Whatever He Says

We know that each generation influences the next with its physical DNA, passing on predictors of appearance; health; gifts; interests and propensities. But there are other things less tangible that invisibly and strongly, guide the actions and attitudes of the next generation. It's almost as if it's the air we breathed. I considered this recently as I went through the clothes in my cluttered clothes closet. I thought about my mother's clothes closet, which stands in my mind as a symbol of something about her, and about me.  Firstly it was not a closet really, but a wardrobe. In England, where I grew up, we did not have bedroom closets but wooden wardrobes. My parents had a 1950's, shiny, walnut veneer wardrobe, from which wafted the faint smell of moth balls. It had two sides, each with a curved door, ornately patterned metal handles, and locks that held keys, but were never locked.  The top of the wardrobe held all sorts of things that had nowhere else to be sto...

I had spent Wednesday upstairs, emptying, cleaning and organizing cupboards, while from the kitchen below the distant whine of an electric screwdriver drifted up--new cupboard doors were being attached to our still sturdy, old cupboard frames. The bathroom cupboards were next to be renewed once the kitchen was finished. Without thinking, I emptied the contents of a clear plastic jewelry organizer onto the bathroom counter-top, so that I could wash and dry it--and instantly the chains of four necklaces formed a pile that became tangled around each other and two red coral earrings. More haste, less speed, I thought, with a sigh. I  tried letting the chains loosely fall apart in my fingers, as much as they would without tugging. Mum had taught me how to do this when I was a child, and I remembered how n o matter how tight the knot in a thread, or how hopelessly knotted a chain was , somehow,  she was always able to undo it; just one of her special talents! I  managed to...

The night before last I had a scary dream. It had the feel of a  Ray Bradbury  story, the ones I loved and devoured as quickly as I could, as a teenager.  The dream had the same creepy menace and foreboding that I found so deliciously scary then, but it didn't feel so delicious showing up in my dream now. In the dream I was in bed, in a room whose walls held windows that were open to the dark outside, like a sun porch, only the windows were all around and a breeze rustled through them, an invader from outside. I wasn't alone in the room. To my right there was another bed, a little further forward than mine. A young girl, with dark, bobbed hair, sat up in it, with her back to me. Because it was further ahead than mine I couldn't see her face. I did what anyone would do--I called out, "Mum!" And I heard her sweet, unmistakable voice say, "I'm here darling," and she put up her hand from the mattress on the floor where she was sleeping be...

As small children we adore our mothers, think them the fairest in the land, and when we are old enough, present them with gifts bought lovingly with hoarded coins passed over shop counters by chubby hands. Among my childhood gifts to Mum were  Soir de Paris  perfume in its  bottle of blue glass topped with a domed silver cap--and   Californian Poppy   with its jaunty red lid and cheery poppies on its label. Inside they had little white rubber stoppers, and Mum would tip the bottled and then touch the tiny stopper behind each ear, to each wrist and to her throat, a ritual I studied, and later imitated. Both perfume bottles had in common their miniscule size, but somehow that just made them seem more extremely precious. They were the only perfumes I remember her using. The rest of her life was far from glamourous. Recently I thought about the hard physical work she did every week just to get the laundry done. The sturdy white cotton twill bed sheets...

It's four years, although it seems so much longer, since a trip to England that Paul and I took, in January 2012. Although we didn't know it at the time, those two weeks were my goodbye on earth to my own Mum, and in retrospect, I can see how God gave us precious moments that I can look back on as a very special gift.  9 years earlier  Mum had a stroke from which she recovered physically enough to live at home with supports, but not her ability to read, write, or find the words she needed to express herself. She bore this with good humour and pragmatism, and we loved her so much for who she was in this period of her life; I share this so that you'll know how much each word that she spoke meant. I wanted to share a few memories from that time, which I am so grateful to have recorded here. This is from January 24, 2012. Prayer: it is our nightly ritual; between the carers who come from Helping Hands to help Mum to bed, and Rob, who comes downstairs to put in eye drops and a...

