Peace on Earth

Our humanity is what we have in common but our cultural heritage is a gift each of us is given at birth. And unless we embrace that gift and value the power it is meant to bring to our lives, we cannot realize our full potential.  (Mary-Ann Kirkby)

As I began decorating the tree this Christmas, I wondered where the magic of that childhood joy I used to feel had gone. A German Christmas carol we always sang at this time of year when I was growing up took hold of me and wouldn't let go. I started humming the tune and got stuck on the words. On impulse, I googled it and up came a beautiful rendition of Alle Jahre wieder, taking me right back to those wonderful days. Not only that carol, but many others, one after another, appeared automatically.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zOuRLRszIcc

I realized what a great gift my mother had given us by singing these songs with us, and I got my Christmas magic back again as I listened to the carols one after another, singing along in joyous abandon!  I remembered how we used to gather around a table on which my mother had placed a small Advent house with a candle inside. The light of the candle shone through the parchment paper windows of the little house. The house had 24 windows and one door. These represented the days before Christmas and the day we opened the door, it was Christmas. Each window had a Scripture verse printed on it and if we memorized it we received some kind of Christmas treat (candy, cookie, or an orange). Treats were few and far between in those days; we were refugees and had just arrived from a war-torn country to finally join our relatives in Canada (October 1952).

I still have that authentic Advent house. It is well used. The inside is blackened with smoke from many candles and some of the shutters of the windows are missing. The sides are taped together. On a trip to Europe a few years ago, I saw one just like it in a museum in Husum (northern Germany). They told me there were none available for purchase.

Although I have many positive memories of my first Christmas in Canada, I do recall one rather painful experience. We had dutifully memorized some Christmas recitations (in German) like we did every year, but when we recited them at the local Mennonite church Christmas program no one clapped. We were met with a wall of silence. We didn't know it at the time, but the church had recently decided not to use German in their worship services. It was the language associated with the war and identified us as the enemy. For years I suffered from stage fright because of this incident.

In Canada, many refugees will be experiencing Christmas for the first time this year and next. I wonder how we can make this a time of joyful remembrance for them in spite of all the sadness they have gone through. We hope they will soon adapt and enjoy the freedom their new home country offers. Acculturation will happen gradually but that time of adaptation will be very crucial to their well-being. In the meantime we want to affirm, accept, and embrace together with them their family traditions and their way of life. 

I have been reading a fascinating book about a refugee who defected to America in 1967. Her name is Svetlana Alliluyeva. She is Stalin's daughter. Here is an excerpt from the book jacket:

Born in 1926, Svetlana Alliluyeva spent her youth inside the Kremlin as her father's power soared. Eighty-five years later, she died alone and penniless in rural Wisconsin. Revealed here for the first time, the many lives of Josef Stalin's daughter form a riveting portrait of a woman who fled halfway around the world to escape her birthright.

In the Kremlin Svetlana had lived a privileged existence, compared to that of the starving masses (including our family) created by her father's ruthless regime. Her life was much like that of the average American--a comfortable home, good schooling, summer cottage vacations, etc. However, Svetlana was not immune to tragedy. She lost her mother to suicide, and her father's merciless purges claimed relatives as well as her lover who was exiled to Siberia. When she defected, she left her two young adult children behind.

Svetlana searched all her life for the kind of world described by the prophet Isaiah in the passage below, a time when the whole world will be at peace:

                               The wolf will live with the lamb,

                               the leopard will lie down with the young goat;

                               the calf and the lion will eat from the same trough
                               and a little child will lead them.

                               The cow and the bear will graze in the same pasture;

                               their young will lie down in peace

                               and the lion will eat straw like the ox.

                               Even a baby will not be harmed if it plays near a poisonous snake.

                               Neither animal nor human will hurt or kill on Zion, God's holy mountain.

                               The whole earth will be full of the knowledge of the LORD
                               as the waters cover the sea.

                                                                                                           (Isaiah 11.6-9, alt.)

My challenge for 2016 is to work at keeping Isaiah's vision alive!

Kairos Time

It was nearing the end of October and I was getting the winter blahs. Because the fall season seemed to last longer this year than other years, it was even more difficult to accept the fact that we would soon be enveloped in snow and ice. Those of you who have experienced winters in Manitoba know what I mean!

To top it all off, my husband Hardy had just been diagnosed with a mysterious illness called cold agglutinin disease. This is an autoimmune reaction to cold temperatures in which the blood's antibodies begin to destroy red blood cells, causing anemia. Although
we lived in the tropics many years, Hardy loves to go outside in winter and actually enjoys shoveling snow. The doctor's advice: go south for the winter and absolutely no snow shoveling!

