Cute

We lived on NW 25th avenue in Portland, Oregon for twelve-months. We wanted to stay. Trust me. We had Fred Meyers, Zupans, and Trader Joe’s within 5 blocks; a bakery named St. Honore Boulangerie, and the Bridgeport Brew Pub just a free trolley ride south. Portland folks have a knack for calling things “Boulangerie,” or “Pattissirie,” rather than the normal, flat, concave, and inflexible English words marketed in restaurants these days. I could not find a job in a church, so we headed back to our Bellwood Drive zip code where ABF moving company and all our friends helped us box up our belongings. Strange. Yes, strange. At that point, we didn’t really know much about life. Anna had been a missionary in South Africa. I had played Division 1 basketball at Wake Forest University. We thought that we were uniquely equipped to climb every mountain. But we lacked some crucial ingredient that was lurking behind door number 3. We were yet to be parents.
I soon found out that the greatest task ahead of me (being a dad); had evaporated from the state regulated public school system. Not even 6 minutes history class, English, or even Home Economics were given to being a dad. We knew about the biology of fatherhood, with the sperm swimming and all that jazz. But, what about the “real life” bit? With college under my belt, and 2 graduate degrees in higher learning, I assumed that my high school diploma and my elementary education were unnecessary primers. I did not know that Mrs. Teague, my dear 5th grade teacher, may have been my most important.
From July 2003 to July 2004 we literally ate up the Pacific Northwest. We got there on Anna’s birthday, July 8th. It doesn’t seem like a book about a dad and his girl should begin in Portland, Oregon. But it does. I didn’t grow up there. I didn’t go to school there. But it is where I learned a lot about life. It was the best place I could have ever gone before I had my first child. Being a dad is hard as hell. Living in another “culture” is also hard. Our first child dropped into the microcosm of our Milner world while we lived in Portland. It was almost as if we could not handle the culture shock, so we just ran for dear life, with our tails between our legs, looking for help. We found help in our families, and that help was, and continues to be, worth the return trip.
Our first day in Portland was hard; we unloaded a truck on Anna’s birthday for crying out loud; but, in the end, it was preparing us for the “displacement” that comes with parenthood. So instead of wallow in our self-pity, we went out for a perfectly wonderful dinner at Misso Happi. What an ironic name! This quick and tasty Thai restaurant became a ritual for us. I often times needed to process with Anna. I was a Chaplain in a level-one trauma unit. I witnessed over 50 deaths that one year. I had lots going on internally, and Misso Happy was the perfect backdrop for Misso-lousy. This was the reason we went to Portland. Right? We wanted to be happy. I wanted to be happy. It was my dream. At least, that is what we thought.
Emanuel hospital, where I worked, served four states. Its central location within Northeast Portland primed it for wild violent crimes that often ended up as people being dropped at the front door of the hospital to die. My wife worked at Portland Christian Schools, as a librarian. I was in a clinical rotation called “clinical pastoral education.” CPE is a prerequisite for many pastors as they seek ordination in their various denominations. The reason that CPE is a prerequisite is unknown to me. I do not know when they started to require pastors (in the mainline denominations) to go through clinical training. The