A Prayer for Peace

Like most of us, my thoughts these days have been on Ukraine and the horrific slaughter that is happening there. Even though I have no memory of it, Ukraine is the country of my birth. In October 1943, when I was only four and a half months old, our family had to leave under similar circumstances as people are leaving now -- very quickly and with only the barest necessities. We were fortunate to be able to travel by train, as many fled on foot and died en route. Death and destruction were everywhere but I was safely tucked away at my mother's breast, unaware of the danger in which we found ourselves. My two-year-old brother was probably more aware, as were my parents, my grandmother, and my two teenage uncles travelling with us.

That was a long time ago. In 2012 Hardy and I went to Poland and Ukraine to visit the countries of our birth. I will never forget Kyiv and its ornate monasteries that looked like something out of a fairy tale with their colorful domes. 

The Monastery of the Caves has a special memory for me. I somehow got separated from the tour group but found my way back. The Ukrainian guide told me that the group was inside the caves and that I would find my friends there. I wandered around in the labyrinth of mummified bodies and felt pure panic and claustrophobia. Finally, I saw the light of day and the tour group was already outside! I was so happy to return to the land of the living! It felt like a resurrection!

We will be celebrating Christ's resurrection this month and I can't wait for Easter after so much snow. We already spotted a single robin last week, and the next day a whole flock of them settled on a nesting spot occupied by robins last year. They are brave to come when there is still snow everywhere!

This bright yellow gerbera reminds me of the domes in Kyiv, and whenever I look at it I say a prayer that those beautiful monasteries will not be destroyed. The gerbera is a birthday present for our daughter, born in March, and when the warm spring air arrives she will plant it in her garden and together we will continue to pray for peace.

I dedicate this blog post to my former professor, friend, and encourager, the historian and archivist Lawrence Klippenstein. He was an expert on Ukraine and passed away at the beginning of March. He reached the age of 91 and was busy and occupied with projects until the end of his life. He never failed to send me an encouraging email after I posted my blog entries, even following my last one in March where he shared some memories of his childhood. May you rest in peace, good and faithful servant.

A Place of Peace and Rest

Our world seems to be in turmoil with wars and rumors of wars, viruses and variants of viruses that keep us from contact with our loved ones. We need to find a place of peace where our minds can rest. 

Just before the present crisis in Ukraine, I was immersed in a translation as well as a writing project the settings of both being in that country, so my mind was already there when the Russian invasion began.  

The translation I recently finished is a horrific account of a Mennonite man who was falsely accused and imprisoned by the NKVD (Soviet Secret Service). Miraculously he was freed and was able to write about his experience in great detail, even though one of the stipulations on setting him free was that he had to promise never to tell about what went on in prison. I am so grateful that he did decide to write about it, because it helped me understand what happened to my grandfather, Abram Kroeger, who had the same experience, but did not live to tell about it.    He died in prison, no doubt tortured and starved, an innocent victim. 

It was difficult for me to read this man's experiences and I'm sure that writing and thus reliving those events must have been a horrendous task for him. Many who lived through similar experiences and survived did not ever want to talk or write about them because it was too painful. However, I believe by recording his account the writer was released of a burden almost too great to bear. 

In an article in the Winnipeg Free Press (Feb.28, 2022 -- ironically the day before my grandfather's birthday!), Sabrina Carnevale writes an article about journaling:

Studies have found that writing in a journal can lead to better sleep, a stronger immune system, improved stress management and more self-confidence ... it is a tool for healing, growing and exploring ... a way of sorting through your thoughts. ... There is no right way to write ... there isn't a way to do it wrong ... [it] can be a life-changing habit.

I wish that my grandmother had kept a diary. She did have a little book given to her by her sister for Christmas in the 1920s. It was designed to be used as a place for recording important events such as deaths and birthdays. When she received that gift she was a happy young woman about to be married. Her family of origin left Ukraine but she and her husband decided to stay because they didn't want to leave their home. They had no idea of the tragedies that were about to fall on them.

     My mother entered her father's birthday in her mother's birthday book.
                                                    

In that same booklet I entered my grandfather's death by execution.

A couple of years ago my brothers took a trip to Ukraine and were able to access the files that showed our grandfather's execution in November of 1938 and also that he was exonerated of all crimes. (I wrote about this in a blog post on July 30, 2018, shortly after my brothers returned from their trip.)

The writing project I mentioned earlier has to do with my own family during that time in which my mother lost her father and eventually met her husband (my father). I wish I had diary entries but I can only go by oral history and by my imagination, as well as by research about those years.