That created a spark of joy in me, but it didn't last long. Hardy was reluctant to accept
this advice; he couldn't entertain the idea of someone else doing the snow shoveling.
How could we afford to go south every winter and  pay someone to shovel our snow?!
I concluded glumly that I would end up doing the snow shoveling and Hardy would stay indoors, something neither of us would enjoy very much.

Reflecting on the implications of all of this at breakfast that morning, I glanced out the window of our kitchen and from the corner of my eye I saw something bright blue against our drab grey fence. It was a surprise I had not anticipated.
(Several years ago I had purchased a small plant called monkshood and placed it against the fence in our back yard. It grew tall and spindly but never bloomed. I wondered if perhaps I had planted it in the wrong spot. Maybe it needed sun all day long instead of just in the morning.)

Now, after all this time, at the end of October, it was blooming! I couldn't believe my eyes and ran outside to verify what I thought I had seen. Not only was the monkshood in bloom, it also had buds on some of its other branches. How could a plant begin blossoming this late in the season? I thought this was unheard of, so I googled it. I learned that monkshood usually blooms in September. Since this plant had never yet flowered, and since it did so now in late fall, I considered it to be a small miracle sent to cheer me up at a time when I needed it!

On the top right of the photo you can see the yellow leaves of our maple tree, 

proving that this is indeed late autumn.

On the lower left you can see a few more flowers and the lower right shows some buds forming.

A blogger friend, with whom I shared this experience, called it a happening in "kairos time" instead of in "chronos time." (The ancient Greeks had two words for time, chronos and kairos. While the former refers to chronological or sequential time, the latter signifies a time lapse, a moment of indeterminate time in which everything happens.)

We are now into November and all the flowers have gone, except the monkshood. It is a reminder to me that even at the bleakest moments in my life there is hope, if only I allow myself to see it and grasp it.

PS:  I almost forgot to mention that I also learned that monkshood is a very poisonous plant ... !

Kindness is Kindness in Any Language

Recently, while attending a reading at the McNally Robinson Booksellers, I had a chance encounter with someone whose parents we remember well from our time in the Democratic Republic of Congo (formerly Zaire). He told me that his father had written a memoir. I was not aware of this and asked if there were still any copies available. The following week I found the book in my church mailbox. Eagerly I began to read In Search of Identity: The Life and Times of Peter J. Kroeker. A large section of the book describes the family's work in Africa. Since their time overlapped with ours, I found this part of Peter's memoir especially intriguing. What I remember most about Peter and Ruth is their kindness and gentleness, particularly toward the Congolese, and how perturbed they were when they saw other expatriates treating the nationals in a demeaning manner.

Peter and Ruth Kroeker and their younger children (1971)

One example of their kindness is described in the book. The home in which the Kroeker family lived during their time in Congo was situated next to a warehouse which was guarded by a Congolese watchman day and night. He had his own little hut on the premises. Every night Ruth would bring him a plate of food and he was very grateful. One day Ruth went to the market to buy bananas. Just as she was about to pay for them, someone behind her handed her some coins. It was the night watchman. Another time he brought a fresh pineapple to their home. Ruth did not refuse these gifts as she realized the value of reciprocal giving. The night watchman and Ruth did not know each other's language; their common language was kindness. As her son Mark writes in the memoir, "Kindness is kindness in any language."

This story reminded me of an experience I had in our first years in Congo. We lived on the second floor of a two-storey apartment building on the main street of the provincial town of Kikwit. Below us was the mission bookstore and the Bible translation office where my husband worked with his team of translators. The children and I spent a lot of time on our balcony, where we had a good view of the busy life below. Every morning we saw a young boy heading toward the translation office. He had only one leg and used a stick to propel himself along. At the office my husband would give him a coin and he would head off toward the bakery to buy himself a baguette; it was his one sure meal of the day.

One day I was busy with the baby when I noticed my two-year-old daughter was missing. I looked everywhere in the apartment and couldn't find her. Could she have slipped out the door and down the stairs unnoticed? She would have to maneuver quite a few steps. Glancing down from the balcony, I couldn't believe my eyes. There on the sidewalk, in front of my husband's office, sat the young boy with the baguette. Beside him was our little girl and in her pudgy hands she held half of the baguette. Both were munching away, eating their breakfast and enjoying each other's company. That young boy taught me something about generosity. We gave from our plenty; he gave from the little he had, probably his only meal of the day!

We don't always realize how far-reaching a small act of kindness can be. This became evident to us just recently. We received an e-mail from a person we had not heard from for over twenty years. Kanga was a Congolese teenager who liked to hang out at our house. He came almost every day for several years. He was eager to help with chores such as gardening, building a tree house for the girls, running errands, etc. We assisted him in small ways with food, a daily shower, and other needs he might have.

