A Grandmother's Love / A Granddaughter's Legacy

Recently my sister, who lives in our parental home, passed on to me a very special treasure. It is a painting done by one of my nieces in 2004, the year before my father and four years before my mother died.

Tamara, their twenty-one year old granddaughter, created this work of art as a Christmas present especially for her grandmother, or Oma as her grandchildren called her. 

I turned it over, and this is what I found: At the top of the frame she had written a dedication.

Tucked into the bottom of the frame was an envelope and it a card in which she explained the symbols in the painting, all significant in my mother's life. 

It was a message for Oma, about what the painting portrayed. Part of the message turned out to be strangely prophetic:

The shadow represents Opa, because he is now only a shadow of what he used to be and what he was meant to be forever. But in heaven he will be everything one could hope for. He is walking towards you, because he loves you.

Opa (Tamara's grandfather and my father) passed away the following summer. 

In the note she also explained that the eight stars were for her (Oma's) eight children and that the twenty small stars were for her grandchildren. 

She goes on to say:

The crab-apple around your neck is to remind you of how I used to pick the crab-apples in the summer; it brought me so much joy in your backyard.

The key in your pocket represents your faith; it has been the key to your life here on earth.

The flowers in your hair and hands are to remind you of God's beauty; rest in His beauty and love when you are sad or in pain.

The tiny flower in between the rocks is for your baby brother who died when you were young. I remember being so sad when I was younger and you told me that story, because I couldn't imagine losing Daniel (Tamara's little brother). So that flower is so you can remember him, and to remind you that you will see him in heaven.

BE STILL AND KNOW THAT I AM GOD

The woman represents you ... see how still she sits knowing that God loves her. And I love you, too!

For the past three weeks we have been looking after Kathryn, our eleven-year-old granddaughter, while her parents are at work and she's enjoying her summer holidays. She noticed the painting hanging on our bedroom wall and asked about it. Of course she was more than intrigued, especially when I showed her the envelope tucked into the frame at the back. It became our bedtime story that night. 

Kathryn was only two years old when her great-grandmother passed away and cannot remember her, but she has heard the stories and treasures them in her heart.

My mother was a special Oma who loved her twenty grandchildren and was fiercely loved by them in return. Each of them "rises up to bless her" whenever she is mentioned. 

Spending time with our grandchildren on a rainy day at the cottage. What will they remember about us?

Heaven's Portal

A dear friend, who hosted us when we were visiting The Netherlands several years ago, recently sent us an e-mail about a book he was reading:

I am reading an amazing book, a page turner / cliffhanger / bestseller: Congo. Writer (Belgian): David van Reybrouck. Without doubt it is already translated into English. You spent so many years in Congo / Zaïre. Maybe you know that book, if not you must read it!

Then a second e-mail:
I finished the book. How was it possible for you to live in that Armageddon, that snake pit and spider hole, where a war was, everyone against everyone, homo homini lupus [man is wolf to man], where corruption was a virtue etc., etc.???  There must also have been something good, I presume.

This prompted me to write back:
We would not trade our experience of living in the Congo (1969-1984) for anything.

Our family in 1974

We learned so much about ourselves, about the incredibly messy, beautiful world in which we live, about people who are so much like us in their hearts, even though at first they seem like strangers and aliens.

We observed people living joyfully in spite of their suffering, sharing happily of the little they had, yet never hesitating to ask for what they needed. Above all, we learned to listen to God speaking to us, and learned to depend on God for all our needs.

The Congo is a beautiful country, full of smiling and generous people. When we arrived, its people had just gained their independence, and there was no major war until after we left. Mobutu ruled, corruptly, supported by the U.S. and France.

Yes, there is chaos now, but the people are still the same. It is war and tribalism that corrupts the beauty. That happens in all countries. One big problem in the Congo is their attitude toward those in power. Leaders are given total freedom, with no checks and balances; that is the breeding ground for corruption. Total power corrupts totally.

Shortly after this e-mail exchange I read an article written by Charles Buller in his newsletter for Africa Inter-Mennonite Mission (Congo Leadership Coaching Network). I sent part of it to our Dutch friend.

Now I must read the book which he recommended to us!