                                

I have kept a diary since I left Canada for the Congo shorty after I got married. It was a great stress reliever. Above is a photo of the bookshelf holding my diaries. There are more! I can't believe I wrote that many! I know it was a healing process for me!

My blogger friend, Marian Beaman, often mentions her grandmother's and her aunt's diaries.
She delights in going through them, reliving that time in their lives and hers as a beloved granddaughter and niece. Their accounts were more about daily activities, the weather, etc.

This week Marian decided to feature the memoir I wrote for my grandchildren (about my early life as a child of refugees). You can access it by going into her link:

                        Marian Beaman Plain and Fancy Girl -- http://marianbeaman.com/

Another way of remembering, if you're not into writing, is to keep an object that reminds you of something, close at hand. During the January 6, 2021 attack on the U.S. capital in Washington DC, Rep. Dan Kildee, lying on the floor of the House gallery, picked up a shard of broken glass and has carried it daily since then "as a constant reminder in my pocket of the brutality of that day. We must have truth, we must have accountability," he says (Winnipeg Free Press, Jan.7, 2022).

In Sandra Birdsell's book The Russländer, a little girl, on the advice of her father, keeps a copy of the 23rd psalm in her pocket -- first of all as a reminder not to lose her temper, and later, during the horrors of the Stalinist era, as a source of comfort that she is not alone. I have committed that psalm to memory and often recite it when I go on my daily walk.

       

                           We all need to find a place of peace where our minds can rest. 

What do you do in order to relax and ease the tension in your life? Have you kept a diary or perhaps an object that calms you?

A Light Along the Path

This winter seems especially long and dreary. The month of January
is over! One month less of winter, but two more months to go!
We received several calendars as Christmas gifts and I'm turning my calendar page to February today.
This calendar has a Scripture verse at the top of each page and I read the verse every morning when I get up. The Scripture for February reads:

I think about the long road I have already travelled and how desperately I prayed this prayer at different times in my life when I wasn't sure and had to make difficult choices. 

Recently, as I was looking at a snow globe which I put out every Christmas, I noticed something interesting. The small ornament of a girl reading a book which I had set beside the snow globe had a light shining on the page she was reading. If you look carefully at the photo below, you can see it on the open book.

Where did that light come from? 

It seemed like a message of hope for me: 

Show me the right path ... Lead me by your truth. 

After some puzzlement I realized there was quite a simple explanation. The light from the ceiling was reflected through the globe onto the book. 

One could dismiss this as an ordinary occurrence or see the miraculous in it. I choose the latter. What often seems ordinary to us is actually quite extraordinary if we are open to it. We can learn from little children. Because they are so new to this world, they are always amazed at what we have come to accept as ordinary. 

Someone has written so aptly:
"When we grow up we must never forget that hidden down deep within us is our forever inner child. Forever waiting, forever hoping that one day we shall remember it."

This past year I've been reflecting quite a bit on my inner child as I set down memories of my childhood for my grandchildren in the form of a memoir. They each got one for Christmas. Below is granddaughter Sasha with her copy.

God sees the little sparrow fall, it meets his tender view;

if God so loves the little birds, I know he loves me too.

We Are What We Choose to Remember

When sending my writing out into the world, I have no idea how it is going to affect other people and I am often surprised at comments that come my way. 

In April 2018 I wrote a blog post about the Greek singer, Nana Mouskouri, and her amazing energy. At age 83 she was doing a 14-day cross-Canada tour.  After I published the post, I received a long and emotional response from Hardy's cousin, Klaus Froese, in Germany. 

Both Klaus and Hardy enjoyed working in other cultures in their younger years; Klaus with MCC in Greece and Hardy with our church's board of missions in RD Congo. Their friendly outgoing nature, their love of languages, and their adaptability to difficult circumstances were an asset. 

In his long email comment, Klaus told me how Mouskouri's music had affected him after he left Greece. The people he had worked with gave him a bouquet of white roses as a farewell gift before he returned to Germany. Soon after he arrived back home, he went to get a haircut. In the barber shop the barber was playing Nana Mouskouri's "Weiße Rosen aus Athen" [White Roses from Athens]. Klaus was overcome with emotion and tears began streaming down his face. 

Now a 79-year-old man, Klaus recalled this moment of his youth as if it happened yesterday -- and his emotions welled to the surface once again!

https://youtu.be/fDV98mkueYU

Hardy and Klaus were very much alike and they remained in touch throughout their lives, first by visits and later by phone. Had it not been for World War II, the cousins would have grown up together. When they were five and seven years old, Klaus's family remained in Germany and Hardy's family emigrated to Canada.

