GOD AS GOLFER II

OCTOBER 1, 2024 – Today in the Heartland fall was in the air, though the sun was bright in a cloudless sky. After reviewing convoluted legal descriptions all morning, I burst out of work mode and embarked on my daily power walk up and down the hills of Little Switzerland. On my second climb to the top of St. Moritz, I encountered God . . . at least I think it was God.

Two years ago I met God for the first time—and it was definitely God. I wrote about it right here on Write Makes Might (See 5/11/2022 post). He appeared to me in golf garb, and unlike his cart-bound cronies, He carried his own clubs. I remember the head covers—maroon and gold with the letter “M” for University of Minnesota. Back then God told me he was 80 years old; a retired ER doc who knew something about my diagnosis—multiple myeloma—and the standard of care treatment for it, including an autologous stem cell transplant. When I expressed trepidation about the procedure—then scheduled for the next month but later postponed another two months—He said repeatedly, “You’re gonna do great!” and added, “You’re gonna live a long life! You’ve got a great life ahead!”

I welcomed God’s confidence and felt exceedingly fortunate to have experienced such a direct interchange with the all-knowing creator and ruler of the Cosmos. Some of the most religious people I know could only hope and pray for such an encounter, yet on that random occasion Eric the Agnostic hit the jack pot without even having purchased a lottery ticket.

Today as I reached the second tee—the summit of St. Moritz— God again appeared out of nowhere. I was about to pivot around for my third descent, when he called out to me. “You’re still lookin’ good,” he said. On this occasion he’d assumed a somewhat different look from two years ago. He sported a beard, which I’m sure he didn’t have two years ago, and instead of a golf jacket, he wore an autumn flannel shirt. Though he was still carrying his own clubs—in a bag with “Minnesota” emblazoned upon the side—none had a head cover. Yet he pointed out that to lighten the load, He carried only four clubs. This struck a mnemonic bell: as I remember from the first encounter, He’d mentioned this strategy to aid his daily regimen of 18-holes’ worth of walking.

In place of a U of M cap, he wore a Macalester cap. “What’s your Macalester connection?” I asked.

“Two grandchildren go there.”

“What are they studying?”

“Hopelessness,” God answered, surprising me with his pessimistic tone, “and hating Trump. But of course there’s lots to hate Trump about.” I wondered if God knew I was politically sympathetic to his apparent political sentiments.

“You’re right about that,” I said, in case God didn’t know my politics.

“But no one hates Trump more than he hates himself,” said God. I was struck by the insight, but then again, it was God talking.

“How old are you, 37?” God asked, changing the subject on the fly.

“Actually, I just turned 70.”

God was unimpressed—not that I expected him to be otherwise. “I’m 82,” He said with a bit of entitled pride. The math worked: I know that on that first encounter two years ago, God had told me he was 80. Given what’s transpired thus far, I thought, the odds are good that what I was experiencing was God II.

For the rest of today’s brief session with God he gave me simple instructions on how to swing a golf club. It all looked so easy. After the two-minute lesson, he pegged a tee to the ground and set on top of it a phosphorescent green ball. I was impressed by how limber he was. With no practice swings and zero fanfare, he demonstrated his “easy swing” and knocked the ball into a beautiful arc way, way down the center of the fairway. He was nonchalant about it, saying that “all you have to do is swivel and keep your eye on the pin.” I know a lot of golfers who wish they could gold as well as God.

By this time I wanted to confirm that he was God—the same God who’d told me two years go, “You’re gonna do great!” Assuming he was He, I wished to tell him the news that I’d received yesterday afternoon: a call from the Fairview – University of Minnesota BMT (“Bone Marrow Transplant”) team. When the caller I.D. registered, I’d swallowed hard and sat down nervously. The results of last week’s bone marrow biopsy had been posted, but in accordance with my personal policy of not looking at lab or test results without adult supervision, I hadn’t checked. Now they were calling—but with what kind of news?

“Have you looked at your results yet?” asked my transplant doctor’s nurse coordinator.

“No.”

“Well, Dr. Mareno asked me to call you to let you know that the results show no indication of multiple myeloma cells. Last year there was a trace. Now—nothing.”

The news brought instant jubilation.

Now on the second tee I wanted to tell God the good news. Before I could do so, however, he was off the tee and 20 yards down the fairway. “Keep golfing,” I called out, “and you’ll be celebrating 102!” God looked over his shoulder, smiled and gave me the thumbs up.

I finished out my daily quota of 75 “stair climbs” (750 cumulative vertical feet by a combination of walking up and down proper staircases or hills/elevation on my daily walks). Thanks to God (I think), there was an added spring to my step.

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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson