A Miracle

It was bitter cold on January 13, 1968, the day two people made a promise to each other to stay together "in sickness and health until death doth us part."  Fifty years later (Jan. 13, 2018), Hardy and I are still together.

To this day we consider it a miracle; we cannot possibly see it any other way. Two people, looking for love, somehow find each other and stay together for 50 years! That's pretty amazing. What's even more astonishing is how it came about.

Our engagement in September 1967

After I graduated from high school (in Didsbury, Alberta), I came to Winnipeg and lived here a year until the rest of our family joined me (see my blog post, "Heimweh," March 11, 2016). 

My first job was at Christian Press, a bookstore and printing press. A big section of the store dealt with German books and I was hired because I knew the language. The Mennonite Brethren Bible College was located a few blocks away and we handled the textbook orders for the college. 

I had  left all my high school friends behind in Alberta, and I was lonely. I needed a social life. So I took note of the male students who came into the store. But I was shy and no one seemed interested in me. One of the fellows "of interest" reminded me of my father because he was sociable and friendly and short like Dad. Also, he spoke German with our bookstore manager ... hmm ... .

Then he didn't appear anymore. I asked our bookkeeper about him and he told me that he had gone to Ontario to complete his degree in theology. Oh well ... Ontario seemed like another part of the world ... .

That spring my sister and I were baptized and joined the Mennonite church close to our home. It was a solemn occasion, a time when we promised to stay true to God and the church, and were able to participate in communion with the rest of the congregation. Before communion, the pastor encouraged each of us newly baptized members to ask God to guide us in our future endeavours. He said we should not hesitate to be specific. So I decided to be specific with God! I told God that I was looking for a life partner and that I was interested in marrying a pastor or a missionary. But if that was not God's plan for my life, I would be okay with that, too. A strange peace came over me and I felt that whatever would be would be, and I didn't have to worry anymore.

A few days later I received a lovely card from that friendly guy who had gone off to seminary in Ontario, congratulating me on my baptism. Two weeks after that I received a postcard from Switzerland.
I was puzzled. How did he even know I was baptized, and what was he doing in Switzerland?

The two postcards that mystified and excited me

It turned out that our bookkeeper at Christian Press had told him that I had inquired of his whereabouts and he had also told him about my baptism. In fact, unbeknownst to me, Hardy had actually been present at my baptism just days before he flew to Europe for the summer to do some voluntary service! 

At the end of the summer Hardy returned and we went on our first date. That evening he informed me that the next day he was scheduled to go to Congo for two years to participate in the translation of the Old Testament into an African trade language. Could we stay in touch?

We began a two-year correspondence, and at the end of those two years we were committed to each other. 
The word "coincidence" was not on our radar. We considered it nothing short of a miracle. I believe that has been the glue that has kept us together all these years, through the many ups and downs of our relationship. 

Hardy gave me this poem a long time ago, before we had any idea about what life would throw at us. I have kept it in my album all these years.

Purpose

A phrase I heard often in my childhood was, "You did it on purpose!"  This meant I was accused of deliberately causing whatever incident had happened; it had been no accident. My apology was not accepted because I had acted wilfully!

Purpose is the word I was given for 2018 by my church fellowship. Although I picked the word from a bag containing many other words, it seems to have chosen me. It has been 'whispering' to me ever since, almost like an earworm! Sometimes I hear it as produce, perform, propose, or even purchase.  But I recognize these as distortions of the word.  I think perhaps they are words that offer an easier way, words that entice me (according to my Enneagram personality type).

A question I ask myself:

How do I stay true to this word? How do I flesh out its meaning for my life this year? 

I must admit that 2018 for me did not begin with purpose but rather with a nasty cold that was quite debilitating and left me helplessly stranded on the couch with nothing I could do, certainly nothing that had purpose (except perhaps to get better by resting!). At night I felt myself dealing with insomnia, so I did a lot of reading. Through my reading I heard some wise voices that calmed  my earworm:

"[T]he fundamental experience of God is one of being at peace and unafraid since God is so much stronger than everything else." (Marcus Peter Rempel, in Life at the End of Us vs. Them, quoting James Alison's interpretation of the prophet Isaiah's encounter with the divine, p. 213)

That statement gave me cause for some reflection and a gradual sense of peace about my word and its implications. It also reminded me of the strong and courageous women portrayed in a coffee-table book of paintings and stories by the artist Ray Dirks and a group of people who desired to honour their mothers and grandmothers for their courage and faith at a time when their world was falling apart.