In July, Klaus experienced a sudden weakness in his spinal chord and soon he was unable to hold up his head. Sadly (and far too soon), he passed away in November at age 82. We will miss his friendship and I will miss his enthusiastic support.

Klaus eating a last meal, his favourite potato salad.
After this meal, he was put on fluids because he lost his ability to swallow.

I recall a visit with Klaus and his wife Gudrun in Germany in 2011. We were in a beautiful park in the city of Hannover. As we left the park, we passed the main building. On the steps lay an empty wine glass. Klaus picked it up and handed it to me. "Keep it as a memory of your visit," he said with a smile. I still have it, and whenever I see it I remember our visit to Hannover. 

Do you have memories that make you smile, laugh or weep?

This blog post is dedicated to Klaus,
who was one of my most faithful readers.

 

Toni From Montana

Christmas is around the corner! It seems early this year as we already celebrated the first Advent Sunday at the end of November!

Before the internet, this would be the time I would get out my Christmas cards or special stationery and begin to write a letter, reviewing our family's activities throughout the year. Sometimes I just sent cards and wrote a letter in the new year, but there was always a letter!

That doesn't happen anymore. Letter writing is a thing of the past and I must say I miss it. It's so convenient to send off a quick email. Even if I want to convey more than a short hello, an email doesn't require a stamp or a trip to the post office, and the answer is minutes away, depending on the person at the other end, of course! I still walk to the mailbox a block away every day with a sense of anticipation, but personal missives are seldom found there!

Recently I read an article in the Winnipeg Free Press that sparked a memory for me. 

The Free Press published a photo of two girls (Margaret Hunt, left, and Marion Sheppard, right), taken in 1960. Both were born on the same day of the same year on farms 500 kilometers apart and have been writing to each other since 1951! They met several times over the years as well. They attended each others' weddings and exchanged photos of children and grandchildren.

I was probably 14 or 15 when I answered an ad in our church Sunday School paper requesting a pen pal. Her name was Toni Adkins and she lived in Montana. Unlike the girls in the picture above, we never met physically, and our lives were quite different from each other. Toni's father was in the military and the family had moved a lot. My family was Mennonite and we were conscientious objectors, but we too, as refugees and immigrants, had done our share of moving. Toni was a black American and I was a white Canadian. 

We wrote to each other all through our high school years. We didn't write about our differences but rather about what we had in common as teenagers. I wish I had kept the letters but I didn't. Somewhere I have a picture of her wedding but I can't locate it. She had a huge wedding with a bunch of bridesmaids and best men. After she got married, we stopped writing. Life got busy and we moved on. 

I wish I could write Toni and thank her again for something special she did for me one Christmas. I didn't wear makeup, I knew my mother wouldn't approve and I wasn't particularly drawn to it, otherwise I probably would have. Toni's present to me that Christmas was a nail polish kit, with assorted colors of nail polish, nail polish remover, etc. It made me feel like a princess and I loved it. Mom never said a word when I used it. To this day I can't be bothered with makeup, but I do wear nail polish on special occasions! And when I do, I remember my friend Toni, who added sparkle to my life one Christmas!

What unexpected joy has been brought into your life 

this Advent/Christmas season? 

Pass it on!

Let Me See Your Face!

November has arrived and with it the end of such a lovely but too short fall season and the beginning of another winter with its sleet, ice, and snow. 

 

A Canada goose sits at the edge of the lake,
contemplating its long journey south ... and I want to go along!

A Blue Jay enjoys the seeds scattered on our deck table.
He's in it for the long haul, just like we are!

I bring in my favorite plants -- the geranium that outdid itself this year and the gerbera that is just full of buds. This season lends itself toward a mood of melancholy sadness but these flowers and the birds by my window will cheer
me up. 

Hardy was given the above item at a craft sale at our church some time ago by a person who was selling handcrafted jewellery. He thought it might be a rosary but the person who gave it to him said it was not.
A relative of ours who had spent time in Greece with MCC told us the string of beads was called a kompoloi or "worry beads". These beads do not have a religious or ceremonial meanning but are simply used to pass away time, guard against bad luck, or, if expensive, as a mark of power or social prestige. Hardy and
I have been using it after our breakfast devotions to remember friends and loved ones who have passed away as well as their families. We simply take one bead at a time, hold it between our fingers and whisper the name we are reminded of. It is strangely comforting. 

We have enjoyed getting together with our friendship/care group for the first time since the coronavirus hit us. I discovered a wonderful storybook for children, written by Douglas Wood, that teaches some profound truths and is beautifully illustrated by artist Jon J. Muth.
I wanted to use it for a sermon I was preparing for church and borrowed it from a friend, who brought it to our care group get-together. We had a delightful time listening to Yayoi, a Japanese Canadian poet, read this book to us. 