A Stitch in Time

When I was young I was constantly amazed at what my mother could do. Her fingers were nimble and it seemed to me she could do magical things with her hands. As I have mentioned a number of times in this blog,  my formative years (ages four to nine) were spent in Paraguay under conditions that make Little House on the Prairie look like a piece of cake. I'm sure Mom sometimes wondered if our family hadn't jumped from the frying pan into the fire, as she drew water from our well, scrubbed all our clothes by hand, mourned the destruction of crops by ferocious grasshoppers, baked and cooked all our food in a clay oven or over an open fire, and birthed two more babies.

My mother loved clothes and she enjoyed sewing. She had taken a seamstress-training course while still in Ukraine, just before she got married. Our village in Paraguay had one treadle sewing machine (probably donated by MCC) and everyone in the village took a turn at using it for a couple of weeks at a time. Mom usually sewed in the evenings, after the daily chore of caring for five children was done and we were all in bed. However, we had no electricity and she sewed by the light of a wick soaked in petroleum. Usually she ripped apart used clothing sent to us by MCC and remade clothes to fit us all.

The picture above was taken in Asunción, the capital of Paraguay, where we spent several months waiting for our visas and passports so we could emigrate to Canada. My mother sewed every stitch of clothing we are wearing, including the hand-embroidered flowers on my dress (I'm behind my mother, second from the right).

Because she  loved to sew, my mother wanted me to learn the skill as well. When I started school at age seven, our mothers decided that the little girls would have a sewing class one afternoon a week, taught by one of the young women in the village. Again, MCC had donated embroidery floss, and the women bleached flour bags for us to use in order to learn to make the different stitches. To hold my embroidery floss, Mom gave me a special little silk bag with gold draw strings and colorful sequins that Dad had picked up in Germany in exchange for cigarettes. It was beautiful, and I was excited as I trudged off to the one-room schoolhouse in the late afternoons.

Unfortunately, my experience in the sewing class was not that "beautiful." My thread tangled and knotted, my material bunched up in the wrong places, my hands were too sweaty to hold the needle properly, and I didn't know how to do the stitches. I much preferred the morning classes where we learned to read, write, recite, and sing. Worst of all, I felt that I disappointed my mother! 

I was not allowed to skip those sewing classes and they were the bane of my existence! When we came to Canada Mom insisted that my sister and I spend one hour a week embroidering. She provided the tea towels and we ironed on the patterns and stitched them. I did not enjoy that hour and was always happy when it was over.

Later, when I was in high school, we learned to use the sewing machine in home economics class. I was actually afraid to use it and figured out a clever way to stay away from it during class. We were also required do a handicraft and so I usually worked on an embroidery sampler during class (I had finally mastered that skill!). Then I would take my sewing machine project home and begged my mother to help me do it. She usually ended up sewing it for me, as both of us got impatient with each other!

Interestingly enough, when I left home to go to Africa shortly after I got married, I took up sewing. There were no clothing stores in the provincial town of Kikwit (Zaïre, now DR Congo) where we lived. I bought patterns before we left home and there was a period of time where I sewed the children's clothes and quite liked it. I also found that I enjoyed embroidery as a hobby, especially since there wasn't much of a social outlet for me. 

When we returned to Canada I began my university studies and did not have time for sewing projects. However, once the grandchildren came along, I found myself returning to my old hobby, by embroidering a crib quilt for each of them. I'm working on my eighth one right now. I also made one for my middle daughter at her request (above). She picked the pattern and asked me to sew tabs on it so she could hang it on the wall. That quilt was particularly challenging as it required every kind of stitch I had ever learned. I put it aside for quite a while. Recently one of my granddaughters, eleven-year-old Kathryn, found it as she was rummaging through my sewing project drawer and reminded me that I needed to finish it. Electronics had taken over my spare time!

I made a butterfly quilt for one of my grandsons that required some hand quilting, which became a family project. We took it to our son-in-law's grandmother who had a quilting frame set up in her living room. Even Hardy helped quilt it!

I stitched this counted-cross stitch for my parents' 50th anniversary in 1990. It now hangs in our home and reminds me of my Mom's perseverance, even in teaching a stubborn and impatient little girl something she later valued and enjoyed. 

Hunger

The first time I saw the statue at the Canadian Museum for Human Rights, I gazed at it for a long time, mesmerized. A young girl, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, long braids hanging down her back, stands with hands clasped to her chest, holding a sheaf of wheat. Her arms and legs are thin and her eyes look hollow. The expression on her young face is that of a worried older woman. The reason I couldn't take my eyes off the statue is because it reminded me of a picture of my mother at about that same age. My mother has a serene look on her face and does not seem to be starving. However, the photo belies the situation and times were desperate.

