Ulysses Dream

by Tim White

  “Ulee had fought illegally until 1975 and fought in Cambodia, Laos, North Vietnam, and Israel. I had heard that Ulee abused a girl at the massacre of a village,” one of the anonymous sources said. The next day the owner announced that the commissioner of pro football had demanded to have Ulee suspended until further notice.

  I came home to find the kids at a friend’s house. Ulee was sitting in our bedroom with a loaded 44.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, trying not to look at the gun. “Can we talk?”

  “I don’t want any of the psychiatric psychobabble that you learned in school! You know what honor and dishonor means to a warrior.”

  “I love you—and cherish you, as do all our family.”

  Ulee repeated, this time in monotone. “We both know what honor and dishonor means to a warrior.”

  “Ulee, have you noticed how I have never asked you to explain anything about the war after hearing these reports?” He said nothing.

  I asked again. “Have you noticed that none of your family or friends have asked you to explain?”

  Ulee said, “I guess I have been so self-occupied that I didn’t notice.”

  Ulee could hardly speak the words. “I can’t talk about it. It just hurts too much. If they want to take me out and shoot me that is all right with me. I know this sounds crazy, but I feel guilty for even surviving. And I did kill hundreds of people. I see their faces all the time.”

  We hugged, and I kissed him. “We will get through this together. Remember—we have both been through hell, and we deserve a little heaven.”

  Ulee said, “You do—I deserve hell.”

  “You are the preacher. For by grace are we saved, not of works lest any man should boast?”

  “We all need forgiveness from the cross of Christ, and we all need to live in that grace.”

  “Ulee, let’s live in that grace. Any other path is going to cause so much hurt to everyone you love.” Ulee moaned hard while I held him, and we both kneeled at our bed and prayed together.

  News reporters mobbed us everywhere. Ulee didn’t trust any. Mike Wallace had tried calling Ulee several times before he aired his report. He left numbers where he could be reached. I decided to call him, since Ulee would not. There was another side to this story.

  “Mr. Wallace. You’re one of the best investigative journalists in the country. But the story you did on Ulee was filled with half-truths and lies. Ulee was a distinguished war hero. He will never speak with you, but there are others who can.”

  I suggested that Wallace start with now retired admiral McCleary.

  Ulee was ordered by the league and the team to take a leave of absence. And we just could not take the pressure of staying in LA, so we headed out for the Sundown Lodge at Wallowa Lake and we took the kids out of school.

  One morning Joseph returned from the general store down the road, excitedly waving a newspaper. I grabbed the Portland paper. It had a picture of now US Senator John McCleary and a Buddhist monk.

  Ulee said, “That is Dawa; I thought he was dead.” There was also a picture of the President saying that he had ordered Ulee’s black ops military file be opened to the public. The President was committed to bringing healing to the US after the scars of Vietnam. President Clears Native American Quarterback of All Accusations! the headline read.

  The story told of Ulee’s heroism and how he had become integral to US Marines and special operations. It told of the several medals Ulee had won for valor, but were awarded in secrecy. It explained how he enlisted as a teenage boy and how he had risen to the rank of captain because of his skill and service.

  The President called him a “hero.” Senator McCleary said Ulee was the most dedicated Marine he had ever served with. The reason Ulee shunned the press, McCleary explained, is because he was sworn to secrecy. And as for allegations that he was abusive, McCleary called them “absurd fabrications.” He said Ulee had saved orphans and even adopted two. The senator called the anonymous Marine who spoke to 60 Minutes, “a coward.”

  Ulee and I walked to our pickup with silence. The mountains looked so beautiful. I spoke first.

  “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

  Ulee said,” Don’t say it; cook me up one of your famous Latino dinners and show it. I am starved.”

  The next day, Ulee was on a plane flying back to LA to get ready for a game. The whole world was watching.

  People cried when Ulee took the field. They cried not for Ulee but for themselves and how lost our nation was during the Vietnam conflict. The President was working hard to bring peace to this torn part of US history.