             

                                         

The book ends with the following advice the Old Turtle gives to the little girl of the story: "Remember this, little one. The Broken Truth, and life itself, will be mended only when one person meets another -- someone from a different place or with a different face or different ways -- and sees and hears ... herself. Only then will the people know that every person, every being, is important, and the world was made for each of us."

I was charmed by an eight-month-old little girl at church last Sunday, who, when I last saw her, was still so babyish and now has blossomed into this gorgeous, inquisitive, relational little being. She stared at me intensely for several minutes and when I asked her caregiver (the baby is a foster child) why she was doing that, she said, "She wants you to take off your mask. She has a thing about masks."

When I took off my mask, the baby broke into an amused grin and studied my face intensely, reacting to every expression! 
I'm still thinking about that, and how we all need to take off our masks (not the ones to prevent the COVID virus from spreading, but the ones behind which we hide our genuine selves) and become real to one another.

"A little child will lead them."  

 Happy November everyone!

"You're a Small Thing and You Must Learn to Fight."

Hardy and I enjoy birdwatching, but usually just from our vantage point at the kitchen table. We have a bird feeder hanging right where we can observe the birds while having our breakfast. During this Covid time, our morning meals have been more drawn out, as we aren't going anywhere most of the time! I keep a list of the birds we see.  Sparrows, chickadees, and juncos are our most frequent visitors during the winter, but in spring and fall we also have robins, woodpeckers, blackbirds, blue jays, and goldfinches stopping by.

Recently we had a visitor we have not seen here before and we were quite horrified.
Hardy was standing at the kitchen sink rinsing some dishes and I was reading the paper at the table when he called me with a sense of urgency in his voice: "Look out the window, Ellie, quickly!" I did, and this is what we saw:

                   

The photo is a bit grainy as it was taken through the window. It's a hawk sitting on a birdhouse on our deck railing. In its claws is a small sparrow, squirming in pain while its predator is kneading it !

I probably disturbed the hawk while taking the picture and it flew to the neighbors' yard where it sat on their shed roof, a dark and sinister shadow, devouring its prey. 

A phrase from Alfred, Lord Tennyson's (1809-1892) In Memoriam  (that long poem he wrote while grieving the death of his friend) came to mind: "Nature, red in tooth and claw." Tennyson's poem was published a decade before Charles Darwin's theory of evolution, but the phrase "Nature, red in tooth and claw" quickly became a slogan for those both in opposition and in favor of Darwin's theory. 

Tennyson asks: Are God and Nature then at strife, That Nature lends such evil dreams? 
So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life. 

His friend's death at the prime of life caused a crisis of faith in Tennyson's life. His way of coming to terms with it was to express himself in the form of a long poem.

While rereading the memoir I wrote for my grandchildren (Ellie's Story), I noticed that the mention of death and how I felt about it as a child occurs quite frequently. It is traumatic for children when they first become aware of their mortality, and I was perhaps exposed to it more as a child of refugees constantly fleeing for safety from one place to another. Gradually children learn to put that fear aside until they or their loved ones encounter death personally. The fear is often as bad or worse than the experience itself !

A book I am presently reading is Miriam Toews' Fight Night. The main character and narrator of the story is Swiv, a precocious nine-year-old girl about the age I am in the latter part of my memoir. She lives with her pregnant mother and her elderly grandmother; she is courageous but fearful. Both her mother and her grandmother have experienced the death of loved ones by suicide and Swiv absorbs their emotional pain in her small body. Toews' gritty humor helps me to enjoy this book with its dark undertones of fear, loss, and death.

    

Before reading Miriam Toews' latest book "Fight Night", I read Makhno and Memory by Sean Patterson. Patterson is a doctoral student exploring historical memory in Ukraine's Zaporizhia region over the course of the twentieth century.

"Nestor Makhno has been called a revolutionary anarchist, a peasant rebel, the Ukrainian Robin Hood, a mass murderer, a pogromist, and a devil," who was in conflict with the Mennonites in Southern Ukraine during the Russian Civil War (1917-21). In the autumn of 1919, Makhnovist troops and local peasant sympathizers murdered more than 800 Mennonites in a series of large-scale massacres. It was the beginning of a terrible time for my grandparents and my parents (the latter of whom were young children at the time). 

They were like the sparrow in the talons of the hawk.

However, there is another whole story of privileged landowners and poverty-ridden peasants that needs to be taken into account to put the whole event into perspective. Maybe Makhno was "the small thing" that had "learned to fight".

There are always two sides to a story and the hawk has his own tale !