Nature’s Healing Power

The healing power of trees:

In our little backyard in south Winnipeg we have a maple tree right in the corner. Its branches and leaves take over at least half of our yard and a large part of the neighbour's yard. When I take a chair and sit in the opposite corner of the yard, looking up into the branches and leaves, my whole body relaxes. I feel at one with this amazing tree.

Femme rooting by Jessica May Rita Kohut in fight on, by M. H. Clark

My memories of trees goes back to Paraguay where I lived as a child from ages four to nine. My father was a pastor in our Mennonite village. There were a number of villages without pastors and he would walk there and spend several days counselling and praying with people who were traumatized by their refugee experience during and after WWII.

Our mom knew which day dad would return, and on that day my sister and I were allowed to go beyond the fence that surrounded our property and right to the edge of the forest where we waited for dad. It was often quite a long wait as we didn't know exactly when he would return, but if all went well it would be before dusk. I remember a tree that had large seed pods the size of my hand. When I opened them I could see the small seeds underneath a white, transparent membrane. I imagined that they were little babies under a blanket and I never tired of playing with them until our dad arrived. The first sign of his arrival was the white handkerchief he wore over his head, knotted on all four corners and dampened to keep him cool.

After emigrating to Canada we lived in a small Alberta town. We often visited our widowed grandmother who lived in the country. A grove of trees separated her little house from her brother's farm and I loved to walk through the trees, listening to the wind whispering in the leaves. There was a grove of trees on the other end of grandmother's property, just beyond her large garden. We sometimes had picnics there. We ate apples which she stored in her basement in a wooden box, each apple wrapped in blue tissue paper. We saved that paper to be used for practical purposes in the nearby outhouse.  

Years later, in Africa, we encountered many exotic trees, but I especially remember one majestic tree standing alone in a field. Late in the afternoon my two little girls (preschoolers) and I usually walked down to the main street of the provincial town of Kikwit to meet their dad in his Bible translation office and drive back home with him. It was quite a long walk on a hot and dusty road. When we passed that tree, we knew we were half way to our destination and we were encouraged to continue.

Recently, another tree, planted in memory of my brother John who passed away this past April, reminds me of the beauty, but also the unpredictability and brevity of life. He was the middle child in our family, but the first to go. 

The healing power of flowers and insects:

Just a few weeks ago our family (three daughters and their spouses and children) spent a week in a cottage near Lac du Bonnet. The owners of the cottage have a flower garden that attracts insects such as butterflies and bees. One of our sons-in-law is an environmentalist and I followed him around because he sees things I might miss. One morning, on a brown-eyed Susan, he saw a caterpillar that would soon become a monarch butterfly.

Before long, it did, and since it had just come out of its pupal stage, it moved slowly and did not fly away when we approached it. We were able to photograph it and I was inspired to sketch it and add a page in our cottage notebook that we have kept over the years.

We saw many dragonflies. They hold a special memory for me because when we buried our father on a hot July day in 2005, there were many dragonflies at the cemetery. I felt them bumping into me the whole time we stood at the graveside. At the cottage I was able to observe one very closely because it had a broken wing. One of the grandchildren scooped it out of the water and brought it to me. It too became a page in our cottage notebook.

 

The healing power of birds:

We have seen sandhill cranes in Michigan, but did not know they made their home in Manitoba as well. We observed two of them in a field across the road from our cottage. They are elegant, almost stork-like but with a different coloring. They have quite a harsh cry. I added another page to our notebook:

I have always reminded our grandchildren that when we are outdoors we are in the living room of the insects and birds. This is their space and we are the visitors, so we have to be respectful and act like guests. 

Sometimes it's nice to bring the beauty that is outside into our own living space:

Back home from the cottage, I return to our tree and our small yard. It is so quiet here after having eight boisterous grandchildren for two weeks. I will miss them but now I have time to meditate and savor the memories of the last two weeks.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever.-John Keats

The Hansi Stories

Hansi was my little brother, the youngest of the three I have. He will always be my little brother.