In his e-mail, Kanga thanked us profusely for what we had done for him. He told us that, because he had spent so much time with us, he had had the opportunity to learn English. (I never heard him speak a word of English, neither did he ever request an English lesson from me!) Following our return to Canada, he applied to work at the American School of Kinshasa (TASOK) and was accepted because of his English skills. He went on to get a teaching degree and was hired by expatriates from India and Pakistan. He credited us for his success in life. We had no idea!

Looking back at my own life, I recognize simple acts of kindness that made a big difference to my well-being. As new immigrants to Canada, my parents worked hard to feed and clothe their eight children. My father worked nights at a dairy and we had no vehicle. Winters were very cold and we had a half-hour walk to school.

Our neighbours offered us a ride to school. Whenever the temperatures dipped below zero, four of us went to their house and stood in the hallway waiting until they had finished their breakfast; then we crowded into their car, almost on top of each other. Their kitchen, with its combination of cigarette smoke and pancakes and bacon, smelled nothing like our house!  [I didn't know moms were allowed to smoke, and at our house we always had porridge for breakfast. Pancakes were for lunch or supper and, on the rare occasion that we had meat other than liver, it would have been for Sunday dinner!]

Another family, who did not even live in town, offered us a ride to church every Sunday and sometimes my sister and I were invited to their house on the farm after church. We got a ride back with them in time for evening services. We felt so privileged to be part of their lives. Their farm house was probably quite ordinary but to us it seemed rich and beautiful. Their daughter had a bedroom all to herself and she had so many toys! And for evening snack we had hot chocolate with marshmallows!

The customs and habits of these Canadians were different from ours, but it was their kindness that remains with me. 

The Syrian refugee crisis we hear about in the news these days brings with it so much sadness and heartache. It is easy to become overwhelmed, to throw up our hands and say, "What can we possibly do in the face of such calamitous events?" 

Mother Theresa says it well: "Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love."

Costly Loving

My heart is always open and receptive to people who are victims. Through no fault of their own, they have been physically or mentally bullied, abused, degraded. They need my compassion and understanding; I need to walk with them and help them.

My natural reaction toward the perpetrators of pain is disgust. I want to see them punished for what they have done, locked up so they can't hurt anyone again. They should know what pain their actions have caused and they should feel that pain. This is especially true if they have hurt young children or vulnerable teenagers.

Recently the church where I worship has found itself in the unfamiliar and rather uncomfortable position of supporting people who have caused grievous pain to others, in both cases to teenagers and their parents.

One of these people, as pastor of a congregation, was in a position of great trust. He knowingly and willfully abused that trust by taking photos of young women in washrooms. He is waiting for his day in court.

This man asked for permission to attend our worship services. Church council prayerfully pondered the request, informed the church membership and asked for time to consider. After six months of deliberation, council again brought the request to the membership and we agreed (by vote) to allow him to worship with us. Parameters were put in place ensuring that he would never be alone while in the church building and that he would not ever have contact with young children in our congregation unless he was accompanied by someone.

Not everyone was comfortable with this decision and some who had been church members for years walked away. They could not be in the same building with a man who so blatantly misused the trust of others. They were concerned about the safety of children and young people, a very legitimate concern.

The second person is a truck driver and the partner of a woman who recently joined the church. For just a few minutes, while driving his truck, he drifted off. He entered a construction zone without slowing down. Three teenage boys were killed instantly and a construction worker was seriously injured. The truck driver suffered minor injuries. He has been charged with criminal negligence for causing the death of three people and injuring another.

Very seldom do I ask myself how the people who cause pain to others might be feeling. What they have done eclipses the fact that they too are hurting. My natural reaction is to judge them rather than to put myself into their shoes. I can't even imagine that I would ever do such a thing. I can understand and empathize with the truck driver to some degree because the pain he caused others was due to negligence, not to willful planning. But I find myself judging him too. He seemed to have an answer for every situation. I'm hoping this experience will humble him. I ask myself how I would feel if I was a parent of one of the teenagers who was killed. Would I even know how to address this pain positively or would it break me?

The pastor who misused the trust of his congregation just makes me angry. I had a high regard for him before I knew what he had done. I wonder how I could have been so gullible. I ask myself what else he would have done had he not been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and what else he has done that we know nothing about. Now that he is part of my church community, I am forced to interact with him; if I try to avoid him, he is still in my thoughts and prayers.

I realize that people who hurt others willfully (like the pastor) have not learned to deal with their own needs adequately. But having this abusive person in our midst is causing me pain. How can I handle this situation constructively? Can I do it by giving in to my fears, walking away and thus rejecting him? That seems negative to me. Can I force myself to welcome him, to embrace his presence? I am thinking that will be healing for both of us, but it is a difficult journey; I can't do it on my own.

                               Let our strength be in forgiving as forgiven we must be,
                               One to one in costly loving, finding trust and growing free,
                               Gentle God, be our release, gentle Spirit, teach us peace.

