MY GOOD FRIEND DOUG

If you have had a conversation of length with me since the early 70s, you have probably heard me say something like:

- My good friend Doug says...

- My good friend Doug tells this story about...

- My good friend Doug wrote in one of his books...

Doug Manning was our pastor when we were newlyweds. And, he has been our "pastor" until his passing on January 27, 2025. The fact is though that he will continue to be our pastor as long as we both shall live--and maybe beyond. Our kids and grandkids have heard so many Doug stories; they're like an ingredient baked in to who we are.

I'm using the word "pastor" here in the sense of a shepherd, a guide, a spiritual mentor. I have been so fortunate to have had a few of that type in my life. The first was my father. Dad and Doug were both pastoring churches in Tulsa when they became friends. Doug spoke at Dad's memorial service. I remember the entire sermon: "We don't need a sermon today. If you are here then you knew Bill Fuller. And, if you knew Bill then you knew his life was the sermon." And he sat down.

There have been two times that Doug was also our pastor in a church leader role: in the 70s at Southern Hills Baptist Church in Tulsa, and then in the early 20-teens we started a church together in Oklahoma City. Doug wanted to call it "The Church of the Pissed-Off Baptists", but we figured we wouldn't be able to find a building large enough, so we went with Kindling Community. It was a wonderful, eclectic group with wildly and widely diverse faith views and worldviews, all focused on the exploring of ways to be followers of Jesus in the 21st century. It was amazing, and endured until Doug's eyesight made it nearly impossible for him to read and prepare.

It was the pastoring in between the church gigs that have come to mean the most to me. My Amazing-Missus and I met with Doug almost every Friday night for many years for dinner and to spend the evening discussing life. No subject was off limits.

When Covid forced all indoors, we started a group that met once a week through Zoom, the online meeting utility. I have long been fascinated by a group called The Inklings. They met regularly in a pub in Oxford, England. The members included J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. We decided we would fashion our Covid-era Zoom meeting after The Inklings. We called it the Quarantine Tavern and although the pandemic has subsided we still meet nearly every Sunday night. Doug has missed the last few meetings. The cancer that had come on him with vengeance caused him pain and fatigue.

My last communication with him was a text he sent to me Sunday afternoon, January 26, just hours before he passed. In the text he told me the doctors had no good news for him and he ended with these words: "the cancer is back and it’s very very very, very growing very fast so Tuesday I have another CAT scan and Wednesday I have an appointment with him and then he made me go ahead and get an appointment with my another appointment with my radiologist so I don’t know where we are, but he did end up by saying I don’t think I can give you a good outlook or a good answer so that’s where I am. I’m not in as much pain. I’m happy I’m relaxed and I’m not bored a whole lot about anything, but I thought maybe the group should know where things are. Hope y’all have a good meeting tonight."

So this guy who has authored more than 50 books, traveled the world speaking on the issues of death and grief, is taking the time to tell a group of friends the truth and then wishing us well on a meeting he won't be able to attend.

I could go on and on and on, so I decided to boil it down to a Letterman-style Top 10.

Things I learned from Doug:

#10. Pay close attention.

#9. Listen carefully and deeply.

#8. When it comes to regrets, learn the lesson and move on.

#7. Hurt people hurt people.

#6. Barbara Streisand was right: "People who need people are the luckiest people in the world."

#5. Keep your cussing current.

#4. You can't behave your way into a relationship with God. You just have to believe and deeply hold on to the fact that He loves you and see what that does for your behavior.

#3. There's more good theology in "The Velveteen Rabbit" than is delivered in many pulpits on any given Sunday.

#2. Be wary of those who only quote scripture from the Old Testament and Paul's letters.

#1. Don't forget to write.

Let me say this about that last one. It is a line from the movie "Finding Forrester". It's about an older man and a younger one. They both want the best for each other. Their common ground is writing. Doug and I shared a love for writing. In the movie, the older man is going off on a trip and the younger one tells him, "Don't forget to write” - using the old line offered so many times in a farewell, but with the twist of holding one another accountable to write, to create, to strive to be a better version of ourselves. Often we would say goodbye, one of us would say, "Don't forget to write."

That is who Doug was to me. How can you not love someone who you know cares for you unconditionally? How can you not be broken hearted at their passing? It's selfish I know. But it's real. I hurt for his amazing family. They have generously shared Doug with me, My Amazing-Missus, and all the others he touched so deeply.

Doug was the last of a generation for me. It makes me miss my father even more. Now I'm the old guy for sure. I have no one left who is older that I can call on. But I do have the treasure of having had those people in my life. That's enough for now.