As I gazed at their faces and read their stories (including those of my great-grandmother, grandmother and mother), I wondered what these women would have thought of the word purpose when their loved ones were taken from them, their homes plundered and burned, and their lives in danger.

Continuing to quote from Rempel: "[T]he marker of genuine encounter with the Great Mystery is this fundamental experience of peace -- and a resulting peaceableness of character. When the well is deep, all drink from the same great aquifer. But deep wells are not arrived at by scratching a little here and a little there. They are the product of long digging in one place. Deep wells are dug by people who choose a home." (Ibid.)

What home could these women choose when they really had no choice?  

They chose, first of all, to be at home in God, the eternal. They did this with determination and purpose.

That is one thing I can do. 

"The process of life demands that some things pass away to make room for others. The leaves fall, to be replaced, next spring, by new buds. Generation succeeds generation. Last year's dying fruit is this year's seed. It is the pattern of the creation.
But God never departs.  . . .  In [God] is a rest which cannot be disturbed, a love which lasts forever." (Augustine of Hippo)

The Meaning of Gifts

When we give something to someone we enter into a many-sided relationship, for in return we hope for the gift of love. (Paul Tournier)

We are in the month of December, the time of gift-giving. Recently, while shopping for Christmas gifts, I went to a craft sale where I saw the most amazing thing. A young Aboriginal woman was making dream catchers. I glanced at them, then stopped and looked again. There was something strangely familiar about these dream catchers. Inside the top circle were hand crocheted doilies that looked identical to the ones my Mennonite mother and grandmother used to make, as did most of their friends. 
I was astonished. I asked the artist if she had crocheted these doilies herself, and she smiled and told me she had obtained them at a thrift store. It just so happened that I had recently given all the doilies I had kept over the years to our local MCC thrift store. What a gift it was to me to realize that these doilies were being used and appreciated, and that some of mine might even be among them! I wondered what my mother and grandmother would think about that, and it made me smile. 

Following my haircut yesterday, the hairdresser gave me a gift. It was a pocket calendar for the new year and a pen to go with it, something they give to their clients every year at this time. Although I thanked her and told her it was my first Christmas present this year, subconsciously I thought, "I don't really need this calendar and we have so many pens already." I paid for my haircut and was about to leave when the hairdresser called out and said, "You forgot your gift," and handed me the calendar. 

When I got home I looked at the gift from my hairdresser again. I saw it from a different perspective. The black and white pen and the marbled black cover of the calendar were actually quite classy. How amazed and intrigued I would have been had I  received this calendar and pen as a school child in Paraguay. I realize how jaded I have become in this North American culture where everything is readily available.

Recently, as I was going through some of my mother's correspondence, I came across an interesting card. It was a Christmas card from Ukraine, sent to my grandmother by her oldest son from whom she was separated for many years. I can imagine how joyfully she accepted this gift from someone she had longed to communicate with for so many years.

The other day I received an e-mail from a friend; it is a gift I treasure because it validates something I love to do. She wrote:

Just a quick note to tell you how much your blog posts mean to me. I continually go back to them when looking for a life lesson or a pick-me-up . . . or things that simply bring me joy to read. The stories of your life are so fascinating. Please don’t ever stop writing. In fact I think you should write a book about your life. It would surely be a bestseller! 

I have given her the gift of my thoughts and experiences and she has given me the gift of appreciation and acknowledgement.

One of my favorite writers, Paul Tournier, wrote a booklet entitled The Meaning of Gifts (John Knox Press, 1964;  translated from the French, Des Cadeaux, Pourquoi ?).

He writes: Let us not underrate the joy of giving or the joy of receiving, for these are indissolubly related, and both symbolize the joy of loving and the joy of being loved. 

Christmas is a time to give each other the gift of unconditional love, modeled by a little child whose birth we still celebrate after more than two thousand years.

For a child will be born to us, a son will be given to us; and the government will rest on his shoulders; and his name will be called Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. (Isaiah 9:6)

Final Preparations

Every year at this time we come face to face with the season of dying. Every year it seems to come as a surprise, as if we never experienced it before. Those of us who are not fond of winter look out of our windows with disgust and loathing on our faces. 

What is that white stuff coming at us all of a sudden? It's not even Halloween yet! We didn't have a long enough season to prepare ourselves for this onslaught! Why is it suddenly so cold? Where did we put our winter boots last spring? I only have one winter glove, the other one fell out of the car last spring and we've forgotten all about it.

Those who love winter just smile and open their arms to it. Their Christmas lights were put up well ahead of time when the weather was still bearable. Their winter boots are nicely arranged at the side entrance, and their gloves and toques are placed in a basket in the closet ready for the winter adventures.  

