The Unexpected Gift

 I can't fully describe the depth of gratitude that I feel ... but because I write, I'll try to begin. 

The last few weeks have been a blur of being surrounded by the love, support, encouragement, and generosity of people. Some I barely know. Others, I have known for years, even decades. And yet, it blows me away every time someone reaches out with offers of help, with food, chores, and yes, money.

In such a time of need, a couple of my friends decided to create a GoFundMe page in my name. They asked me for a photo of my husband, which I am showing here:

 

This guy.  This guy is my heart, my soul, my life. He's my very best friend on this earth. And I'm his best friend too. We've been married for only 45 years this past June. I was counting on 70. And ... maybe I'll get it, and enjoy every last moment. Of all the recent photos I have of him, this is my favourite because it was the week right after he got his 2nd cataract operation done (May 2026) and he could see me clearly from five feet away. Before, I had to get six inches away for him to make out my features. 

I won't repeat what is in the GoFundMe page, but I'll include the link to it so that you can see for yourself that we are in need of help to make whatever time he has with us worth living with respect to his quality of life. We've been making do with a little 5 foot by 7 foot bathroom, the only one in the house. And now, he can't take a shower in it (because he is afraid of falling in the slippery tub-shower). And the Integrated Palliative Care team occupational therapist can only recommend a bath transfer bench that allows him to sit on the edge of the tub and put