         

When I review my mother's early life, I realize that disaster stalked her every ten years or so. She was born May 30, 1921. I recall her saying that she was born in the Year of Hunger: [Ich bin im Hungerjahr geboren.] It was a terrible time of civil wars in Russia. The Bolsheviks, the Whites, and the Anarchists, fought against each other. They seized food from those who grew it, gave it to their armies and supporters and denied it to their enemies. Drought aggravated the situation. Approximately five million people died of starvation. Finally, Lenin allowed relief organizations to bring aid to the starving population. Because there was a large population of Mennonites in Ukraine, word got to American Mennonites, and they formed a relief organization that later became known as the Mennonite Central Committee. A bun and a cup of cocoa or milk every day saved the members of my mother's family from starvation. 

Just before my mother entered her teen years (1932-1933) another famine erupted. The Ukrainians call this the Holodomor. It was caused by poor harvests due to natural disasters, combined with increased food demands due to collectivization, industrialization, and urbanization, as well as increased grain exports by the Soviet Union.

During this time my mother's youngest brother Gerhard was born (August 1932). Almost two years later, in June of 1934, he died of dysentery. No doubt it was caused by the poor conditions in which the family found itself. My mother always said the day of Gerhard's death was the saddest day of her life (except for another day four years later when her father was forcibly removed from the family and imprisoned, falsely accused of having planned to blow up a dam; the family farm was confiscated and she never saw her father again).

Forward another ten years. My parents married in November 1940. The Germans invaded Russia in June 1941. They were happy with the German occupation and provided lodging to two German soldiers in the small home my father had built. Two years later the Germans were defeated at Stalingrad and in October of 1943 pulled out of Russia. They urged our family to join them on the trains going west. That was the beginning of years of refugee life for us. 

We made our way from Poland into southern Germany. In January 1945, toward the end of the war, my father was conscripted into the German army. My mother was highly pregnant, with two little children in tow. Her widowed mother and adolescent brother were with her as well. German farmers in Bavaria were compelled to take them in. My sister was born in March in the barn where we all slept. Life was sustainable but barely. My father returned two months after my sister was born, looking so emaciated that he was hardly recognizable. 

Before boarding the Volendam, 1947

When the war ended, our family had to find a way to avoid being sent back to Russia. Again, with the help of MCC, we were able to board a Dutch freighter at Bremerhaven in February of 1947. There were over 2,000 refugees on this ship.

When it docked in Argentina, we learned that there was a revolution happening in Paraguay and we had to set up a tent city not far from Buenos Aires for several months. However, because our mother was about to give birth, our family left almost immediately for the Fernheim colony (which had been established in Paraguay 25 years earlier). There my mother gave birth to her fourth child, a second boy. A few months after Bernie was born, our family set out with other refugees to establish another Mennonite colony in the Paraguayan Chaco which they called Neuland. The refugees were divided into villages, making their own bricks and building straw-roofed homes, digging wells, and making clay ovens. It was a pioneer existence. Everything was done by hand and foot. 

My mother's work never ceased, especially as she had two more babies, a boy and a girl. My father was often in other villages, helping the women who had lost their husbands in Europe, and preaching in villages where there was no pastor. It took five years of hand-to-mouth existence before our family was able to emigrate to Canada in October 1953. 

That makes ten years of refugee life, before our family settled in Canada. Two more daughters were born. Again, the beginning was tough, but my mother was so happy to finally put down her roots. My grandmother had arrived four years earlier, joining her family which had already immigrated to Canada in the 1920s. 

What does all this have to do with hunger?

Hunger stalked my mother from an early age. There was physical hunger, yes. Always on the edge of existence, scraping the bottom of the barrel, never sure where the next meal was coming from or how she was going to get it. This was the case for years, until we arrived in Canada. And it was not of her own choosing or of bad decisions she had made. It was the choice of people in power who thought only of themselves and their aggrandizement.

Then there was psychological hunger. My mother lost her beloved father when she was a young adolescent. He was taken from her by force. As a result, throughout her life, certain things such as open closet doors triggered panic in her.
She was an only daughter, with five brothers. One day my mother overheard her mother declare that she would rather have seven sons than one daughter.