Some of us are in the autumn season of our lives. Even though we have watched our parents and other loved ones live through their final days, most of us don't accept the fact that some day we will experience this as well. How do we prepare for that "some day" as it approaches?

Our family spent many years in the (Belgian) Congo. There we had ample opportunity to become familiar with death in all its raw forms. I was pregnant when we arrived in January 1969. We lost our baby son that May (see blog posting of June 2014).
http://ens-intransit.blogspot.ca/2014/06/remembering-is-way-of-meeting.html

This personal experience prepared me more than anything else for some of the cultural responses to death. I saw that my Western co-workers were not good at it. Some avoided me altogether. Others prepared a birthday cake for me (it happened close to my 26th birthday) and acted cheerful. Others told me it was probably best, because he might have been born with defects (he wasn't).

I shared two experiences of how the Congolese deal with death in Doris Janzen Longacre's book Living More With Less (1980, pp.193-194). 

One who comforted me most was an African cleaning woman who came into my hospital room. This is what I wrote:

While I was alone in the hospital room trying to come to grips with what had happened, a middle-aged African cleaning woman came quietly into the room. As she began cleaning she turned to me and said a few words in a language I didn't understand. I shrugged my shoulders to indicate that I didn't know what she was saying. She reverted to sign language and now I knew she was asking about my baby. How was I to tell her that he had died? I tried, then just shook my head. Overcome with grief, I burst into tears. Her eyes told me that she understood. She was a complete stranger and yet she began to weep with me. As she went about her work she mourned softly. Her caring comforted me.

I also described another experience I had sometime later:

As I sat on my veranda overlooking the street below, I suddenly heard a wailing that gripped my heart and stopped my breath. A woman, stripped to the waist, with ashes falling from her disheveled hair, stumbled down the street. Other women were supporting her but her anguish seemed too deep to share. As they moved toward the river, the wailing increased. I recalled that the day before a teenage boy had drowned in that river. The men were still searching for his body, This was his mother. 

In the article I share that this woman was a Christian and that later at the church funeral she was calm and serene, but on this day she expressed her grief in her own way. 

After living in Congo for a longer time, I learned that the culture requires people to wail and grieve loudly so that they will not be accused of having caused the death.

In Africa, death is a fact and treated as such. There is no hiding behind soft music and heavily perfumed flowers. There is usually an all-night wake where singing and wailing take place.

A book review in the Winnipeg Free Press by Jura Koncius (Oct. 16, 2017) informs us that the Swedes are practical when it comes to death preparations. Entitled Leaving One Less Burden, the reviewer recommends that we "take a lesson from the Swedes and toss unnecessary trash before you die." The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning (love that title!), written by the 80-ish artist Margareta Magnusson, will be published in North America in January.

Koncius writes: The main message from this mother of five is: take responsibility for your items and don't leave them as a burden for family and friends. It's not fair. . . . The concept of decluttering before you die, a process called "dostadning," is part of Swedish culture. (It comes from the Swedish words for death and cleaning.) . . . Magnusson suggests that 65 is a good time to start death cleaning, but the process is freeing at any age.

I take some comfort in the fact that I was 65 when we moved from Ontario to Manitoba and really cleaned up a lot of clutter that had accumulated over twenty-four years of family life. At that time I was not familiar with the term death cleaning, I just knew that we couldn't possibly take all that stuff along! However, accumulation is well on its way again. I must begin my dostadning soon (a.k.a decluttering or The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up (see blog posting of July 2015):
http://ens-intransit.blogspot.ca/2015/07/life-changing-magic.html

Most of the Congolese people I remember would not relate to this Western concept of decluttering, since they live simply from day to day. However, we certainly can learn something about how they deal with death; they experience it more frequently than we do.

Can you relate some of your experiences in which you have observed how people prepare or refuse to prepare for their final moments?

A message of comfort and hope:

Just remember in the winter 

Far beneath the bitter snows

Lies the seed that with the sun's love

In the spring becomes the rose.

I Forgive You

It was a balmy autumn evening and after supper Hardy and I decided to go for a walk around the lake near our home. Sunsets in fall are spectacular here in Manitoba and it is awesome to watch the geese gathering on the lake, calling to each other as they prepare for their long journey south.

I was a little out of sorts by a conversation that took place just before we left and it was interfering with my enjoyment of the time we had together. Then I saw something on a tree stump close to where we were walking: a small stone painted orange with three little words written on it in black marker: 

I don't know who left it there or for whom it was intended, but it certainly was a poignant reminder to me about how I need to say these words more often.