                                                       Shirley E. Murray

Two Little Words

Today is filled with hustle-bustle, and tomorrow is a mystery, but our yesterdays are treasures from the past to be cherished and enjoyed again and again.

                                                                                          Barbara Johnson

A long time ago I found new words for something I loved to do. I was nine years old and a newcomer to Canada. My family left Paraguay in October of 1952 and we older siblings began going to school almost as soon as we arrived. We attended a country school near Didsbury, Alberta, located within walking distance of the farm house we rented that first year. My mother's cousin was our teacher and she spoke our mother tongue (Plautdietsch = Low German), so it should have been a gentle easing into the culture and language. I just remember being very confused by it all. I had finished Grade Two (in German) and was an excellent reader, but when my teacher asked me to recite the alphabet in German I couldn't do it. She decided to put me into Grade Two.

Although I didn't say much, I observed and listened. At recess I heard the children saying two words over and over again. I really wanted to know what these words meant but I couldn't figure it out. The two words were "let's pretend."

I thought my younger sister and I (we are 22 months apart) were in this together, but as I stood there, concentrating on these strange words, I saw a flash of movement from the corner of my eye. It was my sister, running home as fast as her legs could carry her. She had disappeared into the ditch at the side of the schoolyard and all I could see was the top of her head. She had enough of "let's pretend," she was done with it all!

I decided not to go after her. When I got home from school, she was still hiding under the bed. I don't remember what I did to coax her out but eventually she emerged and the next day we trudged off again, braving the cold wind and the strange new world in which we found ourselves.

It wasn't long until I learned many new words that enriched my life and "let's pretend" became part of my vocabulary as well. My cousin, my sister and I spent many hours pretending we were grown up and building our own home as we happily wallpapered chicken coops with homemade paste and left-over wallpaper our aunt gave us; or played on the large front porch pretending it was a huge ship and we were sailing the ocean. We never ran out of ideas, and at our cousin's place we could play all day long without being bothered by younger siblings or chores our mother had waiting for us.

I also distinctly recall the day when the words "let's pretend" no longer held any joy for me. I wanted to play with my sister who was having a tea party with our dolls but it wasn't fun any longer. Making paper dolls from the Eaton's catalogue wasn't appealing any more either. For me it was not a gradual easing into adulthood but rather a painful departure from the world of imagination to the world of reality. The imaginary world attracted me more but I could no longer lose myself in it.

I solved the problem by delving into the world of books. Here I could vicariously enjoy what other people imagined and put into words. It was the grown-up game of "let's pretend." My cousin and my sister were two years younger than I and they couldn't understand my sudden retreat. I had become more quiet and introspective. I began to write poetry and novels. My inner life became a safe haven in the more threatening outside world.

My mother made sure I didn't lose myself completely. I was the oldest daughter of eight children, and she needed my help in the house. Reluctantly I dragged my feet into her mundane world of dishes and diapers, always more than happy to leave it again.

The happiest place, of course, was that childhood world of the imagination, when we could be anything we wanted to be or do anything we wanted to do. Sometimes I can almost return to it now, through a smell or a sound that was part of my world then. The pungent aroma of the stem of a fresh tomato plucked from the garden reminds me of Tante Sarah  and her "Boklezhane" (which is one of my favorite words and means tomatoes in Russian -- I always thought it was a Low German word!). Dunking a Zwieback in a cup of coffee can take me back there as well. We used roasted Kefir grains with plenty of milk as a substitute for coffee in Paraguay. We soaked chunks of bread in our "coffee," and when all the liquid was absorbed by the bread we turned it upside down on our saucer. With the addition of cinnamon and sugar it became a cake of sorts. "Arbus" (the Russian word for watermelon) also sends me down memory's path. I can see my mother, holding a baby, both of them eating watermelon, the red juice dripping down the baby's fat tummy.

Simple things made us happy in those days.

  

Backward, turn backward,

O time, in  your flight,

Make me a child again

just for tonight!
                                                                                 Elizabeth Akers Allen

Not Alone

Hardy and I have just returned from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania where we had booked a tour of Washington DC as the first agenda item of an amazing week. The rest of the week was spent attending an event that takes place every six years in a different part of the world. It is the Mennonite World Conference Assembly : Mennonites and Anabaptists worldwide gather in one place to worship, meet and greet, explore each other's cultures, etc. This is the third such conference we have attended. Six years ago we were in Asuncion, Paraguay and before that in Winnipeg.

Of what we saw on the Washington tour I was most impressed with the Library of Congress. It was constructed between 1888 and 1894 in the Beaux Arts style. Walking down the marble halls decorated with murals and paintings, and looking up at the stained glass dome, I thought I was in Europe, not in America. I wanted to spend the whole week there, instead of just one hour!