My mother yearned to have a sister, and she always managed to find friends that became surrogate mothers and surrogate sisters. She was so delighted when her second child was a daughter, and so happy for every girl baby that came along. (There are five of us!) Her grandchildren are mostly girls (she had three grandsons and seventeen granddaughters). This was her gift from God and she loved them fiercely, and everyone of them is totally devoted to her. 

When my mother turned 80, my own family was still living in Ontario. I decided to send her flowers, but instead of sending them directly to her, I decided to send them to the church she and my dad attended faithfully every Sunday and where they served as deacons for many years. I wanted her to be honoured. 

To my surprise, my mother hated that publicity. She told me that she put the bouquet of flowers on her walker and went home as quickly as possible. She didn't have a desire to be respected and honored in public. She just wanted to love and be loved by her nearest and dearest.

She got her wish. My daughters and her other grandchildren think about her daily, and tell their children what a wonderful grandmother they had. 

50th-wedding anniversary celebration (with all the grandchildren), 1990

I may cry and I will die,

But my spirit is the soul of every spring.

Watch for me and you will see

That I'm present in the songs that children sing.

                                                                   -- Maya Angelou

Spring Ritual

I have a little ritual. I only do this once a year. It has to be in spring, just when the weather begins to turn mellow and there is that lovely fresh smell in the air. I'm not even sure why it has to be in spring, but that's when I have a craving for it: I make potato salad for lunch! Just for me. No one else in my family likes it, so I never make it. Except once a year. In spring. I've done this for a number of years.

Today was the day! Birds singing, trees leafing, grass greening.

[Note chickadee in opening.]

No one was at home but me. I boiled two eggs and a few potatoes. When they had cooled, I got some green onions from the garden (yes, the green onions have to appear before I make it) and chopped them up, together with some bread-and-butter pickles. I combined sour cream, mayonnaise, salt and pepper, and a bit of pickle juice and poured this over my chopped potatoes, eggs, pickles, and green onions, mixing it well. A cup of hot tea to accompany my salad and I was set.
Everything went out onto the deck, including today's paper which I had not yet opened. I had a lovely quiet hour and felt all was quite well in my world, in spite of what I read in the paper ... all that "trumped" up stuff in the news, people writing to the advice columnist about horrible problems, sadness and grief ... somehow it didn't bother me. It was spring and I had potato salad out on the deck!

Of course, I had to go for a walk after indulging myself. It was dusk before I found time to walk around the nearby lake. The sky was a beautiful slate color with a hint of pink, just after sunset. Trees were in various stages of leafing, and a bird was just going crazy, singing its heart out at the top of a tree.

I noticed a sea gull swooping down and saw it had something in its beak. I wondered what it was. Moving closer, I noticed it was a small fish, about the length of my hand. I wanted to take a picture, but I got too close and it fled to the other side of the lake. There it stood and gorged itself. Kind of like me with my potato salad, I thought. 

On my way back, just as I was about to cross the road, I saw an elderly man wheeling a barbecue down the sidewalk. I silently hoped that he would not be eating the meal he was planning to barbecue all by himself. The sea gull and I could have joined him with our potato salad and fish! What a hilarious time we would have had! And what stories we could have told each other! But that's for another time. Today was my day for me and my potato salad!

Spring has sprung!

Footcare

A memory I cherish from my childhood is that of my great-uncle John helping us children with a bedtime ritual. He and my widowed grandmother lived together out in the country and came to visit us in town once a week. Before we children went to bed (we only had baths on Saturday evening), he took a towel and lovingly washed and dried our feet. I'll never forget his respectful way of handling my dirty feet. 

Growing up as the second of eight children, another memory is that of my mother complaining about how much her feet ached. Small wonder since she was on them most of the day! Mom often spoke of a burning sensation in her feet. She also suffered from bunions (a bone spur at the base of the big toe) which she had inherited from her mother.

In her later years, my mother went to a reflexologist to have her feet massaged. I suspect that it was just as much about actually sitting down and having someone else look after her in a gentle and caring manner as it was about getting treatment for her feet. 

Wikipedia defines reflexology as "a gentle manipulation or pressing on certain parts of the foot to produce an effect elsewhere on the body." It also makes the statement that "there is no convincing evidence that reflexology is effective for any medical condition." Perhaps there isn't. I do, however, remember how much better my Mom felt after one of these reflexology sessions. Elda Rempel, her reflexologist, spoke Mom's heart language (Plautdietsch). She also had a great sense of humor and a very loving and generous heart. After she massaged Mom's feet, she cut Dad's toenails!

