus without a resurrection, and, by way of coincidence,  they aren’t Christians if He isn’t Jesus. 

Jesus rose from the grave. Wait. Digest it. He was dead. Dead. Dead. And then his dead body came back to life. His eyes opened, a stone was rolled away, and he took off.  Not just His death, but all death was conquered, honestly. It was the ultimate miracle. And to believe the same power that rose Christ from death does not dwell in us, is to discount the single greatest moment in the history of Heaven and Earth. It was so powerful it defeated all sin. It was so unbelievable that Christ’s own disciples doubted it to his face. And, Paul says,  it was so vital that to not believe in it will ruin your faith. 

Paul was talking about resurrection, but in some regard, it’s broader than that. The bottom line is Christianity, try as we all have, doesn’t make any conventional sense. We believe in arcs, and giants, and angels. We believe in healing, prophecy and people being turned into blocks of salt. I’m not saying salvation is all pinned on the tail of Balam’s ass, but we can’t have Jesus without the supernatural. 

You can’t pick and choose your way around the Gospel of Christ. It is what it is. You’re in or you’re out.

I guess Christianity without the miracle of resurrection is like the way I order a double cheeseburger meal. It’s not accurate. It’s wrong. It’s a McDebauchery.

Actually, it’s just a double cheeseburger with a chicken burger in the middle. 

And we all know that’s not a double cheeseburger.

Live free, die hard. Hmmm, sounds prophetic.

I know what you're thinking, but you probably can't pull off the under-shirt to work look.

I heard a friend say she was going to join a gym in Februrary. Her reasoning seemed sound. Apparently, in January, gyms receive a lot of new business. Specifically, these gyms get a rush of people who have “resolved” that in the “new year” things will be different, and that this year they are going to start anew and get fit. But, as my friend explained, it takes only about three or four weeks before most of those people give up, which is why the gyms discount a lot of their rates, to keep people going. For whatever reason the whole idea impacted me – not because I am just about the most sedentary person in existence, but because it seemed to speak to something much deeper. That our worst points usually occur when we come full circle and find we’re exactly the same. One of my all-time favorite movie characters is John MacLean from Die Hard. MacLean, a New York City cop, flies to L.A. in hopes of reconciling with his wife, who, after earning a corporate promotion, has taken their children and started a new life without him. After landing in L.A. he is taken to his wife’s corporate headquarters where its annual Christmas gala is taking place. But before he even gets a chance to set things right with his estranged wife, a group of German terrorists lock down the building and take everyone hostage. (I know what you’re thinking, but it actually didn’t win an Oscar).

In the end love – err, his police-issue 9mm – conquers all and the day is saved. The movie ends with a Christmas song being played as millions of dollars in exploded negotiable bonds fall in pieces like snow flakes, with his wife in his arms, the terrorists all dead, and the entire city block destroyed. Anyone who has seen the Die Hard movies knows that John MacLean’s biggest shortcoming isn’t his use of deadly force, but the fact that no matter how much trauma he goes through in order to save his relationships, he invariably ruins them all. His wife leaves him and his daughter – in the most recent installment –resents him.

And then there is the question of how. How come after everything in a year, in a decade, through a rough time, I tend to come out the same? The apostle Paul said it this way in II Corinthians. “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!” I know that didn’t do much for you. I went to church my whole life and was told that very same thing in some way, shape or form every time I attended. But there’s a question to the question. Maybe we feel the same because we believe we’re the same. Maybe we know – in theory – that throughsome bizarre spiritual blood transfusion,Christ has taken over our hearts, but we don’t believe it. At all. I know the idea of a hostage takeover at Nakatomi Plaza is incredible and corny. But as Christians we’ve gone through something quite a bit more exciting, despite nothing even blowing up.

God’s Word tells us that his Son died on the Cross. Again I know. It didn’t do anything for you. But it’s true. That single culminating action erased everything we have ever thought we were, or are, and replaced it with the essence of God’s great love inside of us. We aren’t the same. How could we be? Moving forward spiritually is almost always like walking waist-deep in a river current that’s against you. And for that very reason it feels like you’re going the wrong way. But suppose where conflict is, God is also. In the gospel of Luke, Jesus says “No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for service in the kingdom of God.” When I first read those words it seemed harsh –like turn into a pillar of salt, harsh. But now they hold a new meaning. When we’re at a point where we feel we should stop, like things are getting too hard, we’re probably right where God wants us. Of course we’re not fit for the Kingdom when we look back, or wish we were somewhere else. The minute God’s Holy Spirit grabbed us by the scruff of the neck, we were no longer meant for spectating. It was time to work. It was time to move forward.