We were intrigued to see a copy of the Gutenberg Bible, which is one of the first major books printed using movable type. Today there are only 21 complete copies in existence, and only three of them in perfect vellum.

I envied this woman who was completely absorbed in her book. She was not even aware that I was taking her photograph. Fifty years earlier, as a black woman, she would not have been given access to this library! Some things have changed for the better.

The last stop on our tour was the Arlington National Cemetery. They told us it was the hottest day of the year in Washington, so Hardy opted to stay in the bus and wait this one out. As I gazed at the thousands and thousands of white crosses, I wondered what was wrong with humanity. Why do we have to kill each other and then glorify and honor these actions? It is depressing to think that all these lives were cut short for political reasons. The casket of each soldier is taken to its resting place by a horse-drawn cart. We observed two such funerals taking place from a distance.

This cemetery is also the home of the deceased members of President John F. Kennedy and his family. As I looked at their gravestones, I pondered the immense sadness and tragedy that has dogged this family. Jackie had a miscarriage followed by a stillborn daughter, Arabella, in 1956. Her name is not on her gravestone. I thought perhaps they hadn't named her since she was stillborn, but when I searched the web I found that she did have a name. I wonder why they did not put it on her tombstone.

Jackie had two more children, Caroline in 1957 and John Jr. in 1960. In 1963 the family experienced a double tragedy. In August baby Patrick was born prematurely and died after two days. In November, JFK was assassinated. I'm sure Jackie felt she had to be strong for her children, but I don't know how she coped with all of this. She passed away in 1994 at age 65. Fortunately she did not have to deal with her son John's death in an aviation accident in 1999. Caroline is the only one left of her immediate family. 

When I looked up from the Kennedy family's gravestones, I realized that I was alone, left behind by my tour group!  I looked around but no one familiar was in sight. "How could they have disappeared so quickly?" I thought to myself. With the sun blazing down on me,  I walked as fast as possible in order to catch up. Our tour guide had an umbrella from the Bodensee, which he held up so people like me could spot him, but I did not. To my relief I saw one member of our group ahead of me, walking in the same direction. He is from India and was one of the first people we met on this tour. He was just as happy to see me but neither of us was much help to the other. He said he would go to some of the upper areas of the cemetery to see if he could spot the group and I should wait for him. So I sat in the shade for some time, and began to panic thinking he was not coming back. I started walking toward where he had gone and suddenly saw him waving at me. I thought he must have found the group, but he had not. We walked and walked, asking for directions until we finally got to the gate connecting us to the road. They told us the buses were some distance away. Just before we reached the first bus, our tour guide came walking toward us, holding up his umbrella! My friend from India said, "Thank you, Jesus" and I added my "Amen!" The group had waited 15 minutes and another woman whom I had befriended earlier had just volunteered to go and look for us. 

I was very relieved to be back in the air-conditioned bus. Wandering around among thousands of gravestones not knowing where I was headed was not exactly how I enjoyed spending my time. I had a similar experience in Kiev in 2010 when we visited the monastery caves!

Below is a song we sang during the world conference. I sang it very heartily and with great feeling after my experience at the Arlington Cemetery! Not only was I happy that I had found my way back to the tour group. I was thankful that I belong to a group of people who identify themselves as people who care for one another and stand with each other because of their common love for a God of peace and reconciliation. Cultural differences are not a hindrance but an enhancement; something that enriches us as we learn from each other and strive for love and acceptance in a world torn by war and strife.

                                    We're not alone, we are one body,

                                    We're not alone, we stand with you,

                 We're not alone, your time of suffering is our suffering too.

                           And we know the day is coming, when we will be rejoicing anew!

                                                             Bryan Moyer Suderman

Life-Changing Magic!

I just learned a couple of new words. They are Japanese. There is the word tsundoku, which means buying books and not reading them; having books piling up unread on shelves, floors or nightstands. The second word is randoku, which means random reading. By now you have probably guessed that the word doku means reading.

Both tsundoku and randoku are practised at our house. Hardy is guilty of the former and I of the latter. He reads a lot of newspapers and journals, but when it comes to books he just sort of collects them. He reads the introduction and the conclusion and the author's bio. I read just about anything I get my hands on.

I'm not so crazy about "how to" books, but someone picked one of those for our book club, so I'm wading through it. It is by a Japanese author, Marie Kondo, and she writes about "the Japanese art of decluttering and organizing." Kondo calls her book the "life-changing magic of tidying up." She must have done something right because it is #1 on the New York Times best-seller list and she has sold two million copies! It seems like a lot of people are very interested in this subject or maybe just desperate to clean up their messes!

