Whatever He Says

A Family Grows

2009-07-13T00:01:00.003-04:00

At the Festival of Britain in 1951

Belinda at about 6 months old--1950

Mum and Dad started out their life together, apart. Dad was stationed at the Guards Barracks in Caterham, near Croydon, Surrey. Mum continued to work at Farnborough Hospital in Kent and then boarded in a cottage in the small village of Woldingham in Surrey, while waiting for rooms in married quarters to open up.

Although they were married in November 1948 and had gone together to on a trip to Holland so that he could meet Mum's family, they were still living separately when I was born on at midnight between May 31st and June 1st 1950. I wrote the dramatic story of that night in a post entitled Birth Story

Mum was alone at the cottage when she went into labour, and she gave birth alone at the hospital in Redhill, Surrey as Dad did not know she had gone to the hospital. Sometime between June 1st 1950 and February 1952 when Dad left the regiment, though, Mum and I moved into the barracks.

I have memories of Caterham barracks: the sound of the reveille; the bugle call, in the morning, and the bellicose voice of the sergeant major, harshly calling commands to the troops on the parade ground. And the barracks in the photograph on the link above, feel so familiar to me. I have one more memory from that time, of a cook in a tent. I was only 21 months old when Dad was discharged from the army in February 1952.

Dad's commanding officer noted that his military conduct was "exemplary," and his assessment of his character was : A thoroughly conscientious and hardworking man, who has done consistently well throughout his service. Clean, honest, and sober.

Dad left the army with painful shrapnel wounds in his legs and his hearing was damaged by the sound of blasts and gunfire. He also took with him certain habits. The polishing of shoes was an art. With brush and cloth in hand and a can of polish he would bring a leather shoe to a brilliant shine. Spit was an essential part of perfecting the glossy luster. In fact, someone recently told me that when their son joined the army he went to Dad (he would have been in his 70's then) to learn how to polish a shoe properly. Dad told the young recruit that the polish had to be Cherry Blossom--no other would do, and I can imagine him showing him how to take care with the details--the arch beneath the shoe where no one sees, and the part where the leather upper meets the sole.

When in later years Dad worked as a commissionaire and wore a uniform with brass buttons, I remember him using a flat strip of plastic with openings for the buttons, and that slid beneath them to protect the cloth of the jacket, and polishing these to a bright shine. He always took pride in these things as well as good posture and manners.

There were strains showing in Mum and Dad's relationship. When I cried, which I did a lot to begin with, he thought she should just let me cry. Her instinct was to comfort and she felt torn and conflicted when he was impatient with her for following her heart. He was drinking regularly. Partly this was a cultural norm in England and the army, but also a growing physical dependancy. Maybe it dulled the pain of the distant past and the more recent trauma of the battlefield. It certainly helped him feel more at ease with people, but it was also to exact a heavy price.

Still, with Dad's discharge from the army in 1952, a new life was about to begin in the civilian world. The small family moved to another isolated cottage on the outskirts of the village of Romsley in Worcestershire. It was not too far from Hagley, where Dad had grown up and he found work on Lord Cobham's estate as a woodsman in the Clent Hills.

Mum was lonely, homesick and missing her family, whom she had not seen for 3 years. They took in a lodger to help with expenses, but still, there was not much money. From that time in 1952, I remember the song Wonderful Copenhagen by Danny Kaye playing on the radio. Something about the tune captures the poignancy of those years in Romsley. And in July of 1952 another baby was on the way.

Nothing for the Journey

2009-07-12T00:01:00.000-04:00

Mark 6:8-9 (New International Version)
8 These were his instructions: "Take nothing for the journey except a staff—no bread, no bag, no money in your belts. 9Wear sandals but not an extra tunic.

These words reminded me of the total dependance on God that must be my life from this point on if I am truly to LIVE. I choose this and no other way. I take nothing else for the journey but my Saviour--my staff--on whom I lean.

I make no other provision but him. He must be my only hope and source of sustenance.

Luke 10:38-42 (New International Version)
38 As Jesus and his disciples were on their way, he came to a village where a woman named Martha opened her home to him. 39 She had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord's feet listening to what he said. 40 But Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. She came to him and asked, "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!"
41"Martha, Martha," the Lord answered, "you are worried and upset about many things, 42 but only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her."

Take nothing for the journey

Only one thing is needed

Mary has chosen what is better

I choose with Mary: Him...

The Inner Maze of Waiting

2009-07-11T00:01:00.006-04:00

We sat on the porch, musing about our coming empty nest, brainstorming about things for my husband to do as I set about building a new career and pursue some well established new directions. Yet even I am finding this waiting stage strange. I am excited about new possibilities, grieving things and ways of living left behind, and absorbed in helping release my two emerging butterflies from their chrysalids. Two weeks ago they were my sparrows, now they are my butterflies, in some ways still struggling to break free of the confining boundaries of their cocoon/chrysalids. These daughters are starting out on the big road of life in a new bigger way. Yet my husband and I are also working through these stages of transformation ourselves.

I love the butterfly/transformation message so much that I wrote a whole thesis about it for my Master of Religious Education twenty five years ago. It is indeed a universal symbol, not just for Christians, but something deeply embedded and understood in the human psyche. It doesn't take much for us to love a butterfly symbol for tattoos or jewellery, lawn stakes or placemats, clothing or wall plaques....we feel that little rush of delight in its beauty, its joy and message, that it really is possible to become new, to undergo complete transformation.

Sue Monk Kidd, in her book, When the Heart Waits, expressed it this way:

I found myself staring at the chrysalis, at this lump of brown silence. It overwhelmed me with its simple truth. A creature can separate from an old way of existence, enter a time of metamorphosis, and emerge to a new level of being. ..In that moment it struck me clearly that the waiting process actually has three distinct phases that need to be maneuvered: separation, transformation, and emergence. I knew that I had come upon the inner maze of waiting.

Probably the biggest lesson I am learning in this inner maze is to rest and trust, to not need to know the way out of the maze, for me or for my dear ones. I have come as far as I have in this particular transformation because I learned to wait and let things develop naturally. However much I chafed at the slowness of that process, in hindsight of course I saw how each stage was so necessary.

Yes, God does indeed "make all things new". That is His delight. However, it doesn't mean that he does it instantly, like a magician. He takes the time He needs, the time we need, whether we think we do or not.

And He brings His wonderful law of spiritual ecology into full force during that slow process:

Romans 8:28.
" And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."

I remind myself, as I write these words, of God's continuous message to us all, His wonderful, terrible declaration:

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord. As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.

As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater,

so is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.

Isaiah 55: 8-10

God is in charge. He has His way of bringing about His plans in our lives, which interweaves with our own longings and desires. While we wait in the inner maze, He works mysteriously, using natural processes but according to His ways and thoughts. Like the caterpillar who enters a chrysalid, we surrender to death to our ways and enter the maze of waiting, and if we wait patiently enough, in His time we emerge into the transformation needed, and wonderfully possible, in whatever phase of our lives we are.

Mercy and Grace - A little and a lot.

2009-07-10T02:00:00.001-04:00

I've had a number of speeding tickets. They don't seem to have the desired effect on me, which is to influence me to slow down. With every one I have said, "This time I'm going to change," but admittedly, it never seems to last. Until recently...

I shared a previous experience in court on this blog about a year ago. I fought a ticket which needed to be fought - and at the end of my day in court (most of it spent waiting), the prosecutor said to the judge, "We are withdrawing the charges, Your Worship," then turned and pointed in my direction before adding, "And we're going to hire her."

It was a very cool experience - one in which God had taught me much about facing intimidation and relying on Him to be my protection and for Him to be my strength in any given situation where I might feel overpowered and/or outnumbered.

So when I got the next ticket - last September - I was facing court again, but this time without a shred of fear. I deserved this ticket, and though I chose not to fight it, I did decide to go to court in order to see if I would be offered a reduction in the charges. It wasn't the fine for exceeding the speed limit by 30 kilometres an hour that motivated me to do so, but the fact that I would be losing four points off my licence, quite possibly followed by a huge increase in insurance premiums.

I arrived at the court house a few minutes early, but was chagrined to realize that I had no money on me for parking. I left my car at a pay-and-park anyway, knowing I would probably have to pay a higher premium for the space that morning - in the form of a parking ticket. I rushed into the court house and ran around finding Court Room # 1, only to realize I was in the wrong courthouse. I quickly got directions, was reoriented and ran down the street to the right building this time. I was 15 minutes late. Arghhhh!