Hansi left us very suddenly, the first of our eight siblings to go beyond the veil.

“Where is he now? What is he seeing?” I wonder.

My grandchildren have heard many stories about him, and whenever we go to visit them their favorite bedtime stories have been the Hansi stories. “Oma, tell us another Hansi story,” they beg. When I tell them I have no more, they want the old ones retold.

“Tell us about the time Hansi laughed because the moon was naked, or the time he wanted fried eggs at a funeral, or the time he saw old Tuk Tuk. Tell us again!” So I tell them again.

On our most recent visit I told them that Hansi had died and their eyes got big and sad. But I said that the stories I tell will keep him alive in their hearts and minds because they will always remember him.

So I tell them the stories again. And I'm thinking, "Now that Hansi is gone, I need to write these stories down."

Hansi's story begins like this:

When Hansi  was born our mother was going through a hard time. Most likely she had post traumatic stress syndrome, although at the time there were no words to express what she was experiencing. Many other women had lost husbands and children -- her family was intact. But she had lived through four years of refugee existence, fleeing Ukraine with a toddler and an infant and birthing two more children en route -- one while her husband was gone (conscripted into the German army just months before the war ended) and the other just after they arrived in Paraguay. Now the family lived a hand-to-mouth existence in the Paraguayan Chaco and she found herself pregnant again. 

A fifth child. It was too much . . .  .

Doesn’t she look happy and so proud of her healthy baby? 

Of himself, and of the three sisters who came after him, Hansi is known to have said, "We were unwanted but never unloved."

That was our Hansi. Always deriving something positive from a difficult situation.

It is Time . . .

This morning, as I look out my kitchen window, the sun is finally shining again, but we have had too many days of bleakness, grayness, sleet and slush this April. “Why snow? Why now? You have the wrong season! This is not the time!” I mutter to myself.

My mood matches the weather. Sadness washes over me at times as I grieve the loss of my youngest brother who passed away unexpectedly at the beginning of April. The biblical account of Mary and Martha who lost their brother Lazarus takes on new meaning. Martha asks Jesus, “Where were you when my brother died? If you had been here my brother would not have died!” (John 11).

I see the promise of new life all around me in spite of this dismal spring weather. The ornamental plum tree already has buds; tulips and daffodils are coming to life; a pansy is almost blooming! The robins are building nests in their accustomed place under our deck.
I go for a walk around the lake close to our house and stop at the pussy-willow tree where I often reminisce about my mother. My heart leaps when I see it full of buds!

Returning home, I think about my life. In a second, in the blink of an eye, it can all be gone. I look around my house, at the things I value and treasure. Who will know what they meant to me and why?

I am not a collector or hoarder of things. Our years of travelling to Congo and back made that impossible (except for books and diaries that I can’t seem to part with).
For some reason, however, I have kept beautiful boxes given to me over time. I display them on a shelf above our bed and they contain knickknacks and small items of jewellery -- nothing of value except sentimentally. When grandchildren come for longer visits, they love to look at them. The thought came to me that maybe I should give each of the grandchildren one of these boxes and tell them how I got them and why I treasure them. There are nine boxes and I have eight grandchildren. “Which one will not be chosen?” I wonder.

Granddaughter Kathryn, now 13, happens to come first. When I tell her she can pick one to keep, she looks at them all very carefully. She likes the little homemade box my sister gave me years ago which has a picture on the lid of Kathryn's mom and aunt peering into a window when they were two and four. She says it smells “old.” (Later, when I open it, I see that some mold has appeared in it and it needs a cleaning.)

Not yet understanding the value of antiques, Kathryn decides instead to claim the biggest one that is a real jewellery box (with a fancy mirror, a pull-out drawer and a red velvet tray). It has a gold turtle for a clasp.
I tell her that it comes from Korea and was given to me by one of my students. Wise for her years, she asks me to write down the story of the box and put it inside. One of the items stored in it is the first watch I bought with my babysitting money when I was 15. It lasted a very long time! When I look at it, I still feel the pride of ownership it gave me. Of course, I had no idea how fleeting time really is, since my whole life stretched before me.