I’m not sure how I would do trying out a New Year’s resolution to hit the gym. Actually I do, it would go poorly. I can’t really recall the last time I was picked first when a field needed to be plowed, either. However, there’s something exhilarating in knowing that the inevitably rocky road that my life winds along, will be so for no other purpose than the slow and ultimate reminder that Christ, and Christ alone, is the sustainer of every one of my steps.

The Winterer at the Battle of Quebec

The three of us had gathered the man and his family outside of his farmhouse in the middle of the night, and by this time it was getting hard to think straight for all of the racket the woman was making. None of us spoke a bit of French, and, to be sure, none of this man’s family spoke a bit of English, but then there was Biggins, and what could be the point of talking the way he did? Being eighteen and more or less dumb, I hadn’t put much thought into the nature of these tactics. But my two comrades, who were criminals of the worse degree before taking the King’s Shilling, seemed to embellish a good farm razing. The man was on his knees, pleading for I don’t know what, and then Crawley gave him a boot right in the side of the poor bastard’s face. Of course the woman was right screaming by this point, and old Biggins shuffled over to her and gave her a whack with the butt end of his rifle. Biggins started giving both of them a lecture I dare not repeat about the downfalls of being an enemy of King George, when all of a sudden I saw that old look in Crawley’s eyes right at the poor farmer’s wife. 
I don’t mean my reader to get the wrong impression of me, for, like I said, I was eighteen and a rather dumb one to begin with. But, besides all of that, I wasn’t altogether as rotten as my two Red–Coated friends. I had read a few pages of the King James here and there, and Lord help me if I didn’t get a flutter in my heart at the scene before me.
I began to sweat an awful amount, and, for whatever reason, I perceived the woman not only recognized the advancing stare of my counterpart, but saw I may not have entirely agreed with the goings on. She and her two children were all looking at me – the man with the torch in his hand that was going to light up their house and farm – and began begging me for mercy, which made Biggins almost fall over laughing.
“I do think, Crawley, that our young friend Mr. Black has found some new friends.”
“Well,” he replied, still locked sinisterly on to the woman. “A friend in need is a friend, indeed.”
“True enough,” said Biggins, turning to me. “Now Anthony, let’s show them how we make friends in England.”
He kicked the Frenchman to the ground, and, with his foot on the man’s back, tossed me his sword. 

