Small Miracles

 When we  moved to Winnipeg from Ontario in 2008, the house we purchased had a large crawl space. Hardy looked at it and said "this would make a great play area for the grandchildren." And that's what it became until the youngest were in their teens, and even then they enjoyed going down there and having fun together. This wonderful place has now been dismantled and all the toys and mementos (except a few cherished ones that must stay in the family) have found a new home. 

It was a slow process and began like this

My nephew's wife is expecting their first child and there was going to be a shower. Instead of giving a card, a book donation was an option (used books were fine). I looked through all the books in the crawl space and found one about a dog called Farley (they are a dog loving family). My four sisters and I bought a baby carrying chair as a shower gift and wrapped it in an old quilt our mother had made. The Farley book went along as the card. 

That book was the first item to disappear from our crawl space and got me started on sorting, tossing and keeping. It was a big job as there was lots of stuff down there. I filled bins and bins and dragged them upstairs into the garage. Then I called a friend who runs a day care for her grandchildren. She had expressed interest and said her husband would come with his truck and pick it all up. And he did,  cheerfully loading it all up in his truck. I gave him some cookies! A small thank you for a big job done with a happy heart!

There were a few things I just couldn't part with. 

All the art work we did stayed up on the wall for now.

The table and chairs my great-uncle made for us when we were small will stay in the family.

And of course, some favorite books. A book lover like me finds it difficult to give them up!

Several weeks after that big job was done, our oldest daughter and her husband rented a wet vac and we cleaned all the carpets in the basement and the main floor. Then my daughter and I decided to go out for supper. She picked a place not far from where I live and off we went. When we arrived, I couldn't believe my eyes. It was the little restaurant where Hardy and I had our last meal out together! We had such a good time and it was a memory that stayed with me, even though I had forgotten which restaurant it was. We felt his presence there with us!

 My sister, who makes beautiful quilts made the wall hanging above. She wrote:

"This quilted dragonfly will remind me to embrace change with grace and gratitude and will remind me of the Holy Spirit in my life".

 

Let's Celebrate!

The month of June is well on its way and I am celebrating spring! Here in Manitoba it's a rainier, bleaker spring than usual, but it is spring, and I want to say yes to it. I tell myself that the rain will give the upcoming growth the necessary moisture to make it even more beautiful when the sun comes out. I go to my back yard and collect the first harbingers of spring: bleeding heart,  forget -me-nots and lily of the valley. 

 I place them in one of my favorite vases. This vase is quite old and there is a history that goes along with it.It comes from Aalsmeer, a town in North Holland, nicknamed the flower capital of the world! Hardy bought it in Europe in the spring and summer of 1965 when he was working for MCC. It was the summer before we got to know each other. He gave it to his aunt and inherited it when she passed away. There is a crack in it, but someone glued it back together again. I don't know who broke it and who fixed it, but it must have been a good glue, because the vase doesn't leak. It tells me that broken things (and broken hearts) can be mended and made useful again. I share this story with a granddaughter and promise to pass this beautiful treasure on to her some day. 

The lilac bush that Hardy and I dug up from my parents' garden a number of years ago is blooming more this spring than in the last few years. I remember the lilac hedge around my parental home and I celebrate their lives and their legacy. 

I wave goodbye to children and grandchildren who have come for a visit and have brightened my day. They are in the springtime of their lives and my joy and delight! I love to observe how they find their place in this world, and how each of the eight grandchildren has special memories of their Opa. 

Julia, who has been a camp counselor for several summers just recently got baptized at the camp. She told me that she wore her Opa's red and white plaid shirt over her bathing suit and that she found his hearing aid batteries in the pocket of that shirt, so she knew he was with her! As I was preparing this post, the photos below came up on my memory screen. Hardy is wearing the shirt that Julia chose to wear for her baptism! I celebrate this little miracle! 

In case you missed it, on the top left corner of the above photo  is a dragon fly, a special symbol of positive qualities such as courage, transformation, joy and adaptability.

A message from the book of Ecclesiastes 9:7-10:  

Seize life! Eat bread with gusto, Drink wine with a robust heart. Oh yes--God takes pleasure in your pleasure! Dress festively every morning. Don't skimp on colors and scarves. Relish life with the spouse you love each and every day of your precarious life. Each day is God's gift. It's all you get in exchange for the hard work of staying alive. Make the most of each one! Whatever turns up, grab it and do it. And heartily! This is your last and only chance at it, for there's neither work to do nor thoughts to think In the company of the dead, where you're most certainly headed. (Eugene H. Peterson, The Message)

In a Rejoice Devotional, Debora Carpeno writes:  

This life is full of uncertainty and death is inevitable. Yet, in the face of these realities, Ecclesiastes does not give in to despair. Instead it is a call to live life with fullness, joy and wisdom. Amid a turbulent world, and in the face of many choices, we must learn to allow ourselves to be calm, to rest and enjoy life.