What interested me more than her topic of decluttering and organizing was that Kondo claims that she has devoted more than 80% of her life to this subject, and that she started reading home and lifestyle magazines when she was five! From the age of 15 she undertook "a serious study of tidying that led to [her] development of the KonMari Method"! What kind of child does that, and what kind of teenager was she? Not the kind I know!

It got me to thinking about what I was doing at that age. I probably would have been fascinated with a home-and-lifestyle magazine not because of my need to be fastidious and organized but just because that type of life would be so new and strange to me. It would have been like reading a fairy tale because I didn't know anyone who lived like that. I was a child of refugees the first four years of my life, travelling from place to place and not knowing what a home was. When I was five, my parents built a one-room mud hut in the Paraguayan Chaco and we lived in it for four years. By the time we emigrated to Canada, I was nine and the second-oldest of eight children. It took a few years before we were settled and comfortable in our new surroundings. My parents struggled to keep us all clothed and fed and they did a marvelous job. They had no time to read books about decluttering and organizing!

I was a messy teenager. My sister and I shared a bedroom and, from what I recall, she was the tidy one. My locker at school was disgusting by the time the school year ended and I had to clear it out. At some point in my life that changed. I think it happened when I began my own household. I still would rather read a book than clean my house, but I know what needs to be done to retain my sanity. However, I'm not about to go through every item in my house to see if it gives me a "spark of joy" and toss it out if it doesn't, as Kondo suggests. I'm way too much of a frugal Mennonite!

I'm thinking that perhaps it would benefit all of us if we went through our mental storage, our spiritual house, and began to look at what we've collected there and what needs to be tossed or changed. Perhaps if we did that, we would stop collecting things that we think will make us happy.

Empty Nest

One morning in early May, Hardy stepped out the front door and noticed all kinds of debris at the entrance. There were sticks and grass and a bunch of twigs on the ledge under the mailbox. He called me to take a look and began cleaning it up. I stopped him and said, "Maybe it's a bird building a nest." We looked at each other incredulously. Why would a bird want to build a nest in such a high-traffic area? People come and go here quite regularly. However, we left the debris and went inside.

To our amazement, the next morning there was a perfect nest on the ledge. We couldn't believe that such a beautiful thing could be made just with the sticks and straw we had noticed the night before. However, we didn't see any bird activity and after a week we assumed the bird had seen the error of its ways and decided this was not a good place for a nest. We showed the nest to our grandchildren and our friends and neighbours. We were sure it had been abandoned.

About a week after we first saw the nest, Hardy again made a discovery. There was one beautiful turquoise blue egg in it. We couldn't believe our eyes! Again, we had seen no activity. When was Mama Robin doing all this? We began to use the garage instead of the front door as an entrance and advised family and friends to do the same.

Every day a new perfect egg was added to the nest until there were four. There had been very little activity on Mama Robin's part, but once she had deposited all of her eggs she began to incubate them. We couldn't take a picture of her on the nest because every time we opened the door she flew away. She also left the nest when we approached from outside. However, our front door has a small rectangular window and we could peek at her. Every time we did that she would stretch out her neck nervously; she was not comfortable with our snooping!

We were very curious about the whole process and so we googled for information. We discovered that the mother robin hatches one egg a day and that she doesn't begin to incubate them until they are all laid, so they will all hatch at the same time. The incubation period lasts from twelve to fourteen days. We had planned a trip to Ontario for the middle of May and really hoped these eggs would hatch in time for us to see the baby birds, as we had become quite attached to Mama Robin and her little brood. We were overjoyed when we noticed the eggs began to hatch on the twelfth day.

The next day all of them had hatched. We were very proud of Mama Robin and her accomplishments! We couldn't believe how fond we had become of this little family. It was difficult for us to leave for Ontario!

I had made arrangements for my sister to come to the house once a week to water our plants. She sent me pictures of the babies after one week. Their feathers had come in and they looked like they were waiting to get some food and leave the nest.

                My sister took a photo of Mama Robin watching from a tree in our front yard.

When we returned about two weeks later, there was no sign of the robin family and the little nest looked very much like the first time we discovered it. We felt like we were experiencing empty-nest syndrome!

Watching this mother robin so busy with her own family, reminded me of our nest-building days. We had been married one year when we went to Congo where Hardy began his career as a Bible translator. Like our robins, we chose what must have seemed to people a rather unsafe place to begin a family. Somehow we felt like it was the right place for us and we began to build our nest there. It seems to me that just like we watched mother robin, so God was watching us and enjoying every aspect of our parenting days. God wept with us when we experienced the loss of one of our nestlings and God rejoiced with us when the new ones were born.

Somehow it felt like we would be together as a family like this forever but there came a time when our little birds too left the nest. We had taught them to fly and off they went, finding their own careers and building their own nests in places they chose. We have been "empty nesters" for some time now, but after a while that becomes normal. Eight grandchildren are the result of that nest we built so long ago in a rather precarious place!