I passed all the other poor souls who had already gone through the process and were seated on pew-like benches facing the front and waiting for the proceedings to begin. I approached the prosecutor who peered at me over horn-rimmed reading glasses and said, "Yes..?"

I gave him my name and waited while he went through a long list of violators until he found me - second last on the list.

"Susan Stewart. Ah, here you are." He pointed to my name on the page and I followed his finger across to silently read the charges against me while he stated them out loud. "I see you are charged with 30 over the limit. That's a fine of $210 and 4 points off your licence." He looked up at me over those imposing glasses and paused.

What could I say? I held my breath, hoping for mercy, but knowing it was so ill-deserved that I didn't even bother to pray.

"How about changing that to "disobey sign"? The penalty for that is 2 points off your licence and the fine will be set at $100. Are you willing to accept that?" He stared down at his page, waiting, it seemed, for me to find fault with his offer.

But I nearly jumped out of my skin. I put my hand over my heart in a bit of a dramatic flair and said, "Sir, I gladly and gratefully accept."

His serious and officious expression was suddenly transformed into a smile. He looked around at the other court officials who were nearby and listening in to our exchange. "On second thought, let's make that $80," he said to my utter delight. "We'll bring it down just because you're being so nice about it." He put a stroke through the $100 he had written and wrote 80 in its place.

"You're the first one to be nice to me today." He continued in a way that was obviously meant to make the court officials around him smile. They did. Apparently I was sharing my day in court with bunch of people who were not as happy with the outcome of their talk with the prosecutor as I was. I felt fantastic on many levels.

"Thankyou!" was all I could splutter out. I gratefully went to take my seat and wait for the judge to enter the courtroom while I finally allowed myself to pray, "Lord, please help this to go fast enough to keep my car from being towed away. I got back to my car to find that I would be charged $16 for parking that morning - $12 if I made an early payment within 15 working days of receiving the ticket.

I marveled, as I drove home later (under the speed limit, I might add!) at the kindness and the mercy I received and how good it felt to be in that position. They should have thrown the book thrown at me. It's not like it was my first offence. All the evidence was there and the citing officer was in the court ready to testify. They could have nailed me to the wall.

I felt, in the midst of this experience, in some small measure, the mercy and the grace of our God. It felt pretty good, but doesn't compare with what is in store for me one day in His courtroom...

"And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, in order that in the coming ages he might show the incomparable riches of his grace, expressed in his kindness to us in Christ Jesus. For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—" Ephesians 2:6-8 NIV

"...I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with loving-kindness." Jeremiah 31:3 NIV

"...but let him who boasts boast about this: that he understands and knows me, that I am the LORD, who exercises kindness, justice and righteousness on earth, for in these I delight," declares the LORD. Jeremiah 29:4

Wineskins Old and New

2009-07-09T00:01:00.001-04:00

Mark 2:21-22 (New International Version)
21"No one sews a patch of unshrunk cloth on an old garment. If he does, the new piece will pull away from the old, making the tear worse. 22And no one pours new wine into old wineskins. If he does, the wine will burst the skins, and both the wine and the wineskins will be ruined. No, he pours new wine into new wineskins."

What are my "new wine skins?" I wonder. I pray for the answer.

It is almost 4 weeks since God stopped me in my tracks--and his timing was significant.

In the three weeks that lay head of me then, I had, I thought, a significant role to play in several areas of my life.

But it was as if God chose exactly that time to say to me, "You think that you are so needed and that your world can't proceed without you? Well, dear daughter, lie back (I had no choice in this part) and observe."

I am grateful that I am still here and that I have this second chance to live a new life--my "new wine." But I am searching for the personal meaning of "new wine skins."

Continuing to live and doing so in a way that honours God's intentions in all of this is what I want. But how can I withstand the internal and external pressure to pick up speed and many responsibilities?

I wish that I could end this neatly, with answers that are inspirational for others. Dear friends, at the moment I can't.

I feel weak and helpless in this area; needy, and dependant on God (but I do recognize that this is truly a good thing.)

As I step back into "my world," I need to hold tightly to Father's hand. I don't know how I can do it any other way. I have nothing in me but a healthy fear of stepping onto old paths, and a longing to learn new ones.

Together in the journey that you share with me! Belinda

Mark 4:18-20 (New International Version)
18Still others, like seed sown among thorns, hear the word; 19but the worries of this life, the deceitfulness of wealth and the desires for other things come in and choke the word, making it unfruitful. 20Others, like seed sown on good soil, hear the word, accept it, and produce a crop—thirty, sixty or even a hundred times what was sown.

The Ladies of Ardill's

2009-07-08T00:01:00.000-04:00

It was in the fall of 1969 that we arrived in Canada from England; complete greenhorns, mere children, when it came to our new country; love, marriage--and just about anything else.

We moved into a one bedroom apartment on Temperance Street in Aurora, and the first urgent thing was to find work. We were limited by the fact that we had no car and no telephone for our first year. Both of these were luxuries we could not afford.

Paul had apprenticed in England for five years as a grinder and polisher of surgical needles, but since that trade didn't exist in Canada, he found work in a nearby factory.

I soon found a job too, at a small department store that had been owned by a family in Aurora for three generations. It stood on the corner of Yonge and Wellington. There were a couple of guys working downstairs in the ski shop but it is the ladies that I remember most. I became one of the ladies of Ardill's.

Peggy was short and trim and wiry of build. She wore her auburn hair cut close to her head, framing a face with keen brown eyes and high cheekbones. Peggy worked in dry goods, measuring and cutting fabric and selling sewing patterns. She also changed the window displays. Peggy was probably in her early forties, but she wore hot pants, which were shorts worn beneath a mini dress that opened from the waist to show off the hot pants beneath.

Bev was also short and slim. A nimble, energetic woman, with gray hair, worn in a bouffant style.

Marg was older, and solidly built. A large woman, with gray hair, glasses and an air of no nonsense.

The office was inhabited by Grace, the daughter of missionaries. She had never married and lived alone. She had slightly wild looking, gray hair and an awkward gait as if she had a leg injury or had polio. She always looked a little distracted but she was kind and did what she could to make sure I understood things.

There was Sharon, a Barbie doll of a woman, with long, bleached hair, who wore sexy clothes and heels. She worked for spending money and to buy more clothes.

Ruth-Anne was still in high school and worked on Thursday and Friday evenings and Saturdays.

Dolly was a part-timer studying to be a nurse. She eyed my belly with anxiety as my due date approached. I didn't show much, even towards the end, and she obviously thought something was wrong. I could feel the baby moving around healthily and my doctor wasn't worried and so neither was I.

Bea was the lady I worked with every day and who showed me how to do the job. She too, had gray hair and was nearing retirement age. She was petite and wore her hair up in a French roll. I never saw it down or in any other style. She had dark brown eyes and a deep, throaty laugh and an old fashioned way of talking. She had never had children but crocheted a granny square afghan for our baby. She and her husband Ed were very kind and supportive to us and stayed in touch for many years after we both left Ardill's.

I felt as though I were learning my own language all over again. In England we called sweaters, jumpers, but I learned that when someone asked me for the jumpers, they were really asking where the pinafore dresses were. When someone asked me for a vest, instead of an undershirt, they wanted a waistcoat! There were many funny moments as both I and the customers tried to figure out what item of clothing they wanted in language I could understand.

Towards Christmas a shipment of artificial leather gloves and mittens arrived from Korea to be sold. I found the smell nauseating and several times had to beat a retreat from a customer to the washroom to escape the unbearably pungent stench and throw up.

As Christmas Eve drew closer, the lingerie department was afloat with desperate men looking for a gift for their wives and girlfriends--any gift at all would do and as they made their selections I wondered how they would be received. After Christmas I found out, as we were then afloat again, but with ladies this time, exchanging their gifts.

Another high school student worked with Ruth-Anne, and I noticed that her belly was swelling even faster than mine. Naively I thought that perhaps she had a stomach tumour or something else wrong physically. No one spoke about it, or not to me at least. It was only when she and Ruth-Anne visited me after Peter was born, that she told me she had had a baby too, but had given her up for adoption. She tenderly touched Peter and her eyes lingered on him wistfully. Peter is now 39 and I wonder if she and her daughter know one another now. I hope so.

The afghan that Bea crocheted for Peter came back out of the trunk it was stored in when our grandchildren were born. Victoria became extremely attached to it and loved it so much that it fell apart. One Christmas I took apart the individual surviving squares and sewed all of them by hand onto a soft, green fleece blanket. It was one of her most treasured presents that year. She is 10 now and still cherishes that blanket, with squares that were lovingly crocheted 40 years ago.

