Yes, it's that time of year again!
I now go for my daily walk wearing boots with good treads, a warm hooded jacket and gloves I finally found hidden beneath other forgotten winter necessities.
The maple tree in our backyard refuses to face this reality. Its leaves still stubbornly cling to its branches, one broken limb hanging askew, wounded by the recent heavy snow storm which arrived, unbelievably, in October for us Winnipeggers!
Shortly after we got back from our annual October road trip to Ontario, it was nice to get together with friends at the home of Lester and Yayoi and enjoy a lunch of warm homemade soup and sandwiches. They are wonderful hosts. On the wall across from the table hangs a banner in Japanese script. Hardy, the language pro, was curious about the lettering and we all wanted to know what the words meant. Yayoi explained that because of its mixture of kanji (adopted Chinese) characters with syllabic kana characters, the Japanese writing system is considered one of the most complicated in use anywhere in the world!
The benefits received after spending days in quiet contemplation are endless.
I took that thought home with me. November has always been a time of contemplation for me. Probably because it is the beginning of the dying season, with shorter and darker days, my thoughts often turn to loved ones who have passed away.
In his daily meditation for November 4th, Henri Nouwen writes (in part):
It is possible to have intimate relationships with loved ones who have died. Death sometimes deepens the intimacy. . . . Remembering them is much more than just thinking of them, because we are making them part of us, part of our whole being. . . . This brief lifetime is my opportunity to receive love, deepen love, grow in love, and give love. When I die, love continues to be active, and from [a time of] full communion with God I am present by love with those I leave behind.
November 12th is my Dad's birthday, so of course my thoughts turn to him. November is also the month of my parents' wedding anniversary. I recently went through several boxes of correspondence belonging to my parents. Dad was a romantic and gave Mom a beautiful card at every special occasion. Mom kept them all! I decided to make use of them for scrap paper. Now every time I use them, I am reminded of Dad's loving spirit and his kind ways.
Mom was a seamstress. When her eight children became adults and she had grandchildren, she used her sewing skills to create things that were not only practical but also delightful and playful. I notice a doll mom created, hanging limply from a hook on my study door, her pantaloons sagging because the elastic has worn out. I pick her up and prop her against my bookshelf. There she sits, as if she belongs there, looking for all the world like Anne of Green Gables with her carrot-colored tresses! When I look at her, I feel as if Mom is looking back at me and telling me it's okay that I prefer reading and writing to sewing and that these are also valuable skills and not a waste of time!
During my grandmother's time, at least in Mennonite circles, young women had to learn to sew and knit and mend for practical reasons, and my grandmother did that, but her inclination, like mine, was more toward reading and writing. I have her big Bible which she received at her wedding and brought with her on that long trek from Ukraine to Canada, and a little book in which she recorded important events and birthdays. In her bedroom there was always a table by the window where she sat and wrote letters and read her Bible.
I recall that she would use pictures from old coloring books and stitch them to make wall hangings with pockets for storing treasures. I no longer have any in my possession; they must have disappeared when our family moved from Alberta to Manitoba. But I do possess one handmade item which my Oma made when our oldest daughter, her first great-grandchild, was born. It is made of silky/satiny material, rather impractical for a baby blanket.
Two things come to mind as I sit and contemplate her hand-embroidered work of love:
My grandmother (Oma) was just a year older than I am now when she stitched that blanket (our daughter was born in 1970)!
I know that Oma hoped we would speak German to our children. To her it was the language of God, and anything else did not measure up. She always gave us the impression that she understood no English, even after years of living in Canada. When I now stand and look at this blanket, I suddenly realize that the prayer stitched on it is in English, not in German! I think Oma is telling me that it is okay with her that we speak English and that God's language is the language of love.
The baby who received this blanket is now a mother of two almost grown children, and she leads a busy and fulfilling life. Her grandparents and great-grandmother look down on her and smile their approval. She gave me a wonderful birthday gift this year -- a bouquet of flowers once a month for a whole year! The beautiful yellow lilies below grace our kitchen table and brighten the grey days of November.