As we passed the tree stump again on our way home a family with two children came by. The little boy saw the rock, excitedly picked it up and ran to show his mother. She was preoccupied and didn't pay attention to him. He slipped it into his pocket and ran off. I wanted to tell him to leave the stone on the stump so that others could see it. But then I thought, "That stone will do its work no matter where it is."

A few months ago I received a call from someone who wanted some translation work done. Donna said she had some old German letters in a box her father had left her and she couldn't read them. I invited her to come with the box and we would look at the letters together. Some time later she arrived with a beautiful box and we pulled out old letters, boarding tickets, etc. 

Donna's father had immigrated to Canada from Germany. Most of his relatives remained in Germany and the Soviet Union and they corresponded with each other. He told his daughter that the box and its contents were his most precious possession and she should take good care of it. 
To her it embodied all the love her father had showered on her; unlike her mother who had physically abused her from the time she was an infant. As a result she suffers from epilepsy. She shared all this with me, but there was no bitterness or malice toward her mother. She had taken counselling and worked through her problems. She has a loving and supportive husband and because she cannot go out to work due to her seizures, she spends her time at home making jewellery which she sells at craft sales.

A lovely necklace I received as a gift from Donna

Last weekend Hardy and I attended the last sessions of a Mennonite writers conference at the University of Winnipeg (Mennonite/s Writing VIII). We were privileged to hear presentations by Di Brandt, Jeff Gundy, Miriam Toews, and Rhoda Janzen. They were all wonderfully enriching. Toews and Janzen spoke of using humour as a useful literary tool to work through dark times. Even as a child, Miriam used humor to try to help the family cope when her father and her sister succumbed to depression. Eventually, both her father (a well-loved high school teacher) and her sister were not able to overcome the darkness and took their own lives. 

Sitting beside me listening to these presentations was an elderly woman. My first impression of her was that of a happy person who enjoyed life. While chatting with her, I soon realized that I was sitting beside Miriam's mother. She is one of the most delightful people I have ever met!  Her face looked like an apple, all wrinkled and round. Her eyes twinkled, and she was always laughing. She told me that she lives with Miriam and her family in Toronto; she lives upstairs and Miriam's family lives downstairs. They often eat breakfast and also dinner together. For having had so much sadness in her life, she seems like an extremely resilient woman.
Forgiveness must certainly have played a part in that.

We cannot walk through life without experiences that cause pain, some to a lesser degree than others. Some are self-inflicted and then we need to forgive ourselves. Others are caused by people we love or by circumstances beyond our control. There are many stories. 

An African pastor shared with me recently that in Rwanda a woman who is a survivor of the 1994 genocide told him that forgiving is about the victim's sanity. We need to forgive those who have hurt us so that we can be healed. This is not an easy thing to do and that is why it needs to be practiced continuously. 

When Peter asked Jesus if he had to forgive someone seven times, Jesus said, "Not seven times but seventy times seven." (Matthew 18.21-22).

Someone who has taught me much about forgiveness is Wilma Derksen whose thirteen-year-old daughter Candace disappeared in November 1984. Seven weeks later her body was found in a shed, bound and frozen. I recommend reading her latest book:

Try to Remember the Days of September

It seems to me that September is almost more like the beginning of a new year than January, especially if you are involved in school. There are new clothes, new books, new teachers, new classmates, etc.

When I think back to my own school experience, and especially to new beginnings, an incident in Grade 3 stands out for me and I remember it as if it happened yesterday.  

It was 1953. A year earlier our family had arrived in Canada from Paraguay and that first year my siblings and I attended a little country school in Alberta within walking distance of our house. Most of the children in that school were Mennonite and so was the teacher who was my mother's cousin.
(See blog post of Sept.1, 2015  >>  http://ens-intransit.blogspot.ca/2015/09/two-little-words.html/ .)

When that year was done, I understood English but wasn't yet speaking it. Our family moved into a small town (Didsbury) where my father found work in a dairy. For us children it meant a new school in town and more adjustments. My mother's work was to feed and dress seven children and keep the household running. She also took in sewing and alterations from people in town. Often they would give her used clothes and she would remake them to fit us. She was an excellent seamstress and this saved a lot of money. However, we were still new to Canada and she wasn't always aware of the latest trends. Winters were cold and we had a half hour walk to school. Mom made me a jacket with a fur collar and a fur-lined hat. It was warm and cozy but I did receive some remarks from classmates that weren't exactly flattering.

My siblings and I on our way to school. I'm on the right in the back with my fur collar and fur-lined hat.