Ardills eventually moved from the corner of Yonge and Wellington to the Upper Canada Mall in Newmarket, but only for a short time before closing down. It doesn't matter; in my memory the ladies of Ardills live on.

Today

2009-07-07T00:01:00.001-04:00

(Although this post is "from the archives," and was published on May 7th, 2007, it happens that today was also my first day back at work after three weeks of recovery from surgery, and vacation. In the post below, I refer to "First Day," which was referring to the previous week when, in 2007 I had been recording the days of my vacation at home, preparing for Paul's 60th birthday celebration.)

This was a different "First Day." First day back from vacation. It was as good as "First Day" last week.

We had a house guest for Paul's birthday party weekend--an old friend who used to live with us when we were house parents for a large group of men with disabilities from the early 70's to the early 80's. John is 74 now but there is a huge hole of longing in his heart that never really goes away.

"She shouldn't have waited so long to have me," he says of his mother, "I don't know why she decided to have anudder one."She was 38 at the time, not old by today's standards, but back in 1933, it sounded older.

She only lived until she was 53 and he was 15--and then, he says, "Nobody wanted me, so they put me away." He shakes his head at this point, his plentiful sand coloured hair slicked back.John tells us that a doctor there where they "put him away"--like a mismatched piece of furniture in storage, in one of the several institutions he lived in for the next 25 years--told him, "You don't belong there," but "there" he was.

Fast forward to a happier present. Paul and he have a relationship of deep mutual affection. They call each other "buddy" and fuss over each other.

John worries over Paul--calls him every day--tells him not to work so hard. Paul picks him up and brings him to his office a few days a week, where John does shredding and bosses people around. Paul makes sure John eats better than he would otherwise. Like many other children of the thirties John is very careful with every penny he spends. He could live better than he does, but his inner ghosts keep him frugal.

One of the reasons I love my man so much is the heart he has for people like John. From our earliest married days when he was fresh to the field of working with people with disabilities, he would bring people home for the weekend from the institution he worked in at the time. In fact, the weekend Brenda was born, we had such a guest for the weekend. Paul had no clue that his heavily pregnant wife, with a busy two year old, was feeling less than hospitable.

I still remember Philip, who stayed with us that weekend. I remember his wonder at sheets with patterns on them--all he had known were white hospital sheets.

So today I went back to work in my office in the half basement below a house that is home to a group of people with disabilities.

One of my team was waiting with coffee. A few things had happened while I was away. He was glad I was back.

I went upstairs to say, "Hi," to everyone and Jim went into paroxysms of excitement, pointing to me and saying, "There's 'linda." He showed me his new mouth organ and every birthday card he'd been given for his April 28th birthday, describing them as he showed me and telling me who each card was from, even though he doesn't read. He pointed to mine and said, "That's 'linda's card--chocolate cake." And indeed it had a picture of a slice of chocolate cake on it.

Today one friend told me they were so happy because they felt we were on "solid ground." Another told me, when I gave them some advice that was meant to be helpful,"You did that in a way that didn't make me feel put down."

It was a very good day. A day of hope.

Prayer: Dear Lord, your goodness overwhelms me. I cherish the moments in this good day as I cherish the moments of my life measured in years. And I thank you for the man you joined my life with.

Birds with Broken Wings

2009-07-06T00:01:00.001-04:00

Their faces were full of joy and hope. Chris looked down with a smile at his "vrouwje," a Dutch endearment meaning little wife. Neither one knew the depths of brokenness that each brought to their oneness, hoping to find in the other, the missing piece, the lost part.

Nell loved this man with all her heart. For him she chose to make England her home, leaving behind her own beloved parents in the Netherlands and her sisters and brothers. It was a choice that was to leave an ache in her heart that would lodge there and become as familiar and unremitting as breath itself, but today she only saw him; his poet's soul, his courtly good manners and proud bearing.

The day after their registry office wedding, while Chris was still on leave, they boarded a train at grand Paddington Station in central London. Overhead. above the rails, stood high glassed arches, in place since the time of Queen Victoria. Chris was taking Nell to meet his mother, Lucy, in Hagley, but first they had to get to Birmingham.

They boarded the train going to Snow Hill Station in Birmingham and opened a sliding door that led into a carriage from the corridor running the length of the train. Nell was excited and nervous. She had only seen the south east of England and she looked forward to seeing more of the country. Most of all she wondered what her mother-in-law was like. She felt apprehensive, not knowing much about this woman who had given birth to her husband. Talking to her would be difficult as her English was not yet at all fluent.

She knew that she had a strange sense of humour. She had sent a package to Chris at the barracks. As they always did, whenever one of them got a parcel from home, the other soldiers gathered around to see what was in the package. It was a pork pie, a traditional English delicacy; an odd thing though, to send in a parcel. As Chris lifted it out, it became evident that there was something odd about the pie. It was made of wood. His mates laughed, but inside, Chris wasn't laughing.

The train engine pulled away with a huge head of steam and a shrill hoot; chug-chugging, slowly at first, gathering speed as the dark tunnel of the station gave way to bright daylight. The train built up to 4 beat rhythm and sped faster and faster as the carriage swayed and the rails clanged beneath the wheels.

London was left behind quickly, and rolling fields and sleepy villages and quiet station platforms took its place. Nell didn't tire of looking at the vista passing by.

In Birmingham, Nell noticed a different accent, broad and hard to understand. They changed trains and got on one to Stourbridge, from where they traveled by bus to Hagley, the village where Chris grew up. It was a long journey, taking at least 4 hours.

Hagley was surrounded by the Clent Hills and the estate of Lord Cobham whose ancestors had taken part in the gunpowder plot, attempting to blow up the houses of parliament and kill King James 1 in 1605. The house where Lucy lived was not far from Hagley Hall.

As Chris and Nell walked from the bus stop, Nell's heart beat faster with apprehension. She was hungry, thirsty and tired from the journey.

The house was surrounded by a garden stocked with a variety of crysanthemums and dahlias and just behind it was a hen house from which great clucking and broody sounds emerged. To get to the kitchen door they passed the outdoor latrine.

As they entered the kitchen, Nell blinked and her eyes grew accustomed to the darker room. Chris was talking to the woman who stood by the table. A variety of smells assaulted her nostrils, pipe tobacco, strong tea with sterilized milk and others that were as yet unidentifiable.

Lucy and Nell surveyed each other. Lucy was big boned and had unusually big hands for a woman. She wore her long dark hair braided, with the braids wound around her head. Her features were strong with high cheekbones, but her eyes had a gleam that made Nell frightened.

Nell, couldn't understand everything Lucy said to Chris, but there were some words spoken that went to her heart and were never forgotten. "Did you have to marry a foreigner? Couldn't you find an English girl?"

On the opposite wall to the entance to the kitchen, was a big old fashioned open fire and stove. In a chair on the right hand side, sat an old man, rotund and balding and smoking a pipe. This was Peter Thornburgh, Chris's step-father, who had beaten both Chris and Lucy throughout Chris's childhood. But now he seemed the only member of Nell's new family to have a kind word, and he shouted his welcome, with the voice of one who is deaf and doesn't know that he is speaking over loud.

Nell waited in vain to be offered even a sandwich. Any hopes of even being liked were disappointed. She couldn't wait to leave the oppressive atmosphere of this home. Chris though, seemed unaware of just how hurt and uncomfortable she felt.

Not a minute too soon they started back to London.There were no available flats in married quarters at the barracks yet so Chris headed back to Caterham barracks and Nell went to Farnborough Hospital.

Temporarily Nell moved into a cottage in Waldingham called Silvermount Cottage, until a flat became available at the barracks and she and Chris could live together as man and wife.

Loneliness was setting in. She found herself going to the barracks as often as she could, by bus. Later in life she was to say that it was always her going to him. She didn't see it at the time, but it was true. Still, loving was about giving, wasn't it?

Nell and Chris's story continues next Monday...

His Plans are Good

2009-07-05T00:01:00.001-04:00

The storm that we sailed through as we left Liverpool for the turbulent Irish Sea, reduced us to pasty faces, churning stomachs and weak knees. When we absolutely had to get up, the floor seemed to move away with every step we took and we clutched wildly at the railings along the walls. But within 24 hours it abated and we began to enjoy bracing walks up on deck, the salt spray on our cheeks and the wind in our hair.

A we walked hand in hand, thinking of the new land that we were sailing towards, and the life that was as yet completely unknown, with the drone of the ship's engines in the background, Paul turned to me and said tentatively, "I expect you'll be wanting to work, when we get to Canada. I mean, you'll want to have some independance."