“Come on, Biggins,” I said. “Let’s just burn the place and leave them. They’ve done nothing.”
Biggins had a nose like a hawk, and was old enough to be my father. But that is where any patriarchal comparisons stopped regarding the deceased senior Black, who, from all accounts of my mother, was one of the few admirable men in all of England. Biggins on the other hand was a mean brute, with a capricious nature made even more foul when not agreed with.
“Well, see, that’s your problem, Black,” he said to me. “Normally I’d run through any man who interrupts how I soldier, but this being your first war, I’ll be lenient, because I do believe you think this is a matter of right and wrong. In about a minute, I’m going to fire my rifle into this farmers head. And then Crawley is going to take Mrs. Frog into the bushes and give her a proper introduction. But, before all of that, you are going to take the two little frogs and throw them back into that hovel and burn it to the ground, just like a good English gentleman.”
He pulled out the pistol from his belt, pointed it at me, and smiled. 
“And if you don’t, you bloody fool, I’ll kill you along with them.”
There was a silence that followed Biggins’ threat on my life, which I believed more than anything the man had ever said to me. 
Crawley thought the whole situation funny, and laughing, he advanced towards the woman, and grabbed her despite a fury of protest on her part. She could not have been more than a girl of sixteen, maybe seventeen, but she was much stronger than her small frame dictated. She broke free and slapped Crawley across the face.
“Having trouble, Crawley?” Said Biggins, looking at the spectacle in front of the farmhouse, but pointing his gun at me.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” he replied. He let fly at her with his free hand and she dropped to the ground, crying. She turned her body away from all of us, still on her knees, while Crawley grabbed her this time by the hair. 
It was at this moment that I no longer questioned the resiliency of the Canadien women, for, no more than twenty minutes prior, upon noticing three British regulars from her kitchen window, she concealed one of her husband’s small knifes in her stockings. 
Being held up by her hair now, with Crawley’s foul mouth kissing her neck, she lashed out her left hand holding tight to the small blade, which had previously been behind her, right into Crawley’s throat. 
Crawley let go of her and doubled over, gurgling blood with the knife in his neck.
I have to say the situation was rather fortunate, for Biggins turned toward the woman, in which time I mentally broke all ties with my homeland and fired a bullet into his chest. 
The Frenchman took a chance and grappled Biggins’ rifle free from his weakened grasp.
“Black!” He cried, falling to both knees, and then finally on his back.
I walked toward him, and with my sword drawn, watched him struggle for breath.
“Bastard,” he whispered, the colour leaving his face. His head fell to the ground, but his eyes, now lifeless, were still looking at me. 
A poor choice of last words if there was any, but nonetheless my last conversation with old Biggins.
It was then I realised I had never before killed a man, which left me bewildered and shaky. The children ran to their mother, and then she came and kissed me on both cheeks, which was also unfortunately my first kiss, leaving me more bewildered.
“Merci,” tears ran out of her dark brown eyes. “Merci!”
As hardy as the Canadiens may have been, I guess Crawley was cut from the same cloth, for it had not occurred to any of us that he would survive a knife to the neck. 
“Mama!” Cried one of the children at the sight of him.
Staggering around with his gun loaded, and mine empty, he said what he could to us, which was mostly unintelligible due to the amount of vital fluid escaping out of his mouth with each word. He pointed his rifle at the woman and her children, cocked the trigger and abuptly fell to the ground.
He collapsed forward on his face, revealing an Indian tomahawk in his back.
From the tree line west of their house ran a bearded man in a buckskin suit, fur cap, with two rifles slung around his back. His tall frame came towards us with rapidity. 
“L’hivernant!” The woman gasped. 
He looked over the farmer and his wife, and speaking in their native language seemed to have communicated that it was likely not safe for them anymore at their farm. 
The stranger had ice eyes.
“You are fortunate,” he said to me in English, surprisingly. 
“Had you not acted, you would have joined those other two.”
I gathered he had watched the entire situation, and all three of us may have been within the sight of his rifle all along.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“My name is K’evin Jacques, and you have a decision to make. Are you with us or against us.?”
The night was cool and clear and so was my mind. King George could go to hell for all I cared.
“I’m with you,” I said, and with that, my adventure with the one they call The Winterer had begun.

The Winterer Arrives at Grande Portage

Now there was a crowd surrounding them and Philippe realised it all could have been a mistake on his part. A few Ojibwe guides came from Camp, and even the Jesuit missionary, to take in the spectacle. It was clear he had never seen the man before. But Philippe, like all young fools, pushed aside any doubt in his ability and picked up the small axe.
His adversary was still a riddle. All he knew is that the man had arrived only hours ago, portaging his single canoe from Rainy Lake. The man’s eyes were like ice and his hair black as jet. What’s more, the man was a head taller than any voyageur he had ever seen.
“You’re making a mistake,” The Jesuit stepped into Phillipe’s path. “This is no ordinary man. He is no Voyageur, either. He has no code and has no kin. He is a Winterer, a Runner of the Woods!”
The priest grabbed hold of Philippe’s shirt, and pleaded quietly in his ear, saying no louder than a whisper, “There is not a man here who will blame you if you turn around. Not a single man. You will lose everything! A year’s wages! And that’s if you’re lucky. They say he has killed a thousand men, with a demon wolf by his side!”
Phillipe pushed the priest away and called upon the stranger, who stood nearly 50 yards away from the agreed target, on the edge of the tree–line.
“I don’t know who you are,” he yelled. “But I am not afraid of you or the reputation you have with some men. What is your name? Come, speak!”
The man, removing his buckskin coat, scratched his thick beard and his countenance warmed.
“My name is K’evin Jacques. And You, I’m a afraid, have made an erroneous judgment in challenging me.”
With the words barely out of his mouth, the man called Jacques, wrenched his body and with a guttural cry heaved his Indian tomahawk. The weapon flew through the air perfectly, and with a sound that no man witness would ever forget, cleared its way through the tree, splitting it open like a sword through a sail, then tumbling its way to stillness on the ground beside his foes feet.
Silence rang out amongst all men.
“Through the tree!” One man whispered.
“Impossible!” Said another.
Philippe’s own axe dropped from his hand, and his ears began to burn thinking of what it all meant. Then the Winterer spoke again, this time to all the voyageurs at the Grande Portage.
“Keep your money, you filthy animal. But beware, all of you. Trouble is coming.”
Then, suddenly, he let out a piercing whistle.
” Night Spirit! Hyip!”
With that, a giant grey wolf sprinted from behind the men gathered, and picked up Jacques’ tomahawk with his mouth, before disappearing into the forest along with his master.
“The natives say he is more than a man,” said the Jesuit, again to the young fool.
“They say he is the incarnation of a warrior who once lived long ago.”
“I’ve never… I’ve never seen a man who could….” Philippe stammered.
“Silence,” said the priest.

