I Fought the Lord, and the Lord Won: A Memoir

I Fought the Lord,

and the Lord Won

"Our lives are not determined by what happens to us,

but by how we react to what happens.

Not by what life brings us, but by

the attitude we bring life.

A positive attitude causes a chain reaction

of positive thoughts, events, and outcomes.

It is a catalyst that sparks extraordinary results."

A Memoir

James W. Anderson

Copyright © 2011 James W. Anderson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Quote on front cover: Anonymous

ISBN: 978-1-4497-2773-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-2772-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-2771-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011917923

Printed in the United States of America

WestBow Press rev. date: 10/13/2011

Contents

A Serendipitous Save

Lessons from a Prior Generation

A Harbinger

Conceptual Framework

Best Friends and Politics

The Grind

Launch Into the Real World

The World According to Jim

Transitions

Stroke

Recovery

Therapy

An Unexpected Call

An OPED for Jesus

Keeping the Truth Alive

Appendix-I

Appendix-II

With love and encouragement

to all who have a physical or

intellectual handicap, for

whatever reason.

A Serendipitous Save

I flew from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania to Houston, Texas late-Saturday evening, November 18th 1995. I traveled on Saturday to take advantage of a weekend discount airfare that required a Saturday night stay. As Vice President of Marketing for Berg Electronics I needed to be in Houston for a 10am Monday morning meeting to help Berg’s Major Account Manager negotiate a supply agreement between Berg Electronics, and one of our strategic accounts, Compaq computer. The Major Account Manager and I were to play good-cop, bad-cop. My role was the bad-cop from corporate.

When I arrived in Houston around 11pm, I purchased a copy of the Houston Chronicle to catch up on what was happening in Texas. There was an article in that paper that I liked so much that I carefully tore it out and put it in my briefcase.

When I returned to Harrisburg, I placed the article in a collection of other special newspapers I had saved throughout my life; like the front pages of papers when John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King were assassinated, when man landed on the moon and other significant current events from my life.

The Houston Chronicle featured a story about Itzhak Perlman a violinist who came on stage to give a concert at Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center in New York City.

The article described how difficult it was for the audience to witness a Perlman concert because his handicap required him to use leg braces and crutches to painstakingly navigate to his place on the stage and then remove and set aside his mobility paraphernalia.

Early-on during his performance apparently one of the four strings of his violin broke sounding like a rifle had been fired and startling the audience. The entire hall audience wondered what would happen next. He closed his eyes and signaled the conductor to begin again. Perlman had refused to acknowledge his misfortune and played spectacularly on with only three strings.

When he finished there was a thunderous standing ovation and then he spoke —not boastfully, but in a quiet, pensive, reverent tone—you know, sometimes it is the artist’s task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left.

The article concluded with the newspaper reporter’s quote So, perhaps our task in this shaky, fast-changing, bewildering world in which we live is to make music, at first with all that we have, and then, when that is no longer possible, to make music with what we have left.

So why did I save that old, faded and crinkled-up newspaper article for fifteen years, through several job relocations, each relocation giving me the opportunity to just toss it out? Perhaps it was just a serendipitous discovery in the wee hours that Sunday morning in Houston. I believe the true story told in these chapters will reveal the answer to that question.

One thing I want to share before you read any further is an apology. I am a reader who almost always finds discomfort when reading what I call I-books. I attempted to write this book from a different out-of-body perspective, but finally caved-in to the reality that writing the dreaded I-book was my only alternative.

But the good news is that my book isn’t so much about me as you will discover. It is equally about you and my desire for you to see through my eyes the potential serendipity available to all of us brave enough to reach-out and embrace it on a more intimate level.

Lessons from a Prior Generation

I was born on a hot and humid summer day on the sixth day of July in 1951. I know it was hot and humid, because it was printed in the Waukegan News Sun my mom saved for me.

Waukegan is situated on Lake Michigan about half the distance between Chicago and Milwaukee. Although Waukegan is considered to be a north-suburban Chicago community, in many respects Waukegan was then more similar to Milwaukee than Chicago.