It is just over two years since Mum died. I loved her so much that I used to anticipate that inevitable day with anxiety, thinking that I would surely fall apart. But when the time came, I didn't fall apart. I was raw and emotional in the time leading up to her funeral, but I felt so much gratitude for her life that it seemed almost inappropriate to weep for more. It seemed as though one day she was in England, and the next in heaven, and in both she seemed equally close. But I wondered about not weeping for her, as though not doing so dishonoured her somehow, and I felt I needed it for me, too--it just didn't happen. My friend  Adele Simmons  led us in morning worship both mornings this weekend at the writers' conference I attended. These times are special--gathered together with other writers in God's presence. It always feels like a time of re-commissioning and consecration. But I hadn't expected to weep for Mum. Adele spoke about missing someone in our...

Being the recipient of care was on my mind ten years ago in the first three months of 2004. My mother had just come home after several months in  hospital, having had a stroke in the fall of 2003. I discovered that to need care is to be in a vulnerable place, where strangers have access to the most private places of our lives.  Recently I spent some time with the grandmother of someone for whom our agency, Christian Horizons, is providing respite. A wonderful Italian "Nonna;" she had one daughter, whose genetic disease ultimately took her life in her forties.  When the time came when she could no longer care for her daughter, she went into a nursing home. With her permission, here are some thoughts she wrote about the people who cared for her daughter: During my lifetime I have often visited hospitals, nursing homes, homes for the disabled and schools for day programs. I would like to share my experiences and thoughts with doctors, nurses, social workers, family, fr...

I was in a day of training with my phone on silent, when I felt it buzzing and saw that it was Brenda calling. I left the room to answer, thinking that there must be an urgent need, for her to call me in the middle of the work day.  "Hi Mom, are you busy?" she said, "I wanted you to know that I loved your blog post today, and I've been thinking about Omie all day today." Later that evening, I got home from work and put the finishing touches to the dinner preparation for the cell group, and just before everyone was due to arrive, I called Brenda back because I felt badly that I hadn't had time to say more than a few words earlier.  She told me how today she'd been telling everyone at the college she works at, about her Omie, and what she had meant to her.  One of her friends asked her, "What has your Omie given to you today?" When Brenda asked her what she meant, she asked, "What did you like to do together?" Brenda thought for ...

Rob's voice, deep and warm, from 3,000 miles away, sounded as close as the next room when I called him on Saturday. I told him that so many of my friends had been asking after him.  People know him well because I've written about him so often and he is such an important part of my life.  As always, he managed to capture a moment so well in words that I could see it--Bruce pressing his rock solid little Staffordshire Bulldog body into a niche of Rob's, his furry eyebrows dancing in sequence above his eyes, half-moon whites showing, as he studied Rob. He put the phone close to Bruce so that I could hear  his snuffles, and then described his scent, a mixture of dog and new toy, that Rob inhaled with the obvious pleasure he takes in his small but mighty furry friend. And then we talked about Mum, because it's almost exactly two years since she left us. To him I could say, "Do you think it's strange that I really haven't cried for Mum?" I always dreaded...

In  Bill Fledderus's  continuing class at Write! Canada: Finding Your Way Deeper Into Writing, we learned about the power of metaphor and how to use an object from nature that calls to us. Comparing a thing with a person can be a metaphor generator! I decided to use a pine cone and write about...well, here is what I wrote. Brown, light, life bringer, the pine cone whispers a message of rebirth. To be born anew it separates from parent bough and sister cones, to be buried in the earth. My mother's death was like that. She, separating from her family tree like fruit that was finally ripe and ready to fall. Separating as gently and easily as the pine cone. As naturally too. No fighting against it. Each created thing has its time to be born anew