  LA won the game. It was a sweet win. And it was a moment that impacted imagination of every Native boy.

  After the game, our family loaded up everything and went to our personal cabin on Wallowa Lake, which was just a few miles from the Sundown Lodge on the Wallowa River.

  Ulee and I went for a walk up to the falls at the Sundown lodge. We held hands as we worked our way through the forest. Ulee pointed out a hummingbird and picked me some huckleberries—some to snack on and others for his mom to make her famous huckleberry pie. With the roar of the Wallowa River behind us, Ulee apologized to me for his depression and desperate thoughts in the whole disgrace over his military record. He pointed out that bringing out a gun was unacceptable and that he would go to counseling to a Christian psychiatrist to work out his issues with pride and honor and handle all the post-traumatic stress in his life. I will always remember that kiss in front of the rainbow that is almost always there at the Wallowa River falls at that time of the day. We prayed together that night, letting go of all our angst about the nation’s anger and misconception about Ulee in Vietnam—in fact, about Vietnam all together—and we prayed for all the other vets and what they were going through. And we both knew that Ulee needed to get back to being a pastor.

  Ulee met with the owner of the football team and said, “I quit. I graduate with my master’s degree this year, and I am off to start a church in Seattle, Washington.”

  The owner said, “We can renegotiate your contract.”

  Ulee said, with a smile, “It’s not you. It’s me.”

  They both laughed. “It’s just time for me to get down to my life’s calling. It’s time to stop being a warrior and come home.”

  I came up and hugged him. And with his arm around me, he said, “And my beautiful smart wife has a job at a children’s hospital in Seattle.”

  Many people believe that the undefeated season and the National Championship win by Los Angeles under Ulee’s leadership is the reason the team was able to build a stadium in Los Angeles and stay there as a team and a positive force in the community. If that had not happened, they may have ended up moving to some place like St. Louis, Missouri. Instead St. Louis got an expansion team that prospered there.

  “So we’re out to build a new kind of church. One for non-church people from all nations and backgrounds. We are going to try and build the greatest caring network that the world has ever seen.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Courageous Path of Love

  I TOLD THIS part of the story after a hike up to Horseshoe Lake. We built a fire, most of the kids were in their sleeping bags and the story continued under the spectacular star-filled sky.

  Ulee decided to build a church in the inner city of Seattle that was for all nations, ethnic groups, and religions. It was a church for “unchurched people.” We did not want to take anyone out of another church—we would not wish that upon them or upon us. This was going to be very different. After Ulee’s troubles with the press, we got a lot of donations and we built a small country church in the city.

  The steeple was glass because Ulee wanted to worship in the mountains as the Natives did, so we had to let the light in. And there was a waterfall behind a glass wall at the altar. Hummingbirds would come down and milk the roses. Even a bald eagle from Lake Washington or the sound would swoop in to catch one of the trout that Ulee planted in the massive wa
terfall. We put everything we had into building this church. The church seated 400, but that was filled once the people visited and found out what a different kind of church we were. We served a meal after every service and invited the homeless and poor to church so they could enjoy the meal. People would visit church and find a homeless person cleaning their underwear in the bathroom sink and not come back. One lady spread newspapers out to sit on before she took her seat, and she usually wet her seat. There were gang members, goth kids, and lots of people who did not speak English.

  At the first worship service, Ulee took the pulpit dressed in a robe as his grandfather had worn as a Methodist pastor. He started to cry when he began the service with the words, “This is the day that the Lord has made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.” Nhung went up and took his hand. He picked her up and said the words again. He tried to describe his dream using Isaiah 61, the opening words of Jesus when he began his ministry. But it was a tear-fest. The crowd of prostitutes, gang members, and homeless chased away the Christians who were church shopping. It wasn’t too long before we opened a second service in Spanish, which was mainly attended by illegal immigrants. This really riled the Christian population. Immigration is such a controversial issue.