Waukegan is also the hometown of Jack Benny. I loved Jack Benny because he could make the whole world laugh without uttering a single word!

My genealogy made me one-half Finnish after my dad, and the other-half English, Irish and German, after my mom. I was born with what was described to my parents by the delivering doctor as a harmless functional heart-murmur. The doc told my parents not to worry, I would sooner or later grow out of it. I later learned that roundly one-half of one-percent of all newborns have a heart-murmur; so that reality made me unique, right from the start. Little did I know my heart-murmur would one-day significantly impact my life. I’m glad I didn’t know that when I was young and attempting to do all the crazy things that all youngsters do.

On July 6, 1951 I was given the name James William Anderson. James from my maternal-grandfather, and William from my paternal-grandfather. The name was a blessed combination of my lineage. That pleased me. Not all kids, as I would soon learn, can say they were blessed by their family tree.

I don’t recall meeting my maternal granddad, but from viewing pictures of him, he appeared to be a very nice man. He died at a young age due to complications from a stroke he suffered in his early-forty’s.

On July 6, 1951 I was also born a Methodist. I was not necessarily a Christian at the time, but a Methodist. Like my given names, being a Methodist was a legacy from my family. It is also a legacy which I am very proud and grateful for to this very day. Although I didn’t know it at the time, my baptism was my first experience of a divine connection. Today I am certain that I didn’t have a soul, rather I was a soul, who just happened to also have a body.

Back in 1951, the average US income was $3,515 per year. A new car, without seatbelts, cost $1,520. A new home cost $9,000. A loaf of bread was 16 cents, a gallon of gas was 19 cents, and a gallon of milk was 92 cents. Gold was $35 per ounce and silver was 90 cents per ounce. The Dow Jones was 257. The president of the United States was Harry Truman.

The cost of a gallon of milk today is only four-times more expensive than it was in 1951. That compares oddly when I consider that the Dow Jones Industrial average increased 50-fold in the same time frame.

When comparing 1951 to today, the stark realization is that everything is transitory as time passes. I can’t find a perfect word to describe the change between 1951 and today, but for sure, the rate of change is certainly not perceived nor recognized by a person born in either time frame. That is, to a child, today is the same as yesterday, and tomorrow will be the same as today.

In 1951, no-doubt both personal self-interest and political greed existed, but it wasn’t yet destroying the fabric of America as I perceive it might be today. Ah, but I digress.

When comparing 1951 to today, the only thing that remains the same is the New York Yankees.

Waukegan is situated on Lake Michigan about six miles to south of the Wisconsin state line. In many ways, Waukegan is neither beef, like Chicago, nor fowl, like Milwaukee. I know for sure that Chicago claims Waukeganites as Illini, but many in my home town had more significant ties to Wisconsin, as you will learn later.

I was born into what my parents proudly boasted to be a middle class family. From my perspective as a kid, we were a family of modest, yet comfortable means. We listened to the radio and at the time had no TV. Our family of six shared one bathroom with a bathtub. No shower. When I reflect back today, I realize we were extremely-rich by any measuring stick.

Much like today, life back in 1951 was an adventure. My early childhood was a tough time for me to remember, but somehow I figured-out I had two sisters, one fourteen months older and one fourteen months younger. I would ultimately have yet another sister, six years my junior. As a middle child, and a boy, I had a tough situation with three sisters. Ah, but what family doesn’t have its cross to bear?

Although I did not choose to be born, I can tell by my baptism certificate that I was baptized in my mother’s church on December 16th when I was just five months old. I don’t remember that, but it was something my parents chose wisely on my behalf. I had a wonderful Christian family and was born into a wonderful Christian home. My parents took me to church every Sunday, and I was later confirmed in my father’s family church as a Lutheran.

