The History Behind "The Anderson Struggle"

I grew up on a farm in central Minnesota, where we raised cattle, grew corn, beans, and wheat, and bailed hay (my personal favorite). Other than the constant rock-picking required to clear the fields of glacially deposited rocks, it was a great way to grow up.


Our narrow gravel driveway was about a quarter-mile long, which meant that if we were late for the school bus in the morning, we earned the right to a 400 yard dash while carrying a backpack full of books, often through the snow. At the end of the driveway stood an ordinary telephone pole, with outstretched arms holding wires and power lines that kept us connected to the grid, so to speak. For a time, my parents had a sign nailed to that telephone pole, which was visible to those who slowly rumbled by in tractors and to those who sped past in cars. The white, wooden sign simply read, "The Anderson Struggle." It wasn't a proud sign. It was a humble indication that a hard-working, Scandinavian clan called these rolling hills their abode, working, praying, and struggling their way though each God-given day. Wired to the bottom of that sign were five smaller signs, one atop of the other, bearing the names of each person in our family... the proud members of the Anderson Struggle. When the wind blew, passers by could hear the wires that fastened these signs moaning and groaning.


It was just a matter of time before someone decided to take a shotgun to that sign. I'm not sure why. I suppose it was something to do on a Saturday night. We left it up for a while, BB holes and all. Besides, it kind of fit with the title, "The Anderson Struggle." Life often was a Struggle. My parents raised us through years of drought, low grain prices, and tight budgets. At other times, a badly needed rain would come, which meant two very exciting things: we couldn't work, and the crops would be in better shape, meaning that we could pile into our Ford LTD and treck to the nearby metropolis of Alexandria (all of 7,000 people) to do some long-awaited shopping. To this day, I still love the rain, despite the fact that I now work and rarely shop as the clouds deposit their aquatic gift.

Not to sound trite, but there is something beautifully Christian about my upbringing, a childhood lived beneath the banner of struggle. While we've heard how Islamic adherents ascribe to some form of 'Jihad' or 'struggle' as a basic tenat of their faith (sadly, some have perverted God's call peaceful submission to justify unspeakable acts of evil), Christians also acknolwedge a call to Struggle... in service to a Crucified Lord. After all, He himself hung on a poll for our salvation, as onlookers gawked and mocked. And He said that if anyone wants to follow Him, they must take up their own cross to do so.

As the wind blew that fateful Good Friday, whistling past a sign that was fastened to His pole to satirize His self-proclaimed Divinity, I imagine that passers by also heard the unmistakable sound of His moaning... His struggle.

Our Lord called His followers to struggle, to live in humble protest against the powers of sin, death, and the devil, sacrificially serving on behalf of the unfolding Kingdom that His death and resurrection would unleash.

May we all struggle well.