A true Christmas miracle

For every action there is an equal or opposite reaction.
But if you’re stupid, that reaction is generally called poetic justice.
On Christmas eve I was in Calgary with my family. We had come from church, and were, for the first time as a family in our 23 years, opening presents the night before Christmas instead of Christmas Day.
I am told this is a Norwegian tradition. However, the only Norwegian tradition I have been aware of in our family is drinking strong coffee and ridiculing Swedes.
Since this inaugural ethnic Christmas was a momentous occasion for the Haugan clan, photographs had to be taken.
My sister and I searched the house for lamps to provide more light in the living room so the photos would be perfect. Then we stripped them of their shades, and placed them on coffee tables, chairs, and the entertainment centre.
Next I did something that, to me, made sense at the time, but in hindsight was unforgivable.
I took the lampshade from one of the lamps, and placed it on top of the bulb, teetering sideways, so the light would exude out laterally instead of upwards and downward.
Since lamps are not free from abiding within the law of gravity, the energy efficient light bulb resting atop the seven-foot high television stand, toppled over and shattered on my hand.
The light was turned on and the spiral bulb not only shattered, but popped from the gas trapped within, very quickly and very effectively stabbing the top of my hand.
It bled. A lot.
I walked towards my mother who, before seeing my hand, was upset that a lamp had broken and then went into slight hysterics.
She grabbed me by the wrist and ran cold water in the kitchen sink over the gash.
“Mom, I didn’t burn my hand on a curling iron.”
“Dean,” she yelled almost in tears. “Get your brother something to tie around his hand. Hurry, he’s bleeding!”
Dean is a loyal brother.
He evaluated the situation, and then took off the new scarf his girlfriend bought him for Christmas, tying it tight like a dad ties skates for his kid.
Though it in no way restricted the blood, at all, I was still grateful.
Mom banged on the bathroom door.
“Stan,” she yelled. “Curtis cut himself, he needs to go to the hospital. He’s bleeding… Stan!”
He said the only thing anyone says, regardless of circumstance, when a person knocks while you’re using the toilet.
“I’m in the bathroom.”
He came out, evaluated the situation and grabbed the keys.
“Let’s roll.”
My dad and my bother Dean and I hopped in the vehicle at 10:30 p.m. Christmas Eve and sped to the emergency room at Rockyview Hospital.
The thing about hospitals at a time like Christmas Eve is there only a couple of types of people who are there – either the very sick, the very lonely, or the very stupid.
I was the lattermost.
But then, as if shattering the punishment that would have me sitting in emergency in one of the worst cities for hospital waiting time in the country, a Christmas miracle took place.
Well, more accurately, a Christmas epiphany took place, and it wasn’t thanks to Santa Clause played by Tim Allen. It was from the discovery of the sweetest words a person can see written on a hospital form in the emergency room.
Active bleeder.
Notwithstanding the grotesque nature of people bleeding all over the emergency room, apparently losing blood is also hazardous to your health. So much so, that you will get priority over the pale, hacking, tired horde that has been sitting in the ER for half a day.
Before I could even sit down to wait, my name was called, and the expedited repair of my hand began.
As a side note for the young men who wonder where to meet a lady. Try the hospital on holidays. All the young freshly graduated nurses get shafted to working Christmas and New Years, and, if you’re a nice guy, they may sympathize with your plight.
Regardless, a true Christmas miracle took place that night.
As we drove back home on Deerfoot Trail, we counted our blessings not because the lamp failed to sever any arteries or muscle, but that we had somehow come in and out of a Calgary hospital in less than an hour.
If you don’t believe me, I’ll understand.