Both my parents were religious and spiritual people. My parents made certain that I was raised in a church family, as they both had been. Their loving acts did not however, make me a Christian. I learned early in life that going to church on Sunday no more made me a Christian than spending the rest of the week in a garage would make me a car.

I vividly remember my Sunday school teacher telling me, It’s pretty simple Jimmy, you are either good, and you go to heaven, or you are bad and go to hell. Seemed logical to me at the time, and because of my environment, I accepted what she said without challenge.

Today it is difficult to comprehend that I was once a child. But one thing I know for certain, I was almost always a happy person. Even in the face of occasional bad news, I remain independently sanguine to this very day.

Although I learned to be sarcastic from my environment, I always attempted to use sarcasm to make people laugh. It always felt good to laugh. I learned later in life that I chose wisely in that regard. There are studies today that conclude that one minute of laughter can boost an individual’s immune system for twenty-four hours.

No doubt I was the product of childhood imprinting, the result of environmental conditioning when children learn almost exclusively from adult behaviors and lessons taught by others around them. That is, I adopted my value system, morals and ideals from my adolescent environment.

I unconditionally and without question accepted the beliefs and teachings of my family, my clergy, teachers, close relatives, adults, as well as my siblings. There was no real critical thinking on my own part, rather I was in an environment from which I learned most everything to be true and valued.

Reflecting on my past, I realize today that much of my life was beyond my control. I wonder what I would be like had my soul been born into a different family, in a different part of the world, with different cultures and conceptual value systems. We have all seen the hatred that spews from some extreme cultures in countries half-way around the world. What if I had been born into a Muslim family that embraced Al-Quida? Would I have been tolerant?

Or even, for arguments sake, into a family that had to survive living below the poverty level in America? Perhaps even a family without a radio or inside plumbing? I don’t have an honest answer to that hypothetical question, not even today.

I knew somehow and for some reason, my soul was chosen, by the grace of God, to be born into a Christian family in Waukegan, Illinois and in a country that proudly boasted to be One Nation, Under God.

As a young kid, on certain Friday nights, I had the good fortune of spending the night with my paternal grandparents. I learned during those Friday-night visits that my granddad had emigrated from Finland with his older brother in 1902, when he was just six-years-old.

According to my granddad, he and his sixteen-year-old brother, Jalmar Wouernma, somehow got separated during the immigration process. Apparently when my granddad was asked his name, he couldn’t clearly enunciate it and the immigration official became frustrated. Sensing the frustration, my granddad, who had been known in Helsinki as Andrew’s-son, desperately screamed out I’m William Wouernma, you know, Andrew’s-son! When the immigration official heard Andrew’s-son, he interpreted that Gramps last name must have been Anderson. When Gramps and his brother Jalmar were reunited later, my granddad had a new American last name, Anderson.

Although my granddad only graduated from the 8th grade, he was unquestionably the smartest man I ever knew, and that holds true to this very day. As the son of an immigrant from Finland, my father exclusively spoke the Finnish language when he was a small boy. The Lutheran church we attended when I was a kid even had an early-Sunday morning Finnish service.

The Lutheran minister was not only bi-lingual, but uniquely articulate as I perceive most bilingual people today. I was encouraged, but not coerced, to learn to speak Finnish. Through osmosis I learned all the important greetings like Hauska Youlua for Merry Christmas, and a few less important phrases I heard often, like Baha-boyica! for bad-boy.

As a result of being one-half Finnish, it meant I had SISU. You may have seen the bumper stickers on people’s cars that say only SISU. Later in life I learned that SISU is an ineffable spirit or inner fire that Finns call upon when all strength seems spent.

Because of SISU, Finns find it possible to do almost anything, except betray our honor or compromise our ideals. SISU also provides patience, which results in most Finnish people being revered by others who were not Finnish. SISU is said to be the greatest tool one can have. And today, I am extremely grateful that I have SISU as an integral part of my conceptual framework.