We used to sing this song together on our way to school. It made us feel safe and loved.

                                              Children of the heav'nly Father                

                                              Safely in his bosom gather;

                                              Nestling bird nor star in heaven

                                              Such a refuge e'er was given.

                                              God his own shall tend and nourish, 

                                              In his holy courts they flourish.

                                              From all evil things he spares them,

                                              In his mighty arms he bears them.

                                                                                      Caroline V. Sandell Berg

We have been home from Ontario for a week now and today I spotted two robins in our backyard. The brown flecks on their chests indicated that they were still young. I took one look at them and they soared off. It made me happy that I had the opportunity to say goodbye to them!

Aufwiedersehen

Recently, when I went for my daily walk, I came across the pussy willow shrub I discovered a few years ago along the shore of the small lake near our house. The pussy willows had just burst from their buds. I've always loved them because they are one of the first harbingers of spring. I picked a few sprigs and put them in a vase so I could enjoy them at home. I took a picture and sent it to my sisters and one of them asked me, "What is it about pussy willows? Why do we love them so much?" We came to the conclusion that our Mom had loved them, so they were a reminder to us of her and of home. Mom passed away in January 2008, just as we were getting ready to leave Ontario and move to Winnipeg to be a bit closer to her (and my extended family) and to our children and grandchildren. It was a difficult time for us as we had to adjust to giving up our home in Kitchener (where we had lived almost 25 years) as well as the parental home we had enjoyed so much for a few weeks every summer.

The day after I discovered the pussy willow in bloom, I went for another walk and stopped at the same bush. I thought about my Mom and how much I loved her and what she meant to me. We always had such good conversations on the phone and such wonderful breakfasts together when we visited. I wished that I could have her with me again, even if only for a few minutes; just a small sign of her presence would suffice. I looked around me. Everything was very quiet. A few feet from the pussy willow I noticed a canoe. It was not tied to anything, just sitting there on the rocks. It was empty.

The next day I again returned to the same spot. I had brought my camera and took a few pictures. I noticed that the canoe was painted moss green, Mom's favorite color. That was the only connection to her that I could think of. Perhaps she was letting me know that she had come for a visit and parked her boat so that she could walk with me. Or maybe it was a sign that she had crossed over to the other shore, stepped out of the boat and gone to be with those who have slipped from their earthly bodies.

Recently my sisters and I and a niece who feels very close to her grandmother got together and reminisced about our Mother and Grandmother. We decided that maybe we needed to let her go. Maybe we were hanging on to her too tightly. Together we read some words from one of Henri Nouwen's devotionals:

There is a moment in which we need to give those we love the permission to return to God, from whom they came.  We have to sit quietly with them and say:  "Do not be afraid ... I love you, God loves you ... it's time for you to go in peace. ... I won't cling to you any longer ... I set you free to go home ... go gently, go with my love."   Saying this from our heart is a true gift.  It is the greatest gift love can give.

Reminiscing about all of this, I was reminded of Alfred Lord Tennyson's long elegy In Memoriam, which I studied and wrote about for my MA thesis. When he was still a young man, Tennyson (1809-1892 -- poet laureate of England), lost his best friend Arthur Hallam in a boating accident. Tennyson's elegy  is a celebration of a friendship as well as a mourning for the overwhelming loss of that friendship. It is a frantic search to somehow make contact with his dead friend, to assure himself that their bond is not severed after death. Tennyson worked on his long elegiac poem for many years. He laments that he could never achieve the goal of seeing his friend again or hearing from him.

                                             O life as futile, then, as frail!

                                             O for thy voice to soothe and bless!

                                             What hope of answer, or redress?

                                             Behind the veil, behind the veil.

In 1889, toward the end of his life, Tennyson composed that beautiful poem Crossing the Bar, about how he envisioned his own departure from this world. No doubt, even though his mind probably went back to his friend as he penned these words, he seems to have come to terms with his loss and is certainly at peace with the thought of his own death:

                                             Sunset and evening star,

                                             And one clear call for me!

                                             And may there be no moaning of the bar,

                                             When I put out to sea,

                                              But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

                                              Too full for sound and foam,

                                              When that which drew from out the boundless deep

                                              Turns again home.

                                              Twilight and evening bell,

                                              And after that the dark!

                                              And may there be no sadness of farewell,

                                              When I embark;

                                              For though from out our bourne of Time and Place

                                              The flood may bear me far,

                                              I hope to see my Pilot face to face

                                              When I have crost the bar.