I was very fortunate to have Miss Margaret Robertson as my teacher. She was young, with short dark brown hair, thick-lensed glasses and a lot of lipstick. She had a warm and tender heart for children and was very sensitive to their needs. I will always be grateful to her for what she did for me that year.

To get the class off to a good start in the morning we had "show-and-tell" and anyone could volunteer to share something special with the class. I so badly wanted to participate but I was afraid to use the English words, knowing that they would come out wrong and people would laugh at me. Being the sensitive teacher that she was, Miss Robertson knew this about me. She also knew that some children had made comments about my fur collar. 

One morning during show-and-tell she called me to the front. That day I was wearing a blue-checked dress with a blue taffeta vest which my mother had made recently. I'm wearing it for our class picture (below center).

Miss Robertson told the class to look at my dress carefully because it was very special. She asked if anyone had ever seen it in a store. No one had. She said it was because there was only one dress like it in the whole world and I was wearing it; my mother had made it for me. The class responded with great amazement and applause.

I was suddenly very special in the eyes of my classmates, and that year I was invited to the birthday party of the principal's daughter who was in my class. The principal, Mr. Wiggins, was also the town photographer and took the photo above. The birthday girl is on the left in the back row, seated. I am second from the right in the back row. My mother made that dress for me as well. It was pink with black velvet ribbons.

Miss Robertson also picked me to be a flower in a play about Little Red Riding Hood. I was so happy to be a flower because Miss Robertson told the class that flowers were beautiful and smelled nice! I felt so lovely that day! I am second from the left in the front row.

Kind teachers who are understanding and loving are so important in the life of a child. I wish I could tell Miss Robertson what an influence she had on my life. This post is dedicated to her, as a thank-you.

Do you know someone like Miss Robertson? Or, perhaps you have had a teacher who had a very negative influence on you. How did that affect you? It would be interesting to hear your story!

Try to remember the kind of September

When life was slow and oh, so mellow.

Try to remember the kind of September

When grass was green and grain was yellow

..........

Deep in December it's nice to remember

The fire of September that made us mellow ...

[ http://www.streetdirectory.com/lyricadvisor/song/uuaac/try_to_remember/ ]

Life Begins at Eighty

A couple of years ago when I turned 70, I suddenly felt "now I really am a senior!"  I re-called how shocked I had been when a dear older friend of ours turned 70, and now it was my turn. My sister assured me that it was just a number and life would go on as usual. Which it did! Being in good health, the changes were so gradual I hardly noticed them.

This year I face another significant milestone. My life partner is going to be 80 in September. As the autumn months approach, so does the autumn of his life. He has had a few health issues after age 77, but they are manageable. Just recently I heard a CBC announcer who was interviewing an elderly person declare: "Life begins at 80!" 

I thought, "really? Is that even being realistic? Isn't it pain and sorrow that begin at 80?"

Actually, when pondering this thought, I realized that pain and sorrow are with us from the day we are born. We arrive ... helpless, naked and vulnerable. We can do nothing for ourselves and we are totally dependent on those around us. If we have loving nurturers, we grow and blossom, and we forget how vulnerable we really are. As teenagers, our changing bodies make us feel uncertain and scared. We are thrust into life -- life that calls for independent thinking and decision-making, where we choose the direction to take (or we just sort of drift along!).

In between youth and old age lies the 'filling of the sandwich': the time we raise our children, find fulfillment in our careers, work hard at living. We somehow feel this phase will last forever ... but suddenly it stops. Dependents leave the nest, parents pass away, loved ones leave us. Now what?

Robert Browning (1812-1889), in his long poem about life and aging (Rabbi Ben Ezra, 35+ stanzas), expresses it much more succinctly than I can:

"The last of life for which the first was made."

As I read these words by Browning, I'm gazing at a beautiful picture of a woman featured in the Winnipeg Free Press (of Friday, August 25) who is 111 years old. Sarah Harper is listed as the third oldest person in Canada on Wikipedia's list of Canadian super-centenarians. (Gerald Kuehl wrote her story in Portraits of the North, 2005.) In the Free Press article he is quoted as saying: 

"I remember what stood out was the quiet elegance of this woman with the dark intelligent eyes. She has much wisdom from now over 110 years of experience and reflection. She was raised in the traditional lifestyle of her people and did not attend residential school. She lived through very tough times with her people, a period when, as she said, 'it was always difficult getting enough to eat.'"

                                                Grow old along with me!

                                                The best is yet to be,

                                                The last of life for which the first was made:

                                                Our times are in [God's] hand

                                                Who saith, "A whole I planned, 

                                                Youth shows but half; trust God:

                                                See all, nor be afraid!"