I wonder what life on earth will be like when I am no longer here. Watches will, no doubt, be redundant. [There is an app for that !]

I do know that spring will come and I will enjoy as much of it as I possibly can!

I Lost My Brother

A long time ago I lost my brother.

Hansi (John) was born in Paraguay in February 1949. Two years before his birth our family was part of a group of Mennonite refugees who had fled war-torn Germany to arrive at one of the most sparsely inhabited areas in South America, the Paraguayan Chaco. Together, these Mennonites built a number of villages there under extreme pioneer conditions.

Hansi was a heavy baby. My sister Irma on the left, carrying the brunt of the burden while I pose for the photo!

When Hansi was two years old, my mother was expecting her sixth child and had an over-whelming work load every day. My sister Irma and I were six and eight years old and were in charge of our two little brothers, Bernie (4) and Hansi (2). We just wanted to play with our dolls and our dishes, and the boys kept spoiling our fun! Finally, I was exasperated and had a bright idea. I suggested to Irma that we tie them up so they would stop bothering us. She went along with the plan. I don’t remember what we used or how we managed to do this, but somehow we did and then happily played, ignoring their cries. After a while we went to check on them and they were gone. When we couldn’t find them, we had to go tell our mother who was very upset with us. When she asked us where they might be, we had no answer. It reminds me of Cain’s response to God’s question about where his brother Abel was after he had murdered him: “I do not know. Am I my brother’s keeper?” (Genesis 4.1-9)

Although we sometimes felt like doing so, we had not murdered our brothers! Everyone was relieved when they were finally found wandering around in the kafir field, well hidden among the tall stalks. The four of us learned to play together with our dishes and our dolls. We had treats (raisins and cocoa powder mixed with water and sugar) and the boys were the dad and the big brother. Hansi especially loved treats and we could get him to do almost anything for a sweet reward.

There was a streak of mischief in our Hansi. His big green eyes would twinkle and his whole face would light up. Sometimes this happened at very serious occasions. I remember a village funeral which we all attended. Hansi decided he was hungry and began to demand his favorite food, fried eggs!
Some of the women put their fingers to their lips and shook their heads with a very stern look on their faces. He was not intimidated but imitated them exactly, furrowing his brow and shaking his head. They had to laugh in return and some benches shook inappropriately.

Hansi was three and a half years old when we arrived in Canada in October of 1952. When he was just beginning school, we almost lost him again due to a burst appendix. He spent weeks in a big city hospital away from his family. Doctors and nurses became his best friends. When he returned, he caught up to his classmates in no time and easily rose to the top of the class.

Hansi, front left, ready to go back to school after his near-death experience

As an adult John became a successful businessman, but he always had a big heart for his employees. Children and grandchildren, nieces and nephews loved their Dad, their Opa, and their Uncle John.

In his senior years he retired in Texas. The neighbours all knew the friendly man who went for a walk every morning. Then one morning he didn’t show up. 
On Wednesday, April 3, John woke up unwell and spent the day in hospital; doctors and nurses frantically worked to get rid of blood clots, but there were too many and by evening he was gone.

I lost my little brother again but this time he’s not coming back. In birth order John is number five and it feels like some of us should have gone before him.
I picture him, running through a field of kafir, mischief in his green eyes.

Farewell Hansi! I will see you again!

Sister Love

Lately I have again been going through old correspondence. This time it is a box of letters my Dad received from his two older sisters in Russia.

As I go through these letters, I have the feeling that their story needs to be told, and that Tina and Greta (Katarina and Margareta Neufeld) are asking me to tell it. Theirs is a love story, about that unadulterated agape love that is so hard to put into practice and yet seemed to be part of their DNA. They never married, they just looked after their four little brothers and supported each other. Their father died of typhoid fever in 1920 (when he was only 48), as bandits roamed through Russian villages leaving disease and destruction behind them. Their mother was left to care for six young children, and she was not well. Tina and Greta learned responsibility at a young age.