Old men ought to be explorers
Here and there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For another union, a deeper communion
--T.S. Eliot

GRAND THEFT PICKUP

I'm sipping a hot, homemade cortado; working on a New York Times puzzle. "Where's your truck?" My Amazing-Missus asks. "Parked on the driveway where I left it."

"No, it's not!"

I dashed out the door, thinking she just happened to not see a huge Ford F150 SuperCrew sitting there minding its own business.

We bought the truck back in 2023. At the time the young salesman began to try to convince me to get this app called "FordPass". "The app will show you your vehicle's tire pressures, gas level and mileage. It will allow you to remotely lock and unlock the vehicle. And, it will show you the truck's location."

I told him I didn't want the app. I had no interest in being tracked. If I wanted to stop by an Andy's Custard for a large hot fudge sundae, it's nobody's business. He explained that if I signed up I would get $250 in "Ford Bucks" that I could use for oil changes and stuff. So, I signed up.

-- "Shawnee Police, how can I help?"

-- "My truck has been stolen out of my driveway."

-- "Address? Make? Model? Color? Do you happen to have an app that will show you the vehicle's location?"

YES!. Yes I do!

She told me they have officers enroute and another arriving at our house. We stayed on the line and I kept her updated on the truck's location. It had come to a stop at the city park in Tecumseh. The officer came to the house and we monitored the chase on his radio. Now the Tecumseh police and the county sheriff had joined the chase.

It sounded like they had them surrounded at the park but they took off again. Then--over a bit of radio static-- "They've crashed out in a ditch." A long pause. "They've managed to get out." "The vehicle is stopped and they're fleeing on foot. We need a canine unit."

We called both of our sons. Corey, who lives in Shawnee, decided to join the pursuit and arrived at the final resting place of the vehicle as the perps (police talk) were being taken into custody. It was such a relief to see a familiar face there. Our youngest son, Kyle, who worked for several years in law enforcement was on the phone with me, calming me down by walking me patiently through the possible scenarios. Such a gift.

Corey called to say he was talking with police, and while the truck was clearly damaged it seemed to be drivable. So we headed south to the crime scene. As we got closer it looked like every available law enforcement unit in the county was there. They had apprehended all three, two sixteen year-old boys and an eighteen year-old girl, at various locations near Tecumseh lake.

Police had searched the truck. "Mr. Fuller did you have handguns in the vehicle," they asked. "Only if they have an orange tip at the end and shoot water," I offered in full disclosure. They recovered two real guns, a backpack, a filthy coat and one glove from the truck.

One of the fugitives, just a kid, the same age as my oldest GrandGirl, was sitting on the ground, hands cuffed behind his back, his head between his knees. I wanted to go over and tell him I was sorry for whatever had happened in his young life that had brought him to this point.

My initial reactions to it all were an adrenaline-filled frustration--thinking about the hassle of dealing with the fallout of some stupid kids stealing a vehicle and going for a joy ride. But when I learned that they had guns in my truck I was sickened--for the kids and by them, also by the horrible scenarios of what might have been. Now I pray there might be a turning point soon for these three, maybe a hope of what might could be.

P.S.: The truck is only marginally drivable. It shimmies and shakes and now sits and waits for the police and insurance company to tell us what's next.

THOUGHTS AT 74

I'm sensing that I may not be sensing as much as I used to. Take seeing, smelling, touching, hearing and tasting; sometimes those things don't seem as sharp as they once were, say, fifty or one year ago.

I need My Amazing-Missus more. I need her to tell me if the milk smells okay, or if the turkey, which looks a little greenish to me, tastes safe. Remember the old joke about the cannibal that took a bite of a clown and then asked his wife, "Does this taste funny to you?"

At first I thought maybe I just wasn't paying attention. According to some teachers of my school-days I have that inclination--to not pay attention. Maybe now, as then, I tend to be picky about what I find to be attention-worthy. I think I've already established that if your give-a-crapper is broken, your sense of attention-paying is afflicted as well. It's hard to pay attention to what you don't care about.

A few days ago at a holiday gathering, my youngest Grand, soon to be five, was reminiscing about a Christmas past (one of his four). "Hey, Pops, hey! Do you remember that time..." Honestly; I said that I didn't recall that. "What's wrong old man can't you remember stuff?" he said with love.

I explained to him that I have a zillion-million more memories to keep track of than he does. Then I used a sure-fire strategy to change the subject, "Hey do you want to watch Sonic or Ninja Turtles or something else enriching?"