I too have the misfortune of having inherited the bunions, and I now know what my mother was talking about. I first began to notice my aching feet when I visited New York City with our middle daughter about 15 years ago. We were on our feet all day long ... and I should have had better footwear.

Today, Hardy and I also go to Elda for reflexology treatments. We always leave her place feeling rejuvenated, relaxed and refreshed. Elda has a way of making people feel that way, and it's not just about the feet! It's also the listening ear, the sense of humor, and the personal touch.

I recently read an article in the Winnipeg Free Press about a nurse, Kirsten Bourque, who volunteers to care for the feet of inner-city street people. 

"Every second Wednesday, she provides basic foot care in a non-judgmental manner to anyone who stops by. She also teaches foot care to people who are at risk of amputations due to diabetic foot complications."

The 36-year-old says, "There are hundreds of people who do volunteer work in the inner city. I just show up, drink coffee ... and cut toenails."

I wish that I could meet more people like Uncle John, Elda, and Kirsten, in the medical profession!

The Bible speaks to us of washing one another's feet:

"On the evening Jesus was betrayed, he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples' feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him ... . 'Do you understand what I have done for you?' he asked them ... . 'Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another's feet.'" (John 13.5,12,14).

I'm inclined to think that if we all took care of each other's feet, this world would become a better place!

Season of Farewells

Let me just start with a confession:

I have too many books. 

There, I've said it! They are well organized in our bookshelves according to author and subject. Most of them have been read and many are marked up. I always read with pencil in hand. 

For me there can never be too many books, but there will come a time when they will be a burden to someone else unless I take care of them. Also, the bookshelves are getting too full.

It is time to do something about it.

We gave away many books when we moved here from Kitchener in 2008, and now we must do it again. The last few weeks we have been sorting, boxing, and emailing to try to find new homes for our treasures. There is room in the bookshelves again; hopefully we can keep it that way!

As I cleared out my shelves, I recalled the time when I was a student at the University of Waterloo. One of the retired professors, who still had an office in the department he had chaired for many years, had passed away. Within a day everything in his office was gone. I remember the shock I felt at how quickly a life passes into oblivion.

We spring up like wildflowers in the desert and then wilt,

transient as the shadow of a cloud.  [Job 14.2]

Just recently the world lost someone special who entertained many with his gentle humor and wit --Stuart McLean, the storyteller on CBC's Vinyl Cafe. I remember so well how our family used to listen to him on our way home from church. One morning, as we got into the car, Hardy couldn't locate his glasses. One of the children actually saw them lying in the snow a few feet away. He had put them on the hood of the car and they had slid off as we began driving away. He had lost several things that way and we all thought that, with a bit of embellishment, this would have been a good Stuart McLean story! Stuart's memory lives on in the stories he told.

Another tug at my heartstrings is the imminent closing of the seventy-year-old Mitchell Fabrics on Main St. in Winnipeg. My mother was a seamstress and that is where she went to get her supplies. Etched in my memory is the day she and I went in there to purchase the material for my wedding dress as well as for the dresses of my attendants. She was going to sew them all. We chose a dark blue velvet for the bridesmaids' dresses and some beautiful white silk with flowered appliqués for my wedding gown. I was the first one in our family to get married, and we were all new at this. 

                                                                                                                     

Two of my sisters in their blue velvet gowns

Today, every time Hardy and I drive by Mitchells, we remember our youth and our young love, and we look at each other in wonder: 

Has it really been that long? Where have all those years gone?

Forty-nine years ago we made a promise to each other

Hardy and I have just returned from a trip to Ontario to visit with our middle daughter and her family during spring break. We had a rollicking good time with our four grandchildren, ages 7-14. On our last morning, when it was time for them to go back to school on the bus, they begged us to stay longer. They clung to us. "We will see each other again in spring," we told them. "Just stay until spring, don't go," they cried. "But we must go, and you must stay," we told them. 

We wonder what their lives will be like, and how much of what they experience we will experience with them.

                 

I have decided not to be too sad or melancholy about the disappearance of things dear to my heart. Instead, with Winnie the Pooh, I say:

"How lucky I am to have something [or someone] that makes saying goodbye so hard."