I don’t remember when Paul and I first met. Our parents had been friends for years, so it was as if he had always been there. Paul’s dad would tease us that we’d been playing together since we were in diapers. Neither Paul nor I remembers those days. However, I can picture little Paul and little Diane playing in a sandbox with droopy cloth diapers.
We grew up in different towns, so we mostly saw each other every summer at youth camp and then again at family camp, both held at Indian Lake Nazarene Camp in Vicksburg, Michigan. Besides those events, there were other times we’d get together, like weddings and funerals, visiting missionaries, traveling gospel singing teams, and other special speakers for which the Nazarene community at large would gather regularly.
Even without seeing each other for months, Paul and I were like magnets at these events. It took no time for us to find each other and reconnect. It was just one of those expected things. No one said anything about it. It was just understood.
Paul was an adventurous boy who was always looking to have fun. At youth camp one summer, he sneaked up to my cabin window after lights out and convinced me and my cabin mates to crawl out of the window and join him and his cabin mates in a game of hide and seek in the moonlit woods. It was the best night ever!
One I will always remember as being exciting, spooky, and just a little bit naughty. We didn’t do anything wrong, but there’s something exhilarating about being where you’re not supposed to be when you’re not supposed to be there. That was Paul’s MO. Always pushing the limits. Not a bad boy, but a good boy who pushed the limits.
The fun ended when we were caught, hauled into the camp director’s office, and reprimanded. I didn’t like getting in trouble, so I tried avoiding Paul and his antics for a while after that. This never worked for long since Paul Anderson was not a boy who could be ignored.
The summer of 1972 was the year I got to know Paul best. I was 14 years old, and Paul was 15. His dad had just accepted the pastorate at the New Lothrop Church of the Nazarene, my home church, and his mom had already been battling cancer for a few years and was not doing well. Things were rough, but the church gathered to support them, and the Anderson family quickly became part of our small community.
Paul’s love for life and people was contagious. He lived in the present and always wore a goofy grin.
His dad, however, didn’t always appreciate Paul’s happy-go-lucky attitude. Rev. Anderson would frequently chastise him for not taking things seriously enough. But Paul wasn’t blind to the harsh realities of life – he just chose to live above them.
Since Mrs. Anderson was too ill to manage two young girls, ages 7 and 3, my mom cared for Kendra and Karla during the day while Rev. Anderson worked at the church. My Aunt Maxine and Uncle Paul, who lived next door to us on our grandparents’ farm, opened their home to Paul whenever he needed a place to stay.
There was always something to do. Paul would help my Uncle Paul in his workshop. My uncle told Paul he had a good name, and Paul got a kick out of that.
Paul and I took full advantage of the acreage at our disposal. We would take long walks down to the woods or crawl up into the barn’s hayloft and talk for hours. We’d listen to our favorite songs on the radio and dream about all the wonderful adventures life had yet to unfold. Paul fit right into our family, and we soon became best friends.
I was quiet and shy, and he was outgoing and adventurous. Together, we made quite the pair. He gave me the courage to try new things, and I calmed him. We were good for each other and became inseparable at school and at home.
Once fall arrived and school began, we fell into a comfortable routine. My mom continued to care for Kendra and Karla during the day. With Kendra now in school, the bus would drop her off at our house while I would walk home with Paul to the parsonage in town.
Walking into the back door of the parsonage, we’d find Mrs. Anderson either resting on the family room couch or sitting at the kitchen table. Regardless of her position, she always welcomed us with a big smile. The pretty scarf around her head contrasted sharply with the dark rings surrounding her big brown eyes. But the sad, worn look disappeared when she smiled, showing how happy she was to see us. She was warm and inviting, and I loved being in her presence.
Paul and I would help with the never-ending household tasks such as laundry, washing dishes, and sweeping the floor. But with Paul, most tasks became a game, and we would either end up wet, making a mess, or both. Mrs. Anderson never complained. Our silly antics entertained her, bringing joy into her otherwise pain-filled life.
I had never witnessed death firsthand, so I didn’t see Mrs. Anderson as dying. I saw her as a sweet lady who was frail and needed our help. Paul, on the other hand, knew the full extent of her illness but chose to look past it. Therefore, those afternoons together were never somber. They were filled with life, love, and fun.
Making dinner on most nights consisted of tossing a frozen pizza or other cardboard-covered entree into the oven. Apparently, that’s all the cooking skills Paul and I had at the time.
After taking care of dinner, we would sit on the family room couch and tackle homework until Rev. Anderson came home. That’s when the merriment would conclude, and real life would again set in. My mom would soon drop off Kendra and Karla at the parsonage and take me home.
At first, Paul tried to make his Sophomore year in high school as normal as possible. He tried out for football and was the only Sophomore allowed on the Varsity team. He made up for his less-than-bulky frame with extra heart. Coach told him to tone it down and tackle smarter, or he would get hurt.