Jeremiah and I are the chronological bookends of our family. He's the one that helps me most to stay anchored in the reality that I'm old, but that maybe I have strengths now that I didn't have when I was younger. He doesn't have to verbally remind me that I'm old. It can happen like this: "Hey, Pops, Hey, why don't you sit on the floor and we'll play Spiderman with these Legos?!" I assess the situation and imagine trying to get up from the floor in an hour or so. "How about if we pretend that I'm a creature from the planet 'Recliner' and I'm trapped in it's extra-strong gravitational pull." He seems to accept this premise. "Are you good or bad?" he asks. "The jury is still out."

Is it true that if someone is lacking in one of the senses, the others are somehow enhanced to make up the difference? I've always heard that. Is it true that if you are diminshed olfactory-wise that your sense of taste is stricken as well?

Now I'm veering off into physical science and I have no business there. Let's get back to psycho-social space, a room I have now qualms about bouncing around in.

One of my favorite movies set around Christmas and the days after is The Family Man starring Nicholas Cage and Téa Leoni. It has a feeling of old scrooge being carried back and forward in time. Cage's character "Jack" is given the opportunity to catch a glimpse of what his life might have looked like and somehow magically having the chance to make a new choice.

- Please just tell me what's happening to me in plain English...without the mumbo-jumbo.

- This is a glimpse, Jack.

- A glimpse? A glimpse of what?

- You're gonna have to figure that out for yourself and you got plenty of time.

- How much time?

- As much time as it takes, which in your case is probably gonna be considerable.

That's a few lines from the movie--sort of a teaser. It's worth watching, IMHO. (As the kids say).

While my five physical senses may not be as sharp as they once were, others are serving me well: my sense of humor, my sense of authenticity vs. B.S., my sense of what's important, my sense of faith and hope, my sense of urgency.

Here's what I mean about that last one, hoping to not sound too doom and gloomish. I mentioned Jeremiah's four Christmases of memories and my seventy-three. (I wrote about Remembering in my last post.) Obviously he has years of memories to come. Me? Not as many. Just facts. The sense of urgency though of seizing moments isn't really about limited time. It's about being extra alert, listening, seeing, hearing, tasting and touching as I never have before. Soaking up as much as I can. Wringing the cloth of every drop of opportunity. Even though I may not see as well as I once did, I know for a fact that if I take the time and give the attention I will be able to see more than I ever have. Now, whether I'll be able to remember it tomorrow... Even my nearly 5 year-old grandson knows that us old men tend to forget; but only some things. Others are indelible.

Here’s one of my favorite poems, one by Walt Whitman. Some say that old Walt was gay and that this poem was about a meeting with someone he knew intimately. For me it is about the relationship of an old man and the person he was when he was young. I often remember that person--the me of my youth. A person who had a wide-eyed, sometimes naive curiosity, drawn to creativity that brought discovery and joy.

A Glimpse: Poem by Walt Whitman

A GLIMPSE, through an interstice caught,

Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room, around the stove,

late of a winter night--And I unremark'd seated in a corner;

Of a youth who loves me, and whom I love, silently approaching, and

seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand;

A long while, amid the noises of coming and going--of drinking and

oath and smutty jest,

There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little,

perhaps not a word.

I'll admit. Sometimes I enjoy the company of the memories of grade-school me, or high school graduate me, or newly married me, or first-time father me, or Pops me. It gives me a glimpse of what was, what might have been and what can be. Those old friends give perspective and are useful to us.

For example, recently, we took GrandGirl Nora to a gymnastics meet. As we drew close to the venue, she talked about being nervous. She didn't ask if I've ever been nervous before a big event, but I offered an unsolicited anecdote anyway--something I enjoy doing. I told her about my first accordian concert. I was six. Dressed in black pants, a white sportcoat, and little black bowtie. I squeezed my best version of "Three Blind Mice" out of that shiny black accordian. I returned to my seat next to my parents. Mom was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. I guess when you think about it, it is a sad song. These poor little mice were not only blind but they had just had there tails whacked off with a carver's knife by the farmer's wife. Anyway, the point of my story of empathy regarding pre-performance jitters was lost because I had to try to explain to Nora what an accordian was and why I was forced to take lessons on the thing. The good news: the story got us to the venue where she saw a teammate and her coach. Five gold medals and one silver, and all was well.

P.S.: At 74 I’m starting my 75th year. As I look at the world as it is, I have a few of those butterflies and jitters, however, I am not without hope. I have a glimpse and a sense that there is a plan bigger than all of us. “A plan for good and not for evil”. Here's a link to a post I wrote more than five years ago. It's still true for me. Maybe you'll find it helpful. CLICK HERE TO READ IT.