Four years later, at age 47, their mother died. There was support from the Mennonite community around them and from relatives, but a lot of the burden of looking after the family fell on the shoulders of these two older sisters. Perhaps it was because of the hardships they went through together that they formed a bond that lasted a lifetime.

Tina and Greta in the middle, with their four brothers. My father (the second youngest) is second from the right.

I don’t remember these precious aunts because we were separated before I was two years old, and we never saw each other again.

The photo above was taken in North Germany in 1944. My parents are standing in the back; I am in my mother's arms. Tina and Greta are on the left in the middle row, their sister-in-law on the right.

At the time the above picture was taken, no one knew that we would never see each other again. We were refugees, desperately fleeing the advancing Russian army. The Russians had made an agreement with the Americans and the British that all those who had fled from Ukraine would be returned. My father knew what that meant -- slave labor in Russia's vast north. He insisted that we move south as quickly as possible. His sister-in-law, however, refused to leave. She said that her husband (conscripted into the German army at the time) knew where she was, and if she left he would perhaps never find her. Tina and Greta decided they could not leave her alone, and would stay behind as well. This decision sealed their fate. The Russians came and they were sent back. Our family went south, eventually boarding the Volendam at Bremerhaven, headed for Paraguay. Five years later we emigrated to Canada.

My father was the only one of his entire family to escape being returned to Russia. Some of his nieces and nephews have since immigrated to Germany and Hardy and I have had the opportunity to talk with them about their experiences. At times they were so hungry that they were at the point of starvation, but gradually times got better. My cousins, the two little girls in the photo above, told me that they lost their mother when they were young teens and the woman their father then married was not kind to them. At one point, on a visit to Tina and Greta's place, they refused to go home and begged their aunts to take them in. So, once again, the aunts looked after family.

The letters I am reading now were written when the sisters were in their seventies. They were still looking after children, at this time the children of their nieces and nephews. In spite of the hardships they endured, they lived until their early eighties.

My father didn't talk much about his sisters. Perhaps there was guilt and a feeling that he had abandoned them, but he knew what he had to do for his own family. He made an effort to have them emigrate to Canada but by the time he had secured the papers they could no longer make that journey. He always wanted his daughters to be named after his sisters, but for a variety of reasons that didn't happen until the youngest of his eight children was born; she received both of their names -- Margaret Katherine. She is the only one in our family to have two names. She is certainly doing her part to live up to the names she was given by raising twin daughters as a single mom and being a huge support to the children brought into her life through her second marriage. I tease her that some day she might be looking after her older siblings as well!

”History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again.” 

                                                                                                                 Maya Angelou

A Key Experience

Happy Valentine’s Day!

“You have the key to my heart!” 

I’m sure most of you who celebrated Valentine’s Day when you were youngsters received at least one valentine that had the above comment or one like it.

Just recently Hardy and I had a day that caused us to ponder the significance of keys.
It was a Wednesday and the day began with a "key" reference. We like to start our day by reading from “Rejoice!” (a quarterly inter-Mennonite journal with daily devotionals).

We read about Peter, whose relationship with Jesus moved from confession (a declaration that he believed Jesus was the "Messiah, the Son of the living God") to denial (not long after, Peter denied even knowing Jesus) to return (again declaring his love and devotion to Jesus and his willingness to help build the church).
The writer of the devotional (Jennie Wintermote) drew the conclusion that God’s love for Peter never stopped. In fact, Jesus said to him, "I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven; what you prohibit on earth will be prohibited in heaven, and what you permit on earth will be permitted in heaven." (Matthew 16.19)

We wondered how an unreliable and fallible human being could be trusted with such a great honour. Peter himself must have wondered exactly what that meant. Jesus went on to explain that this was not about power and control but about self-sacrificial love (Matthew 16.24-25), and that anyone who was willing to embrace it would receive the same promise that was given to Peter (16.18-19).