Paul learned fast and quickly found his place on the team. Until the day he regretfully had to drop out because his mom’s condition was worsening, and he was needed at home. That broke his heart. He never even got to play in their first game.
As the year progressed and winter began, Mrs. Anderson was in and out of the hospital. During those weekends, Paul would stay with my aunt and uncle. We spent countless hours snowmobiling all over the farm with Uncle Paul, my dad, and my brother. One day, my Uncle Paul came home with the hood of an old car and hooked it up behind his snowmobile so we could ride on it. I can still see that hood, wildly, and probably dangerously, swinging from side to side as it was towed over the rough cornfields. We never wore helmets in those days. Never thought of it. Not even sure they existed. But somehow, we survived with only a few cuts and bruises, and enough memories to last a lifetime.
Paul and I would frequently seek out quiet places to sit and talk. We were comfortable in each other’s presence, finding a safe place to confide. Paul told me of his dream of becoming a surgeon. I told him he had the hands for it with his long, slender fingers. He’d laugh and say he had girly hands, but there was nothing feminine about them. They were capable hands, made to perform precise and delicate surgeries. And it felt really good when he wrapped those long fingers around mine.
I remember sitting in church together, about 6 inches between us, which was the acceptable space between a young man and a young woman. Our fingers were interlocked between our two bodies as we held hands. We thought we were sly, hiding it from his dad in the pulpit. Looking back, I’m sure Rev. Anderson knew what we were doing but never said anything about it.
I remember Paul telling me his dad had “the talk” with him about respecting young women. So, between his dad and my dad, I’m sure Paul was too afraid to get out of line. This was a good thing because sexual feelings didn’t sidetrack us. We found freedom in our innocence.
We could truly be ourselves and share ourselves without adding stuff kids our age shouldn’t have to deal with. We opened our hearts while mutual respect threaded its way throughout our interactions. This gave us the courage to experience the unknown together. And life was throwing more of the unknown at us every passing day.
Paul got his class ring and took it to the hospital to show his mom. She oohed and aahed over it as if it were the most beautiful piece of jewelry she had ever seen. Paul found out later that because of the tumors pressing up against the back of her eyes, she couldn’t see it at all.
Christmas and my 15th birthday came and went without hardly a notice. But I vividly remember the congregation gathering on a cold, snowy winter’s evening in the church sanctuary to hold a special prayer service for Mrs. Anderson. I can still hear the petitions and wails echoing from the tall ceiling as everyone beseeched God for his mercy and healing power. Most of us were crying, desperately trying to understand how such a lovely woman could be dying from such a horrendous disease and how such a beautiful family could be mercilessly torn apart.
But our prayers went unanswered, and in February 1973, Betty Anderson passed into eternity.
That day changed everything.
My parents would not allow me to attend her funeral in their desperate attempt to protect my tender heart. But my dear friends were grieving, and I was not there to comfort them. I will always regret that.
It was during this time that Paul broke up with me. He told me his dad told him he needed to focus on his family instead of a girlfriend. They were moving, and he couldn’t sustain a long-distance relationship. I was confused because I always got the impression Rev. Anderson liked me. So, to find out he insisted Paul break up with me, hurt. And I spent the next forty-five years resentful.
Not able to face all the heartache and memories New Lothrop held, Rev. Anderson indeed packed up the family and moved away shortly after Easter that spring. I never heard from them again.
Looking back, I’m sure my parents knew where they had gone. But in an attempt to help my broken heart heal, they withheld the information from me, thinking I could get over it better if I were not reminded of what I had lost. I appreciate their attempts to protect me, but this made the loss all the greater, for, from my perspective, the Anderson family had fallen off the edge of the earth, never to be seen or heard from again. My parents stole from me what little comfort I could have found in knowing where my friends were and how they were doing.
These events changed my whole family. My parents left the Nazarene church, stopped attending camp and other Nazarene events, and started attending a Baptist church in the next town. My world literally turned upside down as I lost everything. As a result, my identity suffered in a way I think few could comprehend, sending me into a spiral of bad choices in an attempt to fill the ugly void that consumed me. We were each reeling from our loss, desperately trying to regain footing in the foreign world we found ourselves in. But we should have been able to do that together, not all alone, each on a separate desperate journey.
Forty-five years later, after hearing my story, my best friend Pam embarked on a one-woman quest to find Paul and his sisters. She succeeded in a remarkably short period of time. Pam found Karla on Facebook and private-messaged her. Things snowballed from there. Karla contacted me, as did April, Kendra, and Paul. One by one, we reconnected.
Paul’s first words to me during our first phone call were, “Hey, you, it’s been a long time!” His voice was gravellier than before, but it was still the same voice—the same boy.