I said, "Oh...I was thinking how nice it would be to be dependant." (Have mercy on me. I was just a 19 year old newlywed.)

If you could have seen one of those little thought bubbles over each of our heads they would probably have been very funny. Paul's would probably have shown him with the weight of the world on his shoulders and a ball and chain on his ankle--all the responsibility was on him. Mine would have shown my dream bubble of cozy wedded domesticity bursting.

Back in those days, couples launched into marriage with little or no preparation. Now pre-marital counseling is de rigeur and partners are helped to talk about important issues ahead of time, which is a very good thing. We were on our own, making startling discoveries about each other after marriage.

I had graduated 3 years earlier at 16, from Bridley Moor Secondary Modern School , with 5 GCE O levels and 3 CSE's.

In spite of my English teacher encouraging me towards journalism, and my art teacher towards teaching art, I planned to go to Holland, at least for a year or two. In order to do this, I needed to save some money.

And so between leaving school and getting married, I did the last thing I had imagined myself doing. I worked in an accounting office, processing pays for a fleet of rugged transport drivers. From that job I acquired an empathy with and sensitivity to, all of the stressed out payroll staff that I have worked with since. I also married my bosses son, which distracted me from going to Holland, and diverted me, like a metal ball in a pinball machine, to the shores of another country altogether.

I did feel a sense of inferiority later on, due to the fact that I never did pursue a formal post secondary education, but looking back, I don't know where it would have fit into my life. While I appreciate the reasons for, and value of earning a degree, I came to terms with my lack of one and realized that God looked after my education in other less conventional, but very effective ways.

I am grateful for God's guidance of my life and the innate ability he gave me to simply trust him. I could never have planned a life as wonderful as mine has been to this point.

I did indeed find a job once we settled into our apartment in Aurora....stay tuned for that story next week.

Psalm 143:8 (Amplified Bible)
8 Cause me to hear Your loving-kindness in the morning, for on You do I lean and in You do I trust. Cause me to know the way wherein I should walk, for I lift up my inner self to You.

The Empress of England!

2009-07-04T22:38:00.003-04:00

Re: The post entitled, How I Came to be Here: what a great surprise I had today when our son Peter emailed me these links to a website with photos and information about the CP Liner we sailed here on, (The Empress of England,) as well as a copy of the passenger list for September 27th, 1969. In the ship's log, you can read about the storm that stopped just short of hurricane force.

The Empress of England

Empress of England Log and Tourist Passenger List, September 27th 1969 (Pages 2 & 3)

Peter, thank you!

Lessons on the Lake

2009-07-04T00:01:00.000-04:00

We'd gone in a circle it seemed. The eight of us in the pontoon boat were pondering where we were. The big lake had no familiar landmarks for us. The steadily falling rain and wind beating against the canvas and plastic only increased our sense of lostness in the grey Sunday afternoon. Yesterday had been a glorious day in our rented boat, a special family weekend plan to look over lake life while we could.

Now I, the driver, was particularly worried about how we were going to get to our destination and then back home in time to turn in the boat. I wondered aloud if we should stop at a dock and see if some cottager would take pity on us and help us find our place on the map. But how to tell who was home in the midst of the drizzle? Hardly any other boats were on the water, and we, the brave but seemingly foolish ones, had ventured forth to make the most of our investment.

"Let's pray", came the suggestion, and we all agreed. A moment or two later the proud towers of the new resort beckoned like sentinels from the high cliffs beyond. We moved in their direction, and recognized the familiar numbered buoys in the waters ahead. At last we would be able to match three dimensional reality with the map we had been trying to follow. With sighs of relief, we found our place on the map, and reoriented our course.

Reflecting upon the possibilities of what might have happened, we were quick to note God's faithfulness in meeting our need when we put our only hope in Him. Too tired to eloquently spout parables or draw fine object lessons to impress each other, we tucked in our vulnerability and hung our hearts on the reward to come of making port for a break in the journey, and finding our way home again.

Half an hour later, cheered by steamy cappucinos from the trendy lakeside nautical shop, we piled in again for the next leg of the journey, relieved that there were fewer islands to provide circles to get lost in again.

Somehow it seemed to me that God wouldn't let me have even a boat tour without a reminder of my need for Him. I'd wondered what I'd learn most about on this voyage among million dollar boathouses. I already had a distaste for that lifestyle. No need to learn more about that. But I did need a reminder that even in my genteel poverty but seeming wealth for a weekend it was not right to even have the luxury of looking down upon others with material riches. Out there on the choppy waters in the pouring rain I and we were in the same "boat" with everyone else on the lake....completely helpless without a map and numbered buoys.

Recipe Book

2009-07-03T04:58:00.002-04:00

We were talking over a second cup of tea about how much things have changed. How we got by on incredibly little compared to what has become today's standard. Belinda said that she used to have a Mennonite cookbook, but couldn't remember the name.

"More With Less?" I offered.

"That's it!" She got up from the table to get her well-preseved copy and I thought of my own well worn copy at home. Clearly we both had some of the same adventures at one period in our lives in trying to economize and make every dollar stretch as far as possible. This was the book that had so often helped us do that.

I talked about some of my favourite recipes, including "Refrigerator Coleslaw" and "Brown Rice Salad", and simple but deadly 'Apple Crisp" while Belinda looked for a prayer between its pages that she had once copied down into her journal and had challenged her to wisely steward her personal resources for the benefit of all.

When I got home an hour or so later, I opened my own recipe cupboard to find my own copy of the book. Mine is missing the front cover and has pages decorated with the stains of ingredients of more favoured recipes. A flood of memories returned as I fingered the book and turned it's pages. I felt like I had been reconnected to an old friend. There are dozens of recipe books in that cupboard. One for probably every year we have been married - which will be 37 years in September. Some of those books have hardly been opened, while others, like my "More With Less" and my "Mary Moore Cookbook" have become favourites and literally contain the recipes for the staples of our family life over the years. I thought about how it has become so easy now, just to pick up a cake at Dairy Queen for someone's birthday, instead of opening one of these books and making a chocolate cake from scratch and slathering it with homemade chocolate fudge frosting.

I started thinking about another of my favoured books on another shelf - the bible - and how easy it has become of late to let it sit unopened while I rely on a quick drivethrough of a prayer as I run out the door. While my experience of God has become a fast food, instant gratification kind of relationship I have wondered why something is missing and God seems so far away.

This morning I will pass on the fast food and make the time to open the most precious of books. Instead of frittering my time away on the computer or reading a magazineI'll be waiting on Him until I hear him speak to me through His very Word.

I have a feeling I'll be letting you know how it goes.

How I Came to be Here

2009-07-02T00:01:00.003-04:00

It is July 1st, Canada Day, as I write this.

On a recent Sunday morning, my 5 year old grandson was sitting between his grandad and me in a church pew. He was scribbling on an offering envelope when he suddenly looked up at me with big wide eyes and said, "Omie, when you used to live in England, did you just get on a plane and fly over here?"

I smiled and said, "No, Sweetie, we came on a boat."

"You came on a boat?" he echoed, eyes growing wider.

"Yes, and a cat named Tibby and a Myna bird named Jasper came with us."

"They did?" his wonder growing with the story.

"Where are they now?" He wanted to know.

"Oh, it was a very long time ago and they grew old and died," I said.

"Oh," he said, going back to scribbling. His questions were satisfied for now .

That conversation reminded me that there is a story to be told and this seems the perfect day to share part of it.

After a false start when I was 16 and turned Paul down because I was going out with someone else, he finally gave me another chance and asked again a year later.

I was 17 and he was 20 and I was head over heels in love by this time. I had a hunch that I was hitching myself to a man that was not going to stay put. It came with the territory. And, like my mother before me, I was ready to follow the man I loved anywhere.

I don't think he ever really proposed but I do remember him saying, "So, how would you feel about coming to Canada with me?" and having to read between the lines that he had marriage in mind.

We got engaged on my 18th birthday, and just over a year later, we were married, on August 23rd, 1969.

By this time we had applied to emigrate to Canada and were accepted, but we had absolutely nothing to our name but a few wedding gifts, and a very little cash.

I remember on our honeymoon in Rotterdam, my aunts and uncles asking about where we would live and did we have jobs. They all seemed so surprisingly cautious, practical and conservative to us.

"Hadn't God opened the door?" we thought, and we were sure he knew the next step!

Paul's older brother had married an American girl and emigrated the year before, and his parents had also applied to emigrate and were accepted.