After we read this significant passage about keys, we went about our day. Hardy had some errands and shopping to do and I went to church to look after children while their mothers had a Community Kitchen event. The smells coming from the kitchen were incredible, and following the session for that day I received a dinner to take home with me. My friend dropped me off and I fumbled with my house keys and all the stuff I was carrying. It was one of the coldest days we have had this winter and I was anxious to get into the house.

Hardy got home just before me. He had a "key" story to tell me. While shopping he suddenly realized his set of keys were missing. He retraced his steps, looked everywhere, but couldn’t find them. Finally he went to customer service and ... someone had turned them in! He was so relieved.
I listened to his story and thankfully did not remind him that he should have taken the phone with him so he could call someone, or that he should have the keys somehow connected to his wallet, etc.

Just after Hardy finished telling me his story, the doorbell rang. I went to answer it and the person who does our snow shovelling held up my set of keys and said he had found them in the door! We just looked at each other incredulously. That man could have walked away with our keys and we would never have been the wiser. (Hardy also refrained from lecturing me!)

What is interesting to us is that this all happened in one day. Which got me thinking about keys and their significance.

Keys are such an important part of our lives, I'm sure there are many "key" stories out there. Feel free to share them!

Christmas in Retrospect

Normally, January is a time to make new resolutions, plans for the new year, etc. However, I’m in 'looking-back' mode, still thinking about Christmas and enjoying the memories.

About a week before Christmas I was chatting with our oldest grandchild, Ben (18), who is attending the University of Winnipeg. He told me about a lunch he and his family had enjoyed at his aunt’s house -- at which she had used a recipe from the cookbook Together.
Following the huge fire that destroyed an apartment building in London, England in 2017, a community kitchen was opened for the women affected by this tragedy so that they would have a space to cook food for their families. Meghan Markle, the Duchess of Sussex, wanted to help, and she visited the kitchen. Eventually, the women created a cookbook with help from the Royal Foundation. It is dedicated “to all those whose lives were impacted by the fire at Grenfell Tower.”

I had read news of the fire and also of the resulting creation of a community kitchen and a cookbook. I was curious about the recipes in this cookbook. Ben asked me if I would like to have it for Christmas, and I said I would love it. So, waiting for me under the tree was this special gift he had ordered through the internet.

Ben could not have known that, many years ago shortly after we lost our first child, I would receive a cookbook which for some mysterious reason helped me in my emotional healing process. It was a Betty Crocker recipe book with beautiful pictures and I read it from cover to cover. It brought me back to life. So in my opinion, cookbooks are not just for cooking. They also have other purposes.
I resonate with what Marlene Epp said in her presentation “Cookbook as Metaphor” at a recent conference here in Winnipeg  (A people of Diversity: Mennonites in Canada since 1970):

                           “We  need more Mennonite cookbooks and less theologians.”

Ben’s sister, Kathryn (age 13) had made her own unique gift for her Opa and Oma and we will be enjoying it throughout the year together with her. It is a homemade coupon book in which she has listed all our favorite activities. We can use her coupons at special occasions, choosing one which will give us the opportunity to do an activity together with her (for example: playing a game, visiting a restaurant or a park or a bookstore, etc.) -- thus enjoying the coupons throughout the year!!

The "sleepover" coupon is free and the last coupon reads, "No expiry date" ! 

Sasha (9) did some Christmas shopping at her school's rummage sale. She bought me a beautiful little teapot and a glass plate. The lid of the teapot had become unhinged, but Opa was able to fix it. It has a special place on a kitchen shelf where I can see it every day and remember the love between us.

Sasha and Kathryn enjoying our Christmas celebration!

The grandchildren in Ontario did not forget us either. From them we received a special picture frame:

The photo in the frame above was taken in 2013. 

How quickly they grow!

A happy new year 2019, and remember to hug and kiss your children and grandchildren !

Gotcha last, Ivan !!