The greatest I ever met

This is a story that ran in the Tuesday, Feb. 10 issue of the Peace River Record-Gazette. 

 
The greatest I ever met
A tribute column to my great uncle Stan Paulson 

By Curtis Haugan

The earliest memory I have of my great Uncle Stan is also one of the most terrifyingly fun experiences of my childhood.
Snug against the passenger side window of his Suzuki 4X4, he took my little brother and me on a rip up the winding, perilous road to the top of Judah Hill.
When you’re five-years-old, everything seems to be a little bit more intense than it really is. So with the guardrail only a foot away from the vehicle’s tires, I peered over the dark valley cliff, as he threw it into third gear. 
I couldn’t believe we didn’t crash through it. And I was not at all reassured by the smirk on his face, slightly illuminated by the dashboard light.
We came home and my brother and I explained in great kindergarten detail how close we came to death. Mom and Dad humoured us, and the smirk on Uncle Stan’s face was merely reinforced by it all.
Almost 20 years, and a few moves around the country later, there are family members I have gotten to know better than my great uncle Stan Paulson, but none I admire more.
He passed away last Wednesday.
After years of missionary work around Asia and Africa, teaching school and working on other improvements for communities and their children, he began to get weak.
It turned out to be the neurodegenerative disease, ALS, commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s disease.
Uncle Stan moved to the Peace Country from Fort MacMurray after graduating from the University of Saskatchewan in the early 1960’s. Prior to entering University, Uncle Stan had been a minister in two Pentecostal churches serving in the small towns of Ardmore and Craigmyle, Alberta. 
He and his wife, the former Hilda Frank were married in 1955. It was a double wedding. My grandpa married my grandma on the same day, at the same church in Kindersley, Saskatchewan.
The pictures are funny from that day. 
Because the suits were of the same style and make, and because both my grandpa and my uncle Stan were relatively the same height, and because generally any prairie boy who grew up in the Dust Bowl had never worn a suit before his wedding day, they, as a consequence of those facts, wore each other’s clothes by accident.
What resulted was a classic case of suit too small, and suit too big.
When he arrived in the Peace Country with his newly minted Masters of Education degree, he began his career at Manning elementary as their Principal. He had worked hard over several summers working on his masters degree at the University of Oregon in Eugene; faithfully hauling the entire family down south and living in a holiday trailer all summer.
After years in Manning, he was promoted to deputy superintendent of the Peace River School Division. He and my great auntie Hilda lived in south Peace River for decades.
When Hilda passed away in 1993, he remained in Peace River, but spent much time around the world working for missionary organizations.
I sat down with Pastor Wes Graw of Christian Life Assembly Church in Peace River, who was a pupil of my great uncle’s during his tenure as Manning Elementary principal, and asked him what he remembered of uncle Stan.
“Well,” he said. “It was a long time ago, but there was one thing, and I don’t really know what to make of it. We were at the lunch table –I must have been no older than Grade 4 or Grade 5 – and I reached across him to grab something and he bit me.”
“He bit you?”
“Yeah, he bit me. I mean it was just playful, and meant to surprise me, but still.”
“What did you think of that?” I asked.
“I thought it was pretty cool. He was my Principal. I definitely have always thought twice before reaching across the table for things.”
A testament to his sense of humour, and his passion for teaching children all things – even proper manners – there was something students saw in their principal.
“He was the perfect authority figure,” recalled Graw
“You never wanted to cross him, but you felt you could have told him anything. The world is missing men like him.”
The thing that I, and everyone who truly ever knew him, admire most is how crystal clear he made his purpose on earth; to love people the way he knew Jesus Christ loved him.
There was a nature in him that was, by all accounts, divine. He was unfailingly kind and thoughtful, and had a well-earned reputation in the Peace River region as a perfect gentleman in every sense of that word. 
And even though in his final days, when his body had been reduced to a shadow of his former self, and he needed the assistance of machines to help him breathe I have been told there was a calm about him. Maybe even an expectation, the way someone gets when they’re near the end of work, or school.
“I’m going home,” I’ve been told he said.
And despite the sadness that my family feels for our beloved Uncle Stan, we can’t help but feel like he is doing just that.
Maybe the famous British preacher Charles Haddon Spurgeon said it best.
“Oh, it is wonderful how these pilgrims do when they come to die! They may tremble when they live, but they do not tremble when they die. The weakest of them becomes the strongest then.”
We may miss him, but none of us have any question to where we will find him.
Uncle Stan just went home.