I remember in kindergarten when I first became aware of my inner-self. It happened when my older sister Renee was patiently waiting outside my kindergarten class to shepherd me home nine city-blocks for lunch. At the time, Renee was in first grade and had to go home, eat quickly and walk back to Hyde Park Elementary School for afternoon classes. Because I was in morning kindergarten, I was done for the day.

What was going on in my kindergarten class was a classic stand-off. Renee, along with other kids moms could not only witness, but hear the character-building exercise through a large bank of open windows by the kindergarten door. There we were; my teacher and her thirty or so kindergartners locked in a stalemate. My teacher took a common-risk that could have resulted in her being fired or promoted. From my point of view, such aggressive action would be an equally uncommon-risk if taken in today’s teaching arena.

Someone had dropped a Kleenex on the floor in our otherwise spotless classroom. That was no doubt a lesson for the moms witnessing what was going on as they watched and waited for their kids to be dismissed. My teacher wanted the felon to pick up the Kleenex before the entire class could be excused. No one in my kindergarten class budged.

I knew I hadn’t dropped the Kleenex because at the time, I hated to blow my nose. I’d rather pick my nose than blow it into a snotty Kleenex. Worrying about Renee, I kept looking out the window to see her fidgeting nervously while waiting for me so she could walk me safely home.

As the standoff continued, and what seemed to be Renee’s whole lunch period passing by, I finally took matters into my own hands, went over, picked up the Kleenex and tossed it in the trash. I’m certain the teacher knew I wasn’t the felon, but no doubt she thought lesson-learned for all, and excused my class for the day. I’ve often wondered what the real felon thought, seeing me cover-up for his crime, or worse yet, perhaps it fell out of someone’s pocket unbeknownst to them.

Once outside, Renee and I ran all the way home so she could inhale a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and eat an apple as she raced back by herself for afternoon classes.

To this very day, I still feel inside my head pretty much just like I did that kindergarten day when I first discovered my inner-self and the associated clarity of thinking. That is, of course, until I look in the mirror.

As products of the Great Depression, my grandparents were people that only had the bare essentials. Both grandparents worked, my grandmother in an asbestos factory and my granddad as a custodian at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center just to the south of Waukegan. They had a nice, small, comfortable, and remarkably clean home. My grandfather meticulously maintained the yard. My grandparents lived on the first floor and rented the upstairs part of their home to another family.

My granddad fought for peace in World War I. He was honest and a very hard worker. I am certain his work ethic made a lot of his peer’s look bad, which was certainly not intentional, but that’s just what happened. I believe my granddad’s peers were just plain jealous of his SISU, something a non-Finn can’t acquire.

Gramps never missed a day of work due to illness throughout his entire, post-World War I career as a janitor. I have fond memories of the black metal lunch boxes and sturdy thermos’ that both he and my grandmother carried back and forth to work each day. Many of my granddad’s co-workers openly made fun of him and called him stupid for not taking advantage of his government allotment of paid sick-leave.

I know that because my granddad shared this with me. He was a proud man and he never let on that it bothered him. In the end, Gramps, without uttering a negative word, showed all of them. At the annual Great Lakes Naval Training Center Retirement and Awards Dinner, all of the other retirees, and their families, received a free meal, an unframed retirement certificate, and thank-you speech from the US Navy.

My granddad was called up last, which was peculiar, because all the retirees were honored by calling them up alphabetically using their last name. I remember it as being awkward, wondering if they somehow missed Gramps. With the last name Anderson, he was recognized last, just as he would have been, if his last name had still been Wouernma.

Modifying the order for an Anderson to be last was no doubt designed to teach everyone else at that dinner, and feed the rumor-mill for those who might retire in future years, a life-lesson. My granddad’s boss, shared with the families gathered to celebrate their collective retirements that Gramps never missed a day at work, due to illness, in his entire career as a janitor. Not one single sick-day!

In addition to his retirement certificate, the US Navy presented Gramps with a check for one year’s pay. Those in attendance gasped and looked at one another with their eyes almost popping out of their heads. That check represented somewhat less than all of Gramps accumulated sick pay during his career with the Navy, in 1961 inflation-adjusted dollars. I could not have been more proud of him, and he was proud too.