And so, on Saturday, September 27th, 1969, Paul's parents and his younger brother John, and his sisters Sheila and Judith; their cat, Tibby, and Myna bird, Jasper, arrived in a rental van, at my parent's house in Alvechurch, where they picked up Paul and me for the drive to Liverpool. From there we would set sail on the C.P. liner, The Empress of England.

It was only five weeks after our wedding and we were just 19 and 22 respectively.

I can still see Mum, Dad and Robert, framed in their front doorway, waving goodbye to us. I don't think they ever really got over the pain of it, but with the self absorption of youth, I had no idea at the time of the cost to them. Mum, whose love was always such an unconditional and unselfish love, only said, "As long as you are happy, darling, I am happy." But her heart broke.

At 19, I had no real concept that the rest of my life was going to be so far away. That dawned on me slowly and with an aching heart of my own, over the subsequent months.

The voyage started with a terrible storm as we crossed the Irish Sea. I woke up the day after we set sail. It was Sunday. I thought of Mum cooking the traditional Sunday roast as she always did, and I longed to be back at home, but every moment took me further away, and I was wretchedly sea sick as were most of the other passengers. Paul insisted that it was all in my head, until he tried to stand up himself. What I didn't know then was that I was already pregnant with our son Peter, having romantically and impractically wanted to bear children with this man I married, right away. By the time we realized that waiting might be wise, it was too late. Peter was born 9 months to the day after our wedding--May 23rd, 1970. While as hopelessly impractical as the rest of our lives at that time, we never regretted Peter's joining us so soon.

Once through the great swelling waves of the storm, we settled down to enjoy the voyage, which lasted 5 days. We had opportunities to talk to Canadians who shared some of the cultural differences between our countries. There was much to do on board--movies to watch, games to play and delicious meals in the dining room. The days passed by quickly.

Tibby, who was housed in special quarters, in a cage, sniffed the air and seemed to know when land was approaching. We spotted icebergs off the coast of Belle Isle and then Newfoundland, and soon we were sailing down the St. Laurence, bound for Montreal.

It was October 3rd when we landed, and sailing down the St. Laurence was the perfect introduction to our new homeland, for the leaves were ablaze with the glorious fall colours and the long strip farms stretched back like thin ribbons sewn together. The spires of churches dotted the shore and we were in awe of the beauty.

In Montreal we loaded our sparse belongings and the cat and bird, onto a train for Toronto.

Arriving in Union Station we were met by distant family members who drove us to Mimico in Etobicoke where we were to spend our first week with Paul's elder brother and his wife.

Outside the station, we gazed up at the tall buildings, craning our necks. Everything seemed so big.

Mimico was where my heart failed me. We found our way there over concrete expressways and there even the leaves on the trees seemed to be coated in dust. Where were the mountains and the mounties on horse back?

I cried and didn't want to unpack a single thing. I thought that I had made a terrible mistake and I just wanted to go home. There were 7 of us staying with Paul's brother and his wife, in a tiny house on Algoma Street. One day Paul and I ventured by train to the nearby suburb of Clarkson, following a lead on a job at a factory there. We knocked at a door to ask directions and a lady wearing an apron answered. When we told her where we were headed, she told us to wait for a moment and she took off her apron, got out her car keys and drove us there. That kindness remains in my memory as an example of the warmth of the people of Canada.

We were in Etobicoke for just a week before we found an apartment in Aurora. We had just enough money for the first and last month's rent. It was $140 a month, I believe.

Our one piece of furniture was the orange crate in which our belongings had been shipped. It served as a coffee table. The kind building superintendant gave us bits of furniture that other tenants had left behind, as well as a bed that they had brought over from Holland years before.

We had no food, but our first Sunday was Thanksgiving and the church we attended kindly gave us all of the produce and canned goods that the congregation had donated. I wasn't sure what to do with some of the strange looking vegetables, but we were deeply grateful.

Paul promised that if I was truly miserable still, after a couple of years, he would go back, but not as a failure. I took a deep breath and resigned myself to staying, at least for the time being.

I was to grow to love this country deeply and when I had the chance, a couple of years later, to go back to England for good, I knew that this was where I belonged and where our family should be raised. I voted to stay. God has blessed us here in so many ways, but those are other stories for other times.

Just This and That

2009-07-01T00:01:00.001-04:00

I am all out of anything deeply thoughtful to say, but how about just sitting down with me and having a cup of tea and a chat--about this and that.

Right now my speckled cranberry mug of tea is just about drained and I don't have the energy to make another, but I will savour the last few drops with you and just share some things that I have enjoyed of late.

Molson is on the couch with me, his left shoulder leaning lightly against my right thigh. He obligingly took his head off the keyboard in response to my gentle remonstrance a minute or so ago.

Do you remember a few weeks ago that I said he reminded me of an out of season reindeer? That was because of his spare green leash, kept in a drawer in our hallway, for moments when we could steal away together. It didn't really go with his red therapy dog collar and badge, but it served it's purpose.

Well, on the Saturday of my birthday weekend at the beginning of June, I was sitting in the morning sunshine in our large back room, enjoying a leisurely coffee, when Brenda walked in and said, "Molson has a birthday present for you." Imagine my delight when he walked in slowly, carefully carrying a bright red leash in his mouth! It was the perfect gift and I could hardly wait to try it out.

Unfortunately at that time, my life was severely out of wack and it was only last weekend that I finally had the pleasure of a couple of shorter than usual walks with my favourite furry friend. He really is the perfect dog. He goes with the flow and adapts to the pace--whatever it is; and we seem to adore each other in equal measure.

And then there was the sunrise that I caught yesterday morning. I came downstairs and found the world floodlit from the east in rose gold. What a wonderful start to a day that was, as if God went all out to make it extra special.

I am on vacation at home this week and although my energy wanes quickly at the moment, every day there is a little more of it. I use it while it's there and slowly, slowly, I am organizing one cupboard at a time, finding lost favourite clothes and tossing things that are just taking up space without paying rent. With every tidied closet shelf, my soul breathes a sigh of pleasure. Everytime I open the fridge door and see the neat functionality of the shelves, I smile.

It was only eight days ago that my team dropped in to see me and some of them hadn't had lunch when they arrived. Oh, I wish you could have seen the pathetic sight that I was and how we all got by that afternoon. Normally I am a mother hen and have no difficulty rustling up something delicious in no time. But I was wilted and suffering from the nasty side effects of painkillers and the local pizza place where we could have ordered from, was closed. My fridge was a horrible mess. I discovered afterwards that I did actually have a loaf of bread waaaay in the back of it, but it was covered up by other stuff that had been randomly stuffed in, one thing on top of the other and strangely, none of it seemed edible. I managed to find two cans of Italian Wedding soup in the cupboard and Susan set about heating that up and cutting up a block of cheese that she found. She also found some crackers. Frank, Greg, Lesley-Ann, Susan, Terry and me shared our rations of the soup in mugs, although I didn't much feel like eating mine. I was so happy to see each of their dear faces though. What a difference a week makes!

Yesterday Alex, a dear friend, and her daughter Anna, brought a portable feast up from the city for lunch. Brenda and my daughter-in-law Susan joined us, and all six of our grandchildren. We told the children that it was a hen party and Tiffany-Amber said that there were also seven chicks.

We feasted on potato salad (delicously heavy on the chives,) and cold cuts and all sorts of yummy vegetables--even avocado pear! We had corn chips, salsa and a delicous chocolate cake made by Susan, with a chocolate sauce made by a granddaughter (out of a slab of melted bakers chocolate mixed with whipping cream.) The floor was awash in a full jug of pink cherry lemonade, and the flowers were knocked over at least twice. It was divinely chaotic, Brenda was tense with the conviction that someone was about to get hurt, while Susan calmly stuck to her equally strong conviction that they would all survive without adult intervention (in spite of the wails from far recesses of the house.) Alex and I sat back, content in the fact that it was not our children shrieking.

We laughed and chatted the afternoon away. At the end I was exhausted, but replete with good food and company.

So, dear readers, thank you for visiting. A pair of brown eyes is staring me down. Adieu!

Detail

2009-06-30T00:21:00.004-04:00

(First published: September 30, 2007)

One of my passions is photography. I love the whole process--from that split second when you see a moment--or a shifting of light that must be captured--to experimenting with a photo to bring out its fullest beauty.

I often find that a detail that might otherwise be overlooked when considered as part of a greater whole, is revealed as exquisitely beautiful when the photo is cropped.

In the same way, a detail of significance in scripture can be easily "read past."