How we got engaged

Proposing to Rae-anna could be, to date, the crowning achievement of my life. Now, when I say crowning achievement I of course mean it in a romantic way; after all I got the girl in the end. But there’s another, more selfish, ambition at work when I tell this story. A man can connive and plan for months, maybe years, at the perfect proposal. He can lay out the groundwork, bribe waiters, chill the champagne to the perfect temperature, but there are other factors to take into consideration. These factors, or X factors as I have learned to call them, are intrinsically connected to all things associated with the girl. For example, mood, time of day, whether she’s eaten, whether she’s wearing the right clothes, whether she put deodorant on that day. These are all things that could make or break the proposal.

For example, my father, Stan Haugan, is the rule to not follow when attempting a marriage proposal. In 1984, overwhelmed with Norwegian Romance, which was previously thought a myth, he drove hours to his girlfriend Louanne Chmelyk’s to propose out of the blue. Of course, at this time in the calender year it was not only extremely dark and cold, but many Canadians were suffering from cold and flu symptoms. One of those people was my mother. So, as he arrived unannounced, my mother, in sweatpants and a t-shirt, red-nosed and nauseous, trudged through some snow to listen to her boyfriend, my father, propose. She was not impressed. However there was another power at work that night which was even more powerful than common sense, and that was the old Haugan animal magnetism. Needless to say she, despite everything, said yes.

Having said that, on March 26, 2009 at 10:30 a.m., with a ring in my jacket pocket, the conditions were perfect. We had stepped out of Nelly’s on 17th avenue after a very nice breakfast. I had a crab meat omelet (this has nothing with the story, but it is a little out of the ordinary). The weather was cool, but the sun was shining. There were birds chirping (presumably) and we were holding hands like a couple completely in love. I had to act while she was under the spell of my immense charm. So driving back home in South Calgary I decided the time was now.

We arrived at home and once in the door I told Rae it would be a perfect morning to spend with a book at our local Starbucks. But first, I said I had to get the mail.
After I came back, we both hopped in my car and drove off to get some coffee.
To be completely honest, I was never a Starbucks kind of guy before I met Rae. The coffee, for starters, is expensive and it’s far too city for a kid from Peace River. However, I loved Rae-anna since our first date where we watch Fast Times at Ridgemont High together. After that night, Starbucks didn’t seem like such a big deal any more. In fact, it kind of became our thing. 

We arrived at Starbucks together at around 11:30 a.m. I ordered for her one of her favorite drinks, a grande-non-fat-cinnamon-dolce latte. I went with an americano. We sat down. Knowing that Rae-anna, without fail, checks to see what “the way I see it” is written on the back of her cup, I asked her which of the cliche, new-age sayings was pasted on her cup. But no sooner had I asked her, that she began to almost hyperventilate. As she attempted to communicate, it was clear the writing on the back of her cup were the lyrics to her favorite song, Kathy’s song, by Simon and Garfunkel. Already there were tears beginning to well up in her eyes, but what she found below those lyrics put her into shock.

“Marry me???” it read.

I, true to form, was on one knee with the ring out.

It seems there’s nothing a bit of computer savvy, glue, a helpful store staff and some ingenuity can accomplish. That is, there’s nothing it can’t accomplish if you time it right.