Every day is a gift. Enjoy your gift! 

 

Season of Renewal

 

Spring has finally arrived, even in the frigid province of Manitoba! With it comes new life. The ever present sparrows now have to share their place at the bird feeder with the new arrivals. I never get tired of watching them as I eat my breakfast at the kitchen table facing a window into the back yard.

I wonder what this summer will be like, the first without my partner of almost fifty six years. I look forward to visiting grandchildren in Ontario that I haven't seen since last fall, a week at a cottage with family and perhaps a trip to Alberta. It will be a different summer than last years'.

In October I wrote a blog post about a package of letters husband Hardy and I wrote to each other while he was in Congo. Recently I came across some more letters that he wrote to his family the spring and summer before we met. They were written in his mother tongue (German). I found them interesting because he hardly ever mentioned this part of his life to me. Perhaps too many other exciting and life changing experiences washed this brief period away. I decided that it would be beneficial  for his daughters to read these letters and I translated them over a period of time, emailing them a letter whenever I finished translating one.

The spring and summer of 1963 Hardy got a job in Hybord, Manitoba. It was up north, close to Grand Rapids. 

Grand Rapids, Manitoba, Hydro Dam, $140,000 Project. (top photo)

Spillway at Grand Rapids Dam Project (photo below)

Again, just like when I read the letters I received from Congo, I felt as if he was in the room with me. I felt his presence. As was Hardy's habit, he carefully cut off the stamps from both his post cards and his envelopes and saved them. A grandson, who seems to be a lot like him, has inherited them.

I enjoyed reading and translating  these letters. They show Hardy's intimate relationship with his family, a relationship I was later privileged to share. An immigrant family, they lived in a two story house--the parents on the first floor, a single aunt and Hardy's Opa (grandpa) on the second floor, and Hardy and his brother on the third floor. Hardy was the last surviving member of this family.

 I realized once again how precious handwritten letters are and am wondering if we have lost something valuable in this computer age.

The weekend after I finished my translation project was a busy one spent with family and friends. I especially enjoyed an outing to one of the beautiful parks in Winnipeg, with my daughter. It was the park in which Hardy proposed to me and I took so long to reply that we were locked out and had to find a caretaker to let us exit the park!!

On Monday morning, however,  I felt depressed. At first I didn't understand why I felt this way after such a great weekend. Gradually it dawned on me. When I was translating Hardy's letters, I felt as if he was in the room with me. After the project was finished I once more keenly felt his absence in my life. 

This coming Saturday my sister and I are attending  a day long conference called Reclaiming Death--A Community Conversation. I'm not sure how this will affect me...

I have not yet graduated from the class called GRIEVING. It is long and intense! 

Thank you, my dear readers for being patient and walking this rocky path with me!

I Light A Candle

Since last September, when I said forever farewell to my life's partner, I have lit a candle every morning while I have my breakfast. Since our retirement this was always our time together. We discussed articles in the newspaper, talked about past events and our plans for the day, made to do lists and had devotions. Most of our days began like this for the last fifteen years. I realize now, what a privilege it was to have had that time and those years together, and I cherish them.

And so I light a candle...and I remember... 

 

I remember how we laughed when we received this gift and hung it up where we could see it to remind ourselves that neither of us should be a grumpy weed, and that we were both guilty of it at times! I think I should gift it back to whoever gave it to us because I now live alone and I can choose whether I want to be a grumpy weed or a beautiful flower! No one will call me on it! 

I recently found this cuckoo clock in a box in the garage. It was a wedding gift from my Oma, who wanted to remind us of time and its passing. We took this clock to Congo with us. Its call frightened a would be thief at night. We had it hanging in our home in Ontario where it called out faithfully for 24 years while our children grew up. Just before our retirement and consequent move to Winnipeg a visiting child pulled too hard on one of the clock's chains and broke it.  Hardy packed it in a box and we took it along to Winnipeg, but never had it repaired. Maybe one of our children or grandchildren will have it fixed and keep it.

Just the other day I saw a chickadee at our birdfeeder for the first time this spring. It will probably make its nest in the birdhouse again like it did for the last several seasons. Last year Hardy spent time on the deck in his recliner. I often sat with him there and children and friends came to visit. We observed the chickadee partners as they flew over our heads while feeding their young. Hardy often whistled, imitating their call. 

We had an awesome team of palliative care workers who came once or twice a week to check on Hardy and inquire about his needs. They were wonderful. One day, out of the blue Hardy, a linguist, asked this question:

"How can I use my linguistic ability to help myself in this situation?"