The "greater whole" of scripture is essential to consider, but there is a special blessing in focusing in on a passage and allowing God, through the Holy Spirit, to speak through it, revealing a significant truth, or rich depth of meaning that I had not seen before.

Recently God spoke through several verses about being an example, or following an example. I thought of Jesus saying, "Do this in remembrance of me," Luke 22:19 as he distributed the bread and the wine of the Passover.

In September 29th's Daily Light these verses were included:

John 13:14-15 (New International Version)
14 Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another's feet. 15 I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you.

1 Peter 2:21 (New International Version)
21 To this you were called, because Christ suffered for you, leaving you an example, that you should follow in his steps.

John 5:19 (New International Version) Also quoted in the Daily Light reading, says that,
"the Son can do nothing by himself; he can do only what he sees his Father doing, because whatever the Father does the Son also does."

And John 13:7 says, in part:
Having loved his own who were in the world, he now showed them the full extent of his love.

Jesus was rightly called Teacher and Rabbi. He was a master teacher, using story telling and questions to elicit learning. Today I ponder his use of example--his method of "show and tell," and his direction to us to then "do" what we have seen.

In examining the integrity of my faith, I look back to the gospel taught by Christ and become more aware of how we have adapted the Gospel to our culture. We can so easily lose the raw radicalism of Jesus' teaching.

His example is the only one I want to follow. Oh to be able to say, as confidently as the apostle Paul, "Therefore I urge you to imitate me, " 1 Corinthians 4:16, and verse 17, "my way of life in Christ Jesus...agrees with what I teach."

Addendum:
Today I was reading Matthew 22 and 23, in which Jesus chastises the Pharisees, scathingly. They held themselves high as the "teachers of the law," and yet they were the antithesis of Jesus' teaching of living by example. They wielded control, power and condemnation. Their standards were impossible for even themselves to attain, and inwardly their hearts were as far from God as you could get. I fall somewhere in between these two polar opposites on any given day. How I seek the way of Jesus.

Family of the Heart

2009-06-29T00:01:00.006-04:00

Gentle Readers,
I left Nell last week gazing up into the eyes of the man she would follow anywhere and do anything for, so I really should be writing about what happened next.

Patience...that will follow next week, but my fingers on the keyboard won’t take me there yet.

Perhaps you will remember that the winter of 1947 was bitter and wretched and how Nell returned to the Netherlands that September. She returned to England in 1948 and married Chris, her handsome guardsman, in November.

Those events were where my lens focused last week, but there were other relationships forged between 1947 and 1949 that have to be written into the story, for they were ties that taught me all I ever needed to know about friendship.

In Rotterdam in September 1947, after 9 months of being a nanny and cook in the Krausz household in London, Nell worked through the winter in a typing pool. Today most young people might wonder what a typing pool was: it was a group of secretaries, available to assist any executive without an assigned secretary, with necessary typing. It was in that office that Nell made friends with Mies Kulman. Mies Kulman had a cousin who was also named Mies, and to differentiate between them, Mies Kulman was known as Little Mies, and her cousin was known as Tall Mies. Tall Mies's life was to be woven into ours as our beloved Tante Mies. But I am getting ahead of myself.

Little Mies wanted to go to England and she asked Nell to go with her. And so, always ready for adventure, in April of 1948, Nell crossed the North Sea for a second time, this time with Little Mies. They went to Farnborough Hospital in Kent, where they were employed as domestic workers. They started working in the nurses’ rooms; then were promoted to working for the Sisters, and then the Head Nurses, who all had their own apartments. They also worked for the Matron when her personal maid was on holiday, which was the height of honour!

One of the friendships Nell made was with a teenager from South Shields, in the North East of England. Her name was May, and Nell and she became fast friends.

May spoke with a soft, lilting Geordie accent. Her short, wavy, blond hair framed a lovely face in with blue eyes. Her stunning fair beauty contrasted with Nell's thick dark brown curls and blue eyes.

As they did their housework, the rooms rang with laughter. Nell and May shared a sense of humour and fun then that has never left either of them.

Tall Mies followed her cousin to England in March of 1949 for a few months before she got married to Uncle Bart and she too, became a lifelong friend of Nell's.

Tante Mies (“Tall Mies”) and Auntie May never met each other, since Auntie May was there in 1948 and Tante Mies in 1949.

This photo is of me with Tante Mies in Rotterdam in 2006.

In the photo below, taken in October 2008, I am with Diane, Auntie May's eldest daughter, whom I have known all of my life.

Tante Mies and Oom Bart didn't have children of their own, but Tante Mies's sister Fred, did, and her eldest daughter, Ingrid, and I have been friends from early childhood. Ingrid now lives in British Columbia. I have flown there for the weddings of two of her daughters. We will always be connected by a bond as close as family.

Tante Mies was the epitome of elegance, with perfectly manicured nails, always painted red or orange. She wore her long black hair in a loose bun and the flat in which she and Oom Bart lived was beautifully furnished with velvet chairs and drapes and richly coloured glass ornaments.

Oom Bart's eyes twinkled with mischief and he loved to spoil Robert and me.

Auntie May, too, was elegant and sophisticated. My memories of her special perfume lingered in my memories of childhood and now it is my signature perfume, the only one I wear--Aromatics Elixer, by Clinique.

I learned from both of these friendships that true friendship is forever and the ties are as strong as blood. Our families are bound together into the second generation, over sixty years since two Dutch and one English girl, met in a hospital in Farnborough, Kent.

Since Nell, my mum, carried both of these friendships into her new life with Chris, I couldn't go forward without writing about them.

Next week, what happened next to Nell and Chris.

Discovering our Territory

2009-06-28T00:01:00.002-04:00

New International Version (NIV)
1 Chronicles 4:10 (New International Version)
10 Jabez cried out to the God of Israel, "Oh, that you would bless me and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me, and keep me from harm so that I will be free from pain." And God granted his request.

My friend Magda visited on Wednesday bringing the gift of her presence, but also two yogurt containers full of a hearty beef stew (still warm from the pot;) a delicious, home-made, cranberry lemon loaf and a book.

The book that Magda gave me was entitled, Soul Prints, by Marc Gafni, a rabbi living in Jerusalem. She had enjoyed it, but found a copy for me in a second hand bookstore. Isn't that a wonderful and sensible way to shop for gifts?

So far I have only read the introduction, but already I can tell that I am going to enjoy it, and that God used Magda to place it in my hands.

Marc Gafni explains that each of us has a unique soul print; an essence as personal and unique as a fingerprint or DNA. That resonates with me.

1 Chronicles 4:10, the prayer of Jabez, says:
"Oh, that you would bless me and enlarge my territory!"

I think that "territory," refers to our realm of influence for God; our "place" in time: both here and now and in eternity.

While recovering from my recent medical misadventures, at home, I have had time to think and listen to God. Right now I am asking him to reveal more deeply what my place is, and also asking whether in my busyness, I have missed any of his true, deep purposes for my existence.

On Thursday, Mary Anne, another friend, visited. She and her husband were just commissioned into service as her husband is taking up a pastorate in Haliburton. In "the charge," their pastor said, "People will always want you to step out of your giftings," and he warned them to resist!

Yes, if we take on territory meant for others uniquely fitted for those tasks, they may never take up their positions, and we will be depleted of energy for the things that God has perfectly crafted us to do. Our true selves are, after all, the only gifts we have to offer to God and the world.

Matthew 7:7-8 (New International Version)
Ask, Seek, Knock 7"Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. 8For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened.

His Eye is on My Sparrows

2009-06-27T00:01:00.003-04:00

A blue jay alighted on the railing as my friend and I conversed on the deck. No sooner there and it was gone. But in that instant I saw its lovely form, bigger than I imagined, of course, because I hadn't seen a blue jay up close before. I muse upon that this morning as I think about my "sparrows" about to fly from the nest very soon. The younger one graduated last night, with honours, from secondary school. A long journey ended, a long period in the nest over. She will literally fly away in two weeks to Bible school in a far country for five months. The older one flew away two years ago,for a year to Bible School and travel in six countries, in Europe and Uganda, her childhood home, and then came back to the nest again for a year. Now she will fly again soon, to study on the other side of our country. Already she has become an award winning writer and a travelling photographer. Her photos of African women hang in a gallery exhibit in our small town.

I rejoice that my sparrows know how to fly, in more ways than one. I have tried to provide for their needs in the nest, and help them find their wings. They said I had given them those in their Mothers' Day card. So I guess that job was well enough done. They, my vulnerable ones, have been my very intensive responsibility for more than eighteen years. Now they, beautiful birds, bright blue jays, but vulnerable sparrows, need to fly from this nest. The time has come.