It has been a busier week than usual; one in which I longed to sit down and capture my thoughts in this small corner. I have glanced at my laptop in passing by, but the luxury of time to write eluded me! And although I would be tucked up in bed by now if I had a sensible bone in my body, I can't let another day to go by without putting fingers to keyboard: I wanted to talk to Rob on Saturday...I needed to debrief the emotion that unexpectedly inflamed my heart through reading Mum's letters and my journals of late 2002.  Throughout the day I looked at the clock many times, thinking of where he would be in his Saturday, over 3,000 miles away and in a different time zone. I know his routine by heart. At 5.00 p.m. here, I know that he will be putting on Bruce's lead and heading down the stairs of his flat, and out into the village for Bruce's nightly last walk. When he comes back, about 15 minutes later, he will take off the lead inside the front door and Bruce will...

B y Belinda It was a year a go today tha t Mum left this wo rld for the next. I wrote about it then , in a post entitled Gratitude.  G ratitude, not gr ief ; was the overwhelming emotion I felt then, and it has only grown since then. To want more would have been to be ungrateful, grasping, selfish even. How could we not be grateful for all that we had received ? How could we not be grateful for the gentleness of her passing?  I feel her presence often. Not in a weird way, I hasten to say ; but it would be rare, when I am singing with the worship team at church, for me not to look at the pew from which she would watch us prac tice ; and not think of her. I see her glowing face, beaming with love and pride; knowing that she was enjoying the moment intensely--and she is there. I called Ro b t his morning . "I was up there this morning Belinda," he said ; and I didn' t have to ask w here. "I put a nice bunch of orange roses, (for the  Dutch House of O...

By Belinda I'm sorry that the story of Mum's stroke and how that impacted all of us, has taken so long to share! I am almost finished. Tonight I am rereading words I wrote on February 25th, 2004, on a plane flying home to Canada, reflecting on the month I had spent in England and all that it had meant to us. Here is some of what I wrote: It was so hard to leave dear Mum this morning, but I feel so grateful for having had four precious weeks with her and for all that God enabled me to accomplish.   So many supports have been put in place: Her feet are taken care of; hairdressing appointments arranged; supplies ordered; vision checks scheduled; care givers organized (well "organized" sounds too militant--but what I mean is that they know Mum a little better than they have done without me;) and--so wonderful--Mum has been out with people--her friends--to the Sycamore Club. It was so different leaving Mum this time. I found myself caressing her and kissing her s...

By Belinda By mid February 2004 I was already half way through the month I had come to spend in England. I had arrived with no plan but to get Mum's life back after finding her in hospital, depressed, and looking beaten at the start of the month. Within a week she was out of the hospital and home and we began recreating her world. Each day Mum, Rob and I navigated new territory, trying new things on for size and discarding those that didn't work for Mum and Rob. I made many phone calls, making arrangements for house calls for foot care, glaucoma tests, meals on wheels and the hairdresser. All the world was willing to come to Mum it seemed. Just as we began to feel less freaked out about our lives being invaded by the Helping Hands carers who supported Mum three times a day, Mum's social worker  reminded us that they were purchasing the services of Helping Hands only because there were no council carers available and that if that changed, they might switch back to the ...

By Belinda The continuing story of Mum... Thursday, February 12, 2004 Two weeks since I arrived and one since Mum arrived back from the hospital in a pink cotton nightie, with a white hospital blanket around her to keep warm.  What changes over two weeks! Good things have happened. Tracy, who comes in the morning, is wonderful, and Karen, at night is equally wonderful. Today at lunch we met Julia, who I liked a lot!      She'll be coming often at lunch and said that there will soon be a regular pattern at lunch as well as at other times of the day. Karen has actually asked to support Mum on Sunday mornings. What a blessing. Mum's friend and close neighbour Trudy, came for a visit. It was so good for Mum to reconnect with dear Trudy, who is bright, energetic, and will be 90 on July 29th! When I was in the bathroom this morning, Mum got up and opened the curtains. I think I worry too much. She can do so much...