It was a strange question, I thought, but the palliative care worker didn't miss a beat. His answer was: 

"Listen to what your body tells you."

I remember that advice and try to follow it! Below are a couple of books that I have found useful on my journey with grief. 

Elisabeth Kuebler Roth takes her readers through five stages of grief. They are: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. I have gone through several of these stages by now. 

Jerry Sittser writes about how, on a lonely road in Idaho one dark night, he lost three generations of his family: his mother, his wife and his young daughter, and how it impacted him. But "this is not a book about one man's sorrow. Rather, it is a moving meditation on the losses we all suffer and the grace that can transform us".

I recently read an obituary about a man who had an important government job. He is pictured in front of a table filled with rows and rows of marmalade he made himself. The final advice he gave when asked what his grandchildren might benefit from hearing  was:

Be a strong person. Be a fair person. And be a loving person. And talk to strangers.

Discovering Joy

 Six months have passed since my life changed drastically. Mostly I go on doing things the way I did before, but I do them alone now, unless children, grandchildren, siblings and friends come by or invite me to an activity. Or I take the initiative and invite people to interact with me. It is becoming my new normal. Life must go on.

Recently I hosted my church care group for a 90th birthday party lunch. When I cleared the table after they left, I noticed that a Japanese friend, who is part of the group, had folded her napkin into the form of a crane, the symbol of happiness and eternal youth. However, one of its wings flopped over a bit, and it reminded me of how I feel at times!

But I tell myself that there is still a lot of joy in my life. 

For example:

Several weeks ago a friend called. Habibah had only recently heard that I had lost my husband, and she wanted to come for a visit. She and her family are Rohingya refugees sponsored by our church.  Hardy and I visited and interacted with them regularly before Covid, but had not seen them since. Hardy was ill, and they had been busy making a major move and welcoming and helping to settle extended family members who arrived later.

When Habibah entered my house, tears began to flow. "Oh Hardy, I will miss him," she said as she hugged me. Rafique, her husband, had stopped at the grocery store and brought me a bag of fruit. Our roles had reversed. They were now comforting and gifting me! The girls have grown so much I hardly recognized them! The older ones are in school and speak perfect English. The baby has become a toddler! They like ice cream and I still had a few bars of Hardy's favorite in the freezer which we all enjoyed. Later I took the girls downstairs where our grandchildren used to play when they were younger. They each chose some toys to take with them. 

Yesterday I walked to the mailbox and found a beautifully hand decorated card from my daughter's family in Ontario. Each of the grandchildren had written a personal note inside, telling me how much they look forward to my visit in May. That put a smile on my face! 

Recently, grandson Ivan had a birthday. Unbelievably, he turned 17! We had fun playing one of Opa's favorite games,  Aggravation, on a board made by my great-uncle John many years before these children were born!

Let Words be Your Weapons

 As I've mentioned in previous blog posts, Hardy, my  husband who passed away recently, kept everything. I did not want to burden others with having to go through all that some day, so I tackled it. I sorted, threw out, and packed boxes for the thrift store. I went through the boxes in the garage first, as I didn't want to work in there during the cold winter days.  Then I turned my attention to the store room in the basement. 

There was evidence of a mouse invasion and grandson Ivan set the traps. We caught five mice and I mustered up all my courage to dispose them into the garbage bin! The traps have remained empty since then, but I knew cleanup had to happen and I would have to go through the boxes. The recycling bin has been full to overflowing every week. Mostly Hardy  kept old newspapers, magazines, yearbooks, etc.;  things that no one else will care to keep and mice will claim for their nests.  Among all that, however, there are treasures. Below is one of them, and my heart broke as I read this document. 

My mother-in-law  told me the story, but here it is in black and white. The document below, written a year after the event,  is a copy of an appeal to the German government for compensation of accidental deaths of three family members during the bombing of a train on which they were travelling. Hardy's aunt, Kaethe Penner Schroeder,  three children and a friend were fleeing their farm  in  Poland in March, 1945, due to the Russian invasion. She was 47 years old, her daughter, Brigitte was 17, her second daughter, Hannelore was 11 and her son Eckart was three. 

 A bomb hit the train and Hardy's aunt states soberly that her eleven year old daughter, Hannelore, was beheaded and died instantly; her seventeen year old daughter, Brigitte, had severe stomach injuries and died ten hours later. Eckard, the three year old was uninjured. She, herself, received a slight head injury. Her friend also died at once. 

Although this is not part of the document, I believe there was a Downs Syndrome son who mysteriously disappeared earlier and was never found. 