I also am learning to fly again. Not so much literally, but at least figuratively. I need to push myself out of the nest of familiar ways and launch my business in life coaching. It will be easier to do that with my young sparrows out flying on their own. But it won't be easy for any of us. We will always be thinking of each other, wondering how the flying is going, wanting to preen each others' feathers, for my sparrows are good "mothers" to me too. They have taught me a lot about learning to fly, and helped me find my own wings again.

But my greatest, my only true comfort, is that Jesus is watching us, and, if that is so, I should not worry. How hard it is for me to rest even more in Him as I place my sparrows more consciously in His hands. I remember the old song, and play it for you here, with sweet images that remind us of this abiding truth, even as the way it is sung can slow us down to listen.

A Devoted Life

2009-06-26T06:46:00.004-04:00

Dear Readers,

Susan usually posts on Fridays, but is away in Orillia for a couple of days on training.

So, I share these brief thoughts:

2 Corinthians 5:15 (New International Version)

15And he died for all, that those who live should no longer live for themselves but for him who died for them and was raised again.

Lately it seems so clear that all that we are supposed to be, is an expression of God's love. It all seems suddenly so clear and simple.

Even in Matthew 9, which tells about Jesus visiting the home of Matthew the Tax Collector for dinner, he makes that point. Matthew would have been despised in the Jewish community for his service to the Romans and exploitation of his brothers. Jesus didn't try to hide his relationship with Matthew and furthermore, at his home he was suddenly surrounded by a crowd of similarly shady, fringe folks.

His disciples surely wondered about the road down which their leader was taking them. In response to their confused questions, he gave them some homework. He didn't tell them what to think (I love that,) but he did tell them to go away and do some thinking. He gave them six words to think about.

I desire mercy, not sacrifice.

Mercy, not sacrifice; relationship, not religion; love, not condemnation.

This is good news, not just for the world with which we rub shoulders, but for you and I, just as it was for the disciples, had they looked deeply into their own hearts. Perhaps Jesus hoped that if they pondered the six powerful words, they would see that it was they themselves that needed mercy as much as the "sinners" who were so drawn to Jesus.

So our lives should be devoted to this one thing. To love as he loved. All else will take care of itself.

Surrendered

2009-06-25T00:01:00.001-04:00

The experience of sudden illness, taught me a few valuable lessons; and one of them was to relinquish my own agenda.

Some of us are goal driven creatures with personal agendas constantly running throughout working and personal lives and our conversations.

While in hospital, I thought more than once of Jesus' prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane: Not my will but yours, be done.

Those words are there in the Lord's Prayer too: Thy will be done, and the verses below highlight the attitude of Christ--complete dependence on the Father's will.

John 5:19-20 (New International Version)
19 Jesus gave them this answer: "I tell you the truth, the Son can do nothing by himself; he can do only what he sees his Father doing, because whatever the Father does the Son also does. 20 For the Father loves the Son and shows him all he does. Yes, to your amazement he will show him even greater things than these.

Jesus lived his life as the ultimate example of submission to the Father. In his letter to the Philippians, Paul reminds us to imitate Christ:

Philippians 2
1If you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any fellowship with the Spirit, if any tenderness and compassion, 2then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and purpose.

In hospital I missed an annual writer's conference that I have looked forward to eagerly, each year since 2000 when I attended it for the first time. I also had to cancel a flight to England where I had planned to spend two weeks.

I had no choice about relinquishing these things; the decisions were out of my hands. I learned though, that I can trust God's agenda completely.

I feel like a baby, holding onto her daddy's hand, learning to walk new steps. Can I walk in obedience and surrender when the power to choose is mine?

How I want to, Lord. Thy will be done, not mine!

In Celebration of Friends

2009-06-24T09:45:00.002-04:00

I just found this amazing rendition of You've Got a Friend, by Carole King, on my Blog Buddy Deidra's blog, Jumping Tandem It is so beautiful that I had to share it.

I am especially thankful for my friends at this moment, and drew so much strength from their sweet ministrations of love over the past two weeks. Friend: the very word sounds soft and gentle, yet staunch and stalwart. Oh, how I cherish each friend, more than they will ever know. And when it's my turn to be there for you, dear friends. You've got a friend!

The Secondary Six

2009-06-24T00:01:00.002-04:00

Ellen, last week, told me to, "Unwrap the gift," of my unexpected circumstances. And, she said, "Let God create in you."

Well, I feel like it is Christmas and I am surrounded by gifts!

"The" gift, the biggie, is simply being alive. I could so easily not have been. Since our nightmare experience of the weekend before last, Paul has heard story after story of others that ended differently. It has been shocking. But that is not the topic of this post.

Friend after friend has asked me, "Weren't you bored?" And, "Did God give you any 'aha moments?'"

Regarding being bored: I remember, like any other child, occasionally whining to my mum, "I'm bored," during long summer holidays. She always presented me with a case of coloured pencils and a pad of paper on which to draw, or I found another book to read, and boredom vanished. I don't know the meaning of the word anymore. To be alive is to observe, to think, to ponder deeply and listen. There is no end of interesting things in this world, and last week, when my world was a little more confined, I still had roommates and their visitors to observe and smile at. I even joined their lives in little ways.

In the hospital, I made a list of the gifts God gave me there. I call them my Secondary Six after "the biggie:"

1) God brought me to a complete and utter halt. It took him and a drastic measure to do so. My life had been so crazy for months before, and even an upcoming joyfully anticipated weekend conference and vacation in England, were piled one on top of the other in ridiculous fashion. It took God to say, "Enough! You are stopping."

2) Deep rest. Yes, there was pain, and there were pokes and pinches, but in between, there were long, uninterrupted stretches to snooze. I leaned into the gift of rest; reading for short moments, keeping up with email on my Blackberry, and just being decadently lazy.

3) Losing some weight. I went into the hospital with 10 extra pounds and left 5 of them behind. Even though Marilyn, our benefits manager at work, told me in mock seriousness, "Belinda, this is not an approved weight loss plan," which of us would not consider losing even a pound or two a bonus? :)

4) The gift of love: I said to one friend that being lavished with so much love in the hospital felt like being alive at your own funeral. I am grateful for each dear friend, coworker and family member who visited, as well as the great prayer team of The Word Guild, who prayed me through, with others. I cherish each card, so many lovingly made by the hands of children, decorated with hearts and flowers and animals, to cheer the heart of their Auntie Belinda and Omie.

5) We hope that my experience in two different hospitals, and the ordeal of the weekend, will make a difference for others. God could not have chosen a better catalyst for change. I am married to a man who knows how to write a powerful letter and get the attention of those that need to listen. If we can make things better for others through our experience, then it will have been worth it.

We have such an appreciation for the dedicated and hard working nurses and doctors at the small, rural, Stevenson Memorial Hospital in Alliston. They have had staffing cutbacks, have no storage room for equipment, old or new, but they know how to nurse! If our voice can make their value known, and if government might think twice about focusing all it's resources on large regional centres--what a blessing that would be.

6) I spent the week in the bed next to a young man with Downs Syndrome. We soon became fast friends through the curtain, calling greetings to one another throughout the long nights. "Hi Belinda," he would call, softly, and, "Hi Paul," I would call back. Just knowing we were there for one another was a comfort. I listened as his support staff came and went, noting with interest their different styles of supporting. I got to know him and his family really well. One of the most wonderful things I heard his elderly father say to someone, was, "I'm so proud of him. He's one of the better things we did by getting older."

By the time I was ready for discharge, his neice asked me, "Where do you go to church? I'm looking..."

I have a feeling that Paul and his family will be blessing our church family with a visit real soon!

So I sit here surrounded, by gifts poured down from a loving Father. And the unwrapping has only just begun.

Still Waters

2009-06-23T00:01:00.000-04:00

From the Archives (First published Wednesday, October 24, 2007, by Susan)

Sometimes when I look at myself, I see someone who tries too often to make a splash."Look at me! Look at me!" my behaviour sometimes cries. Just like the average three year old. Pathetic, eh?

Well, there's someone I'm getting to know who doesn't do that at all. Sometimes I think I'd really like to be more like him.We had tea with this new friend, and with a few other people not many weeks ago. Some of us in this group of five were old friends, but others were just getting to know each other. I sent out some tiny tendrils of potential relationship, fragile, tender, trying not to be too vulnerable, deciding to what level of friendship I could begin to trust, taking small risks, yet all the while knowing I was pretty safe. It was myself I was afraid to trust.