  One kind Christian took Ulee to the side and said, “I don’t mind other races coming to church, but they need to speak English or go home.”

  “They don’t speak English and they don’t have a home. Shouldn’t we as Christ followers speak the good news into their lives in a language they understand?”

  The kindly Christian man said, “Well, this is not a safe Christian church for me then.”

  We poured every cent we had into buying the property and building this little chapel. It cost us three million dollars. We sold our boat and our cabin in the Wallowas. Then we incorporated as a legal church and business with the state of Washington. We filed for nonprofit status with the IRS and set up a constitution that was governed by a democracy made up of a senate (our board) and a house of representatives (lay pastors in the church) as well as a supreme court (highly esteemed pastors from the community who could vote out the senior pastor for moral or theological heresy.) We were not getting enough from offerings to pay for electricity or the meals we served. I had a great job at Seattle Children’s Hospital, and surgeons are paid extremely well. But Ulee just gave all our money away. Every con person who came up and asked for money he gave it to them. We also always had a family living with us:

  Church growth was slow. And a lot of people joined saying they would be our friends for the rest of their lives only to leave over the slightest complaint. The chairs were not soft enough, we didn’t have a youth pastor, and the Sunday school wasn’t nice enough. Ulee’s sermons were always talking to those with doubts, and they wanted something deeper. They said they wanted more meat in the teaching. But Ulee always preached an expository sermon laced with quotes from Jesus Christ. But he also quoted atheists like Bertrand Russell. Others did not like our music. I have to admit our music was pretty bad.

  The Natives didn’t like Christianity. They had been burned by it, but they still invited us to the pow wows because we used the old ways such as drum circles, group dancing, smudging, vision quests, and sweat lodges. It was a hard population to reach.

  Our singing at church was so bad that sometimes we would sing a song and they all sounded like the hymn “Holy, Holy, Holy.” We would not be able to finish the song; there were so many giggles that Ulee would say, “Just forget it.” Ulee’s first wedding was for a celebrity athlete, which brought in a huge crowd. They had a string quartet, candlelight, and flowers all over the sanctuary. There were eight formal bridesmaids and groomsmen in tuxedos. Ulee had been ordained by his dad.

  Ulee started the ceremony by saying, “Dirty beloved” instead of “Dearly beloved.”

  When he was handed the ring, he reached over to pick it up the same time as the groom, and they smacked heads really hard. A couple of minutes later, the groom passed out from the concussion. So when they revived him, they put him in a chair while the bride stood. Ulee skipped a page of the wedding as his marriage manual was so new that the pages stuck together. He lost his place and instead of saying you may kiss the bride he said, we may kiss the bride. Everyone got a good laugh out of that one.

  And then to top it all off, he pronounced the couple Mr. and Mrs. Marvin Hog. Their real names were Mr. and Mrs. Melvin Haug. People laughed so hard they were just shaking—all at the expense of a very embarrassed new pastor.

  One night, Ulee was called to pray for an old grandmother who was dying at home in the mountains of the east side. It was a foggy night when Ulee finally found the house at three in the morning. He knocked, hoping that it was the right house, as he was feeling a bit lost. A lady from his church who had been an accomplished college basketball player finally answered the door. She had no make-up on, and he hardly recognized her. He introduced himself even though she knew him well from church.

  She said, “My grandmother is near death and looks horrible, so don’t be shocked or scared when you see her.”

  Ulee said, “Don’t worry about it—I have seen so much in my lifetime.”

  When Ulee walked back to the second bedroom on the left, he quietly opened the door, and in the poor lighting in the room he saw a very old lady laying on a blow-up bed on the floor. He knelt beside her, and she looked so old, with no makeup, a pale greyish look on her face and long grey hair. It was a spooky night near Halloween, so Ulee took her hand, kneeling and praying for this lady.