My heart breaks for this woman who lost her children under such tragic circumstances. The oldest son, Reinhard, was not on the train, and later became a vineyard farmer in South Germany. The youngest son, who survived without injuries, became a medical doctor in North Germany. I have met them as well as their father, who remarried. Somehow they carried on. For Tante Kaethe it all became too much to bear and some years after this event she took her own life. 

This is just one tragic story of innocent civilians caught up in a war that has nothing to do with them, and everything to do with domination and power! It is not something that just  happened in the distant past, it is happening right now in Israel and Palestine, in Russia and Ukraine. Our world is at war! Lives are shattered, innocent children are paying the price! Do we just accept this as part of the human condition? What can we do?

If nothing else, we can educate ourselves, we can read! I just finished reading The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, and realized that I'm reading it for the third time! My last reading was in November, 2013. The story takes place in a small village in Germany where a little girl finds a home after she has experienced a similar train bombing as the one described above. She loses both her mother and her little brother who dies in her arms. She struggles with nightmares but overcomes them as she listens to her adoptive father's accordion music and learns to read, stealing books first from a grave digger and later from a wealthy woman who has a library in her home. 

Death is the omniscient narrator in this book, but Death is not depicted as cruel and someone to be feared. Rather, death is the one who tenderly takes the departed home. I am comforted by that image as I recall Hardy's peaceful passing. 

"Let words be your weapon, stories your shield, and hope your stolen treasure. Remember, when in the grip of a book, a story can set you free". (From a book review of The Book Thief.). 

In Transit!

The Winnipeg Free Press, which I read daily, caught me by surprise recently. I noticed an article entitled In Transit  which happens to be the title of my blog. However, they were not publishing my blog postings but beginning "a special series on the state of the city's public transportation system." 

Although I haven't used the bus  for years, after graduating from high school, I used to take it quite regularly to my work at a Christian book store . Now my oldest grandson takes it to his university classes and wherever else he needs to go. 

Here's a quote from the newspaper article that caught my eye and tugged at my heart  strings: 

"It's the route that exists to break your heart on the darkest of mornings and the coldest of evenings, in the pounding rain and cold wind. You see the shape of a bus in the distance heading towards you, and you can't make out the number to see if it's yours. It passes. It isn't yours. The only thing worse is watching the lights of your bus pull away from the curb before you can get to it. . . The bus has 10,000 stories, both inside and out, and a front-row seat to every one of them. 

Here's one of my bus stories:

I remember going home for Christmas, by Greyhound bus from Winnipeg to Alberta the year I graduated from high school. The song "The Little Drummer Boy" was playing at the restaurant where we stopped. When I hear that song I'm always back there again. 

At home everything was different. My teenage brothers, who picked me up at the train station, had grown lean and lank. My middle sisters were approaching their teen years and my baby sister was about to enter grade one. The sister next to me was graduating from high school in spring and would join me later in Winnipeg. Dad promised me that the whole family would be moving there soon. 

Back in Winnipeg after Christmas, I got off the Grayhound on Main Street around midnight and tried to get a bus back to my relatives where I was staying. I finally did catch a bus which proved to be the last one. By that time I  had no feeling in my hands and feet. Just numbness. And my mind felt numb as well. There was no one to welcome me back as I quietly slipped into the house and into my room. That was the coldest and loneliest time of my life. 

Here's one of Hardy's bus stories:

It is a sweltering hot Sunday. Hardy is boarding a bus on a busy street in Kinshasa, in the Republic of Congo. He plans to attend a church service together with his African companion who will preach the sermon. It seems everyone is getting on this bus and there are no rules about overcrowding. People are packed in like sardines.  Some are still trying to get on as the bus leaves and hanging on wherever they can get a grip. A Congolese Mama towers over Hardy, on her head a bowl full of market produce . She manages to balance it there without effort until he accidentally steps on her foot. "Mundele, sambu na inki nge kele awa na bus? Nge fweti baka voiture!" ("white man, why are you here on this bus? You should be taking your car!") She scolds him, but then  laughs, raucously, at the sight of this short white man on the bus, speaking her language!  Hardy got a new name that day. "Mundele ya bus." White man on the bus."

Hardy returned from that tropical steam bath to marry the girl who tried, half frozen, to catch a bus at midnight. They were married mid January, fifty six years ago today, and the weather was as bad as that night when she almost froze trying to catch the bus! But for the next fifteen years, living close to the equator, which was almost like living in a sauna, she was never cold or lonely again.

This anniversary year will be different. Hardy has gone ahead of me again.  

I didn't know much about the Congo, and when I arrived it was totally different from  anything I could have imagined. 

I suspect that when I join him  where he is now I will be surprised ! 

But I have a feeling that, like in the Congo, there will be music, and dancing, and light.