We talked about a lot of different things that September afternoon. I told a story about my dad and how he was being treated while in the hospital. I talked a lot because it was a long story and a fresh one. I wondered, as we carried on, if I'd said too much, shared more than I should have. Perhaps I'd bored the party all the way to politely-held-back tears.

The rest of the conversation danced, and leapt with thoughts and ideas and stories, and erupted from time to time into laughter unrestrained. When a stranger broke into our cameraderie with a rudeness that cast a sudden chill, we quickly found the silver lining. The intrusion allowed a rare peek deep into the windows of each others' hearts as we dropped all defenses in our quickness to support each other through the uncomfortableness of it all.

All this time he didn't say much, happily letting others do most of the talking. But his eyes spoke with a rare eloquence and showed a keen interest in all that was being said. And he laughed -- with sincerity -- at ALL the jokes. Perhaps he was quiet, but he was certainly "there."

I don't enjoy goodbyes. I haven't figured out all the "rules" yet, even in middle age, and I never quite know if I will find this to be one of those awkward times - a moment of usually short, and very often intense discomfort. We began to gather our things and I braced myself for that last uncomfortable moment, ready to say, "So long," to these new and old friends.

I needn't have worried about any awkward moments with this new friend. His parting words, accompanied by a friendly, accepting hug, were simply, "Let me know what happens with your dad..."

Let me know what happens with your dad.

For me, there was more in those eight words than in all the other conversation that happened that afternoon. Those eight words told me he was listening, really listening. And more than that, he cares. As my concern for my dad continues I remember those words sometimes. They come back like a warm and welcome blanket over my chilly set of worries.

Still waters run deep. And sometimes they run very deep. And sometimes they leave a good and lasting mark.

And I think I'd like to be more like him. To be the kind of person who leaves that kind of mark.

"Like apples of gold, in settings of silver, is a word aptly spoken." Proverbs 25:11

Chris and Nell, Chapter 2

2009-06-22T00:01:00.000-04:00

Europe was slowly rising from the ashes of a war that had torn out it's heart. The war was over, but still much hardship lay ahead before life could resemble anything near to normal.

Nelly had turned 20 on December 15th 1946, and she felt almost grown up, even though she still wore ankle socks. She had a sweet and disarming innocence that was never to leave her, even in old age and she had a spirit of adventure that beckoned her to follow.

One night in January 1947, she boarded a boat that would take her over the stormy North Sea, from the Hook of Holland to Harwich. She was leaving with her parents' permission, in order to learn English by working as a nanny and home help to an Austrian/Scottish family in London.

She left behind the spotless, cobbled, flat streets of Rotterdam, swarming with bicycles. She left the quaint and ornate houses, windows neatly framed with lace trimmed net curtains and potted plants; often with a cat in the gazing out benignly at the world. She left a strong sense of family and home: Gezelligheid.

In the Netherlands, the curtains were never closed, and as the evening fell, scenes of cozy domesticity played themselves out for all the world to see. "Home" was a concept that was celebrated and embraced fully.

The ship chugged on throughout the dark night, over the deep sea, it's green-gray waves swelling and foaming. As the first rays of morning broke, Nelly could see the lights of a new shore, twinkling their welcome. The voices of the English seamen sounded friendly. They laughed a lot and although she couldn't understand their banter, she was ready to embrace their culture and learn.

She boarded a steam train in Harwich, which puffed and blew it's way across the Norfolk Broads to London. The landscape was flat and watery, just like Holland. In fact, she even saw windmills! From her seat in the railway carriage, her eyes drank in every detail eagerly.

Only a few hours after landing in Harwich, the train steamed into Liverpool Street Station in London. The adventure of her life was unfolding and now that she was in London, there was so much to see that she could hardly take it all in. The architecture was so different. She gazed up at the ancient buildings and monuments that had been merely names a day ago. She determined that she would explore every part of this great city over the next nine months.

Nelly had landed in England during the coldest winter in many years. Large drifts of snow covered the country and held it in an icy grip, as power stations shut down for lack of fuel. The British Army was brought in to clear snow from railway cuttings. By February there were food shortages as supplies were cut off and vegetables were frozen in the ground. A deep gloom descended upon Britain. In the Netherlands and the rest of Europe, the winter was taking a similar toll, with famine and civil disorder. Even into March the snow continued, with one of the worst blizzards of the 20th century taking place on March 5th. On March 10th a warming trend resulted in thawing, burst river banks and flooding and gale force winds.

Eventually even this terrible winter had to come to an end and it was not one moment too soon for anyone that lived through it. Nelly had kept in touch with her family in the Netherlands, writing letters about the family she lived with and her attempts at cooking for them. The months of April and May brought sunshine and life to the country and one sunny Sunday afternoon off, Nelly found herself in historic Hyde Park with a Dutch girlfriend who was also working as a nanny.

That day was also a day off for a soldier named Chris, and both of them, each with a friend, met there at Speaker's Corner. A half an hour earlier or later and perhaps they would never have crossed paths, but they did, and for better or worse, their lives were connected from that day on.

The following year, back in England after spending the winter of 1947-48 back in the Netherlands, on November 6th, 1948, Nelly married her Guardsman, Chris at a registry office. She had to have her father's written consent to marry and she did.

Although she had attempted to learn English the year before, working for an Austrian family had meant that the language of the home was German, so the vows she repeated to the best of her ability, were unintelligible to her.

She wore a camel coloured coat, and her ankle socks had given way to nylons. On her left lapel she wore a white carnation. (At the flower shop she had asked for an "anjer," the Dutch word for carnation and somehow they managed to decipher what she was looking for.) She drank in it's fragrance as she gazed up into the eyes of the man she was ready to follow anywhere and do anything for...

Unwrapping the Gift

2009-06-21T00:02:00.000-04:00

The night gave way to a brand new day, my first morning waking up at home after five days in the hospital. I lay on the couch downstairs, a chamois coloured, feathery light duvet covering me and keeping me cosily warm. I thought of the hospital, and the routine I knew so well by now, imagining the nurse at that moment, going from patient to patient taking blood pressures and temperatures and checking IV levels. I was thankful to be wearing my own favourite nightie and not the blue hospital gown, double layered for modesty, that would get increasingly tangled as I turned during the night.

I listened to the pitter-patter of the rain on the skylight, in the large hall outside the room. I had so much to be thankful for.

My dependable workhorse of a body has been recovering rapidly this week, but I have found that I have needed to ease it into the day slowly since surgery on Monday morning. So I lay quietly, thinking, and drifting in and out of sleep for quite a while as the rain tap-tapped gently up above.

How often over the past five days, I had imagined the rooms of this house, thinking of being back here, where I belong. Like a clock whose pendulum has stopped it's rhythmic swing, it was as though the heart of the house had stopped beating when I left on Sunday night. The dishwasher still held the same full load of dishes waiting to be washed that I had loaded last weekend. Paul doesn't know how the dishwasher works and had been too distracted anyway this week. It was as if time had temporarily stood still in some ways.

Brenda slept on downstairs, and Paul upstairs, as I slowly slid myself off the couch and threw a sweater over my shoulders, slipped into my Birkenstocks and padded out into our sun porch. I creaked into a floral, cushion padded, wicker chair and drank in the view.

Although the sky was cloudy and gray, trees of every shade of green, from verdigris to viridian, nodded and swayed as the morning shower breezed through their leaves; giving them a Saturday morning scrub.

"How much can happen in a garden in just five days," I thought. The dishwasher may have been frozen in time, but the garden hadn't been. While I was gone the scarlet poppies had burst from their tightly rounded pods. I am amazed at this miracle every year. How does God do that? The peonies too, deep burgundy and creamy pink, had unfurled their petals in glorious and decadent beauty.

I thought of how rarely I enjoy this room. I am usually just "passing through."

One of the gifts that God deposited in me is stamina and energy. It is also my greatest hamartia: my tragic flaw.

I realize that a gift is given to cherish and use; to steward. I have allowed my gift to use me.

Later in the day I picked up the Henri Nouwen book I received for my birthday and which I wrote about recently, Home Tonight. Henri shared a quote that seemed so apropos:

Rabbi Levi saw a man running in the street, and asked him, "Why do you run?" He replied, "I am running after my good fortune!" Rabbi Levi tells him, "Silly man, your good fortune has been trying to chase you, but you are running too fast."

From Sabbath: Restoring the Sacred Rhythm of Rest byWayne Muller, 1999, Bantam Books, New York, p.48.

Susan quoted our friend Ellen already this week, who wisely said to me, "Unwrap the gift. Let God create in you."

I am relaxing into him and allowing him to do just that.