REMEMBER?

WHY DON’T WE CALL IT RE-MEMBERING?

I was listening to a medical doctor speak at a church. He was talking about the Lord's Supper or The Eucharist or Holy Communion or the Blessed Sacrament: the Christian rite (not "Right"). Christians believe that the rite was instituted by Jesus at the Last Supper, the night before his crucifixion, giving his disciples bread and wine, referring to the bread as "my body" and the cup of wine as "the blood of my covenant, which is poured out for many". Jesus told them to observe the rite regularly and to do it "in remembrance of me".

This medical doctor hinged his message on a key question. He set up his question with an example: when a person has an accident and loses a finger, we call that dismemberment. If we surgically reattach the finger or any dismembered appendage, why we don't call it re-membering?

Maybe we should. After all isn't that what remembering is? When we tell stories from our past, or look through old photos, or visit places we used to know, aren't we reconnecting; rejoining our present and our past.

Times like the holiday season are rife for re-membering. Indulge me. Last Friday, we visited Utica Square Shopping Center in Tulsa. Every year of my childhood included a Christmastime visit to Utica Square to see the lights, and wait in line for a chance to visit with Santa.

Most years we still make a visit there on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Here is a picture of this years visit. We're all there except Haddi and Everly who were spending the holiday with their dad. I truly missed them. A couple of notes on the photo: we should have known that the flood light shining on the nutcracker would have given a ghostly look to those in it's beam. Also, that tall building way in the background is St. John's hospital, where I was born, January 8, 1951.

My Mom saved the hospital statement from my birth, why, I don't know. Maybe as a sentimental keepsake or maybe to be able to say to the future son, "See, not only did I go through the trauma of childbirth for you but it cost us $82.00!" That's not a typo. The bill for delivery and three days in St. Johns was less than a hundred bucks. According to the Consumer Price Index calculator, $100 in 1951 is equivalent in purchasing power to about $1,214.09 today, an increase of $1,114.09 over 73 years. The dollar had an average inflation rate of 3.48% per year between 1951 and today, producing a cumulative price increase of 1,114.09%. Considering the price of having a baby these days, I was a bargain!

On our visit to Utica Square we took the whole crew to P.F. Chang's for supper. For what the meal cost, you could have had twins at St. John's in 1951. But! Strolling the sidewalks of Utica Square with the GrandKids in the warm glow of thousands of little lights, sipping hot chocolate or coffee: PRICELESS.

We stopped in at Santa's house for cookies. When he asked the boys what they wanted for Christmas, Malachi was still undecided. Jeremiah, the four-year-old, told Santa with solid confidence that he wanted a watch. Of all the years I sat on Santa's lap at Utica Square as a kid, I can never remember asking him for a watch, unless maybe it was one of those cool Dick Tracy walkie-talkie watches.

While I'm re-membering Christmases past, I have vivid memories of carefully researching and curating my wishlist. It usually started with the arrival of the Sears Christmas catalog around Thanksgiving time. Then, in the breaking days of December, the actual visit to Sears. Walking past a guy with a red bucket, ringing a bell, through the vast doors, there was the candy counter, brightly lit, the smells of chocolate and roasting nuts wafting through the store. On to the "Big Toy Box", which is what the marketing department at Sears called the toy department. I could watch the setup of running Lionel trains for hours. One year I got my own. Carefully putting that cantankerous track together, hooking up the transformer, and finally; movement and the smell of electrical current. Apparently re-membering includes, sights and sounds and smells too.

One of my favorite smells of the holidays was visiting OTASCO with my Dad. OTASCO, by the way, stood for Oklahoma Tire and Supply Company. The smell was a combination of new tires, fan belts, petroleum products and popcorn. At Christmastime, OTASCO had a great toy department. A Google search found me a catalog cover from back in the day. It's all there in a single drawing: Old St. Nick enjoying a cookie the little lad left for him. And, it looks like he's getting everything on his list: a teddy bear, a new wagon, a TV, a blender and a circular saw.

Listen! Did someone just say, "Merry Christmas to all and to all a goodnight!"? Remember that book?

Don't worry. In the home of my childhood and that of My Amazing-Missus, in the childhood home of our two sons and in the home's of our GrandKids we remember the reason for the season. And we re-member with truth and light by telling The Nativity Story again and again. We hold on to the promise and commit ourselves to the pursuit of those words that seem so elusive: Peace on Earth!

Merry Christmas everyone from Pops, My Amazing-Missus and the whole crew. To all those who are spending Christmas without someone who was once with them, we pray that somehow the season and The Story will provide rich opportunities to re-member.