Gramps gave me lots of great one-on-one advice. As I grew up, I called those loving lessons The World According to William Wouernma to which he always smiled and laughed. After his retirement party he told me that there were two kinds of people: those who do the work, and those who take the credit. He told me that 20% of the people do 80% of the work. He also said that I should always strive to be in the first 20%, because there was much less competition.

Imagine learning the 80/20 rule from someone who only graduated from the 8th grade! It wasn’t until I was in college that I would understand and embrace the 80/20 rule, critically thinking about its merits, and making it work, for my personal benefit in real-life situations. In that freshman statistics class, I was classroom-taught that rule with more specificity regarding a bell-shaped curve, what is also known as a normal distribution.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I later learned that the bell-shaped curve can be used to describe almost every situation in life.

During my Friday-nights and Saturday-mornings with my grandparents, I watched my granddad offer a new and different prayer before every meal. And somehow he weaved a blessing for me into every single prayer.

My grandparents censured what I watched on TV. My granddad got down on his knees in prayer by his bedside each night before going to bed. When I stayed at his house, he asked that I go through the ritual with him. I always listened in amazement how he could say a uniquely different prayer on each and every different occasion.

He told the Lord how great he was and thanked him for all of the blessing’s that had been bestowed upon him. He always said, especially for my grandson Jimmy who, as he told the Lord, was kneeling next to him at this very moment. He asked the Lord to guide both of our steps all the days of our lives. Then he closed with the Lords’ Prayer.

When staying with my granddad, who I always just referred to as Gramps, I first learned that No was a complete sentence.

Gramps was an eternally optimistic, simple and happy man. Nothing seemed to ever bother him. No doubt in my mind, he was the single most significant individual developing my personality type. I marveled at his perspective on life, and wanted to grow-up to be just like him.

It was obvious to me, that although Gramps was old, he was living young and large, and he didn’t want to measure his life just by its length as so many do, but also by its width, taking advantage of each and every moment doing good for others.

Gramps told me I too needed a prayer routine for each and every day. He shared that if God were going to listen to me, I needed to communicate with him, and the best way to do that, was to consistently talk to him in prayer. Gramps promised that God would be listening.

I learned from Gramps that I needed to make a place for God in my life. He would say to me, Jimmy, have you ever noticed how people are reluctant to believe in God, yet surprised when he answers their prayers? Gramps said I should trust God no matter what happens and look for, and give credit to God for his favor, no matter how insignificant that favor might seem.

Gramps told me that everyone had needs, and everyone had wants and that I should make a place for God right in the center between my needs on one extreme, and my wants on the other extreme.

Gramps said that if I left room for God, right smack in the middle, I would be creating a powerful environment for miracles to occur. And if I did that, I would also be leaving room for divine connections, and a space where God could reveal himself. I never fully understood that concept, but I knew I was a lucky kid to have a grandfather with such unique perspectives he wanted to unselfishly, and perhaps obligatorily, pass along to his grandson.

Along with my parents, the childhood imprinting Gramps bestowed was not only significant, but something I never challenged. His relationship with the Lord obviously served him well. Since he prayed so much for me, I somehow trusted I would be blessed beyond what I might otherwise deserve.

Gramps believed that most people didn’t pray until they became desperate. From his perspective, when desperate people pray, they are generally asking for the impossible, because they have not been consistently living a life of faith.

When I was six or seven, Gramps challenged me to think of a problem in life that was too small for God to know about. Gramps would say that most people didn’t pray because they thought it didn’t matter to God. From Gramps perspective, every detail in my life would be important to God. He counseled that I shouldn’t wait to pray until I had a major crisis, but rather, I should talk to God every day about everything, because nothing was too small for God.

Thanks to Gramps, I learned at a young age to thank God for little miracles that seemed to occur in my life, under my breath, at the time they occurred. I gave God the credit for what I perceived to