  He prayed something like this. “Lord, I know this lady is dying; help her not to be afraid.” The lady sat up almost like a vampire would.

  “I am not dying, and who are you?”

  “I am your granddaughter’s pastor.”

  The lady said, “My granddaughter lives in Romania.”

  Now they were both confused. At about that time, the granddaughter stuck her head in the room and said, “Pastor Ulee, that is not my grandmother—that is her nurse.” The grandmother didn’t look nearly as scary.

  All of this pastoring was the hardest challenge of Ulee’s life. One time there was a baby girl who had experienced a head trauma and was not going to recover.

  The family asked for a pastor and said, “Isn’t your husband a pastor?”

  I said, “Yes, he would be glad to come and help.”

  When Ulee arrived, the family was devastated; the uncle was someone that Ulee had played football with—he was a huge lineman.

  When we told them that it was only a matter of time before the little girl died, the mom left, saying, “I can’t witness this.”

  The dad said, “I can’t stay either.”

  The uncle said, “Pastor, would you hold our little girl while she dies?”

  The dad handed him a tape saying, “Here are some oldies that I used to dance with her. Could you dance with her while she dies?”

  So, Ulee gently took the little girl in his arms as they unhooked her from the oxygen, the probes for the EKG, and IV lines. Ulee anointed the little girl with olive oil he had brought back with him when he served in Israel.

  Pastor Ulee said, “The Bible tells us to anoint because the oil is the sign of the invisible. Kings, prophets, and prophetesses were anointed to show the Holy Spirit’s presence in their lives. In the New Testament, we are told to anoint the sick when we pray for them.” He anointed the sweet little girl in the name of the father, the son, and the Holy Spirit, making the sign of the cross on her forehead and then touching her chin in a signal to look up with faith. Ulee quoted Jesus: “Let the little children come unto me for such is the kingdom of heaven.”

  All of the nurses were sobbing at this gentle moment. Ulee began to sing in the little girls ears his songs of faith, telling her about the love of God. “Jesus gentle shepherd lead us, much we need thy gentle care, precious Jesus, precious Jesus much we need they gentle care,” Ulee said as he danced with the little girl. It was a very emotional scene.
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br />   Ulee kissed her forehead as he usually did when someone died. He prayed, a very touching prayer. He laid the little girl down and gently closed her eyes. He turned and gave the dad and then the uncle a hug. He walked out of the hospital to find the mom and to give her a hug and a prayer.

  As a doctor, I was never more proud of my husband. It was like this all the time. Ulee was at the hospital all night almost once a week. He would help someone who was scared and lonely that was dying. He met with those who were mentally ill and could not afford care—people that others were afraid to see: schizophrenics, felons, pedophiles, depressed people with chronic illnesses, homeless, criminals, prostitutes, homosexuals, transsexuals, students no one loved, people in broken marriages, suicidal people, domestic violence participants, bankrupt broken people, people who were bipolar, people with borderline personality disorder, lonely widows, and widowers. I wish critics of religion could just sit in his waiting room as he spent a day in counseling. All of this did not bring in any money for the church to operate. In fact, our twelve-step ministries used our building for free seven days a week, building hundreds of anonymous small groups.

  The leader of the small group’s ministry came to see Ulee one time and said he was really upset because the treasurer, who was addicted to gambling, had taken all their money and lost it gambling. Ulee asked how much they had in their account. It was 142 dollars. Ulee wrote them a check to replace the lost money. And told me that he thought it was going to be some large sum of money the way everyone was acting.

  It was third-generation work for him. It seemed to come to him more naturally than athletics. Ulee was really good at building ministries that lost money. He refused to charge for coffee or even for the meals that so many needy people joined it. It was all by donation only. And the meals now were every night of the week. The working homeless began to sleep in their cars in the parking lot. They showered at the church, and when it got cold they would sleep inside the church. We had to call the police quite often as the church sound system disappeared more than once. And people on meth would sometimes flip out.