The In-Between of Easter

Today I identified with the handful of Canada geese I saw when I went for my morning walk. They stood at the edge of the partially frozen lake, their slender necks stretched to capacity over their barrel chests, their wings shivering slightly in the chilly wind. Tentatively two of them began to walk across the slushy surface. After some time they turned around and began calling the two younger ones (their grown children from last year's lovemaking?) to join them. Their tracks formed a pattern on the snow. I could hear them squawking and I imagined they were telling their offspring that this is not how it is supposed to be! How much more pleasant it would be to sink down into tepid water, feet paddling furiously, head dipping in and pulling up a tasty morsel! Instead, they had to walk gingerly and carefully on an icy surface.

Life isn't always as it should be and as much as we would rather not, we have to learn to adjust. I think the geese are doing a pretty good job, better than I am! Hardy and I have found ourselves in a season that Julie Ellison White calls the "in-between of Easter" (Rejoice! March-May 2015, p.34). We have always enjoyed good health. In fact we have taken it for granted, just like we took our youth for granted. We are not used to getting old and suddenly we are in an immersion course we didn't apply for!

It began with hearing loss for Hardy. For a communicator like him, this was definitely a test of his patience until he was able to get appropriate hearing aids. A few months later, after a long  wait, he had to have cataract surgery in both eyes and I was the designated driver (I hate driving in Winnipeg, especially downtown!). Just as we got that all sorted out, something happened to my left knee over which I had no control. Without warning it seemed to turn out of its socket, rendering it immobile. When I tried to move, the pain was excruciating. Like the geese who arrived too soon, I walked very carefully and slowly. Just as I began contemplating what it would be like to walk with a cane, Hardy developed intense pain in his wrists. We are in the process of figuring out if it is rheumatoid arthritis or gout.

Perhaps you are rolling your eyes by now and will soon stop reading, bored by my litany of petty woes! Just hang in there for a bit so I can tell you something good. Just as suddenly as my knee refused to cooperate, it returned to normal. I call it a miracle, but it is the nature of osteoarthritis my doctor says! However, I no longer take my mobility and agility for granted and I have much more empathy for people who suffer. The expression, "I feel your pain," has taken on greater significance for me.

There are so many different kinds of suffering to which people are exposed. Physical pain due to illness, disease and accidents, like we are experiencing, is inevitable and thus easier to accept as part of living. The other kind, inflicted on us by people we love or people with evil intent, is more difficult to deal with.

I am in the process of reading two novels by authors who have experienced the death of a beloved family member through suicide.

Rudy Wiebe's Come Back describes the intense emotional pain of a father whose young adult son has found life so unbearable that for him it is not worth keeping. Like King David in the Bible, weeping over the death of his beloved son Absalom, the father cries out "O Gabriel my son, O my son, Gabriel!" The father's grief is so heartrending that it's going to be difficult for me to read another book about a suicide.
Miriam Toews' All my Puny Sorrows is the story of two sisters, one of whom is suicidal. The other sister tries to convince her to stay, but is not successful. It will be interesting to compare the work of these two award-winning authors on such a dark theme.

Some people are caught up in what Hannah Arendt calls "the banality of systemic evil." They are deemed not worthy to live by others who need to assert their dominance. I recently came across a review in the Winnipeg Free Press (Saturday, March 28, 2015) of a book that describes the horrors of the Nazi concentration camp at Ravensbrück, near Berlin. It was the only camp exclusively for women. In If this is a Woman, Sarah Helm describes the atrocities endured by the women and children at the hands of Hitler's henchmen. The Nazis tried to destroy all evidence of the camp and it was almost unknown to the Western world until Helm undertook to expose it through her research and resulting historical account.
This book will be difficult to read and I'm not sure I'm brave enough to tackle it. The book reviewer, Barry Craig, ends his review with the following words: "Any scholarship that strips naked the tyranny of extremism -- from Hitler's Nazi creed to today's Islamic State and Boko Haram -- is worthwhile."

I used to read Bible stories to my children when they were little, but thought the crucifixion was too much to handle for three- and four-year-olds and they might have nightmares, so I tried to skip those pages. I couldn't get away with it, however. "Mom, you missed those pages, we want that story," they demanded. And so we read that story and there were tears until we read the Easter story and they discovered the glory of the Resurrection. They understood perfectly both the sorrow and the joy of this momentous event and I too experienced it anew through the receptive hearts of my children.

                                           My Lord, you wore no royal crown;

                                           you did not wield the powers of state,

                                           nor did you need a scholar's gown

                                           or priestly robe, to make you great.

                                            You never used a killer's sword

                                            to end an unjust tyranny;

                                            your only weapon as your word,

                                            for truth alone could set us free.

                                             You made no mean or cunning move,

                                             chose no unworthy compromise,

                                             but carved a track of burning love

                                             through tangles of deceit and lies.

                                             You came unequaled, undeserved,

                                              to be what we were meant to be;

                                              to serve, instead of being served,

                                              a light for all the world to see.

                                                        -- Christopher Idle