My newfound relationships with Paul, April, Karla, and Kendra continued for almost two years. Except for Kendra, the girls and I even got together for dinner at my house. That reunion was surreal. Karla, who had been 3 years old the last time I saw her, was now a 47-year-old mother. When I saw her last, Kendra, a 7-year-old, was now a 52-year-old mother and grandmother.
April, Paul’s daughter, took my breath away. She was a vision of loveliness with so many of her dad’s features. I couldn’t help but stare and grieve at the same time: stare at her beauty, but grieve for her father, who was not there. And then there was precious little Kylah, who was her grandpa’s pride and joy and, without a doubt, embodied her grandpa’s vivacious spirit.
All was perfect that night, except for Paul’s absence. He could not make it up from Florida, although his heart swelled with pride that his girls and I, after so many years, had finally found each other.
During those two years, conversations between Paul and me took off exactly where they had left off forty-five years previously. Of course, there was much catching up to do—marriages, children, careers, divorces, experiences, lessons learned, regrets … but they soon settled down to connections of the heart. We had an openness and honesty with each other, which is rare. It was built on history, trust, and respect.
In one conversation, when I shared how I thought he could handle a situation better, Paul said, “You know I’m smiling from ear to ear. Even when you get after me, you make me smile.”
In another conversation, I said I was fine when Paul asked how I was. He said, “No, you’re not. I can hear it in your voice. Tell me what’s wrong.” I then broke down crying and told him my daughter-in-law had just been diagnosed with breast cancer. The best of Paul came out, and he engulfed me in tender-hearted compassion. I almost felt his hug over the phone. He listened, and he cared. And that’s all I needed at that moment.
We both smiled a lot during that time. We were confidants and true friends in the deepest sense. We confided, vented, cried, encouraged, and laughed—and confessed.
Paul confessed that his dad never told him to break up with me. Paul decided to end things because, in his words, “It hurt too much to love and lose, so I thought it would be better not to love at all.” I immediately repented of holding a grudge against his dad all those years. And, as much as I wanted to understand why Paul did what he did, I couldn’t agree with him. I would much rather love and lose than never love at all.
He also confessed that instead of dropping off the face of the earth as I had imagined, they had merely moved an hour away to St. Johns, Michigan, where his dad had accepted the pastorate. I couldn’t believe it. All those years and only an hour away! Yet, he never contacted me. He let me die along with his mother.
Paul had other regrets. He regretted choosing a self-destructive path while living in St. Johns after his mother died. He regretted letting his dream of being a surgeon die with her. He regretted not raising his children in the church. And he regretted not being there for them when they needed him most.
But over the past two years, I’ve seen Paul’s faith renewed. I’ve seen him accept God’s forgiveness and come to the point where he could forgive himself.
He renewed his interest in making his life count. Despite challenging circumstances, he found a way to reclaim his old passion for helping people.
Even though becoming a surgeon was no longer an option, he made his mark by encouraging fellow patients in his oncologist’s office. He was the guy at Walmart who would make fussy kids laugh, bringing a look of gratitude to tired mothers’ faces. He was the best of Paul, once again, full of compassion and empathy, giving people hope.
Paul loved life and people. He told me more than once, “I’m not afraid to die. I just really want to live.”
Paul desperately wanted to move back to Michigan to be close to his daughter, granddaughter, and sisters. But that never happened. The external forces that bound him proved stronger than his internal desire for change, and I didn’t understand that. I thought it was within his power to make it happen if he had wanted it badly enough. But I don’t have the right to judge. He had stage 4 cancer, and it drained the life out of him.
At that point, his strength was more depleted than he let on during our phone conversations. He seemed so alive during those calls that I thought he could make anything happen. But, looking back, I think I was wrong. Circumstances had weakened him to the point that he had little fight left other than what he could temporarily summon when talking to those he loved. What hurts the most is seeing a vibrant boy with so much promise dissolve into a sick old man who figured life out too late.
Paul and I were never able to share that big hug we promised each other. But we did spend countless hours on the phone, connecting on a level deeper than physical touch ever could.
I have a hard time believing Paul is gone. His number is still in my phone contact list, and I half expect to see his name light up on my screen at any moment. But his name is silent.
I will always miss Paul. He is a part of me. I will always treasure the moments we shared together. But we served the same God and shared the same faith, so I know I will see him again.
I never got to say goodbye to Paul. He was in such high spirits during our last phone conversation, due to April and Kendra’s visit, that goodbye didn’t seem appropriate.
His last words to me were, “I’ll call you tomorrow night.”
My last words to him were, “I’d like that.”
I can imagine the next time Paul and I see each other. He’ll say something goofy like, “Tomorrow night took a long time, but here I am!”
When I think of Paul, I smile. That’s who Paul was. That’s what Paul did. Paul made you smile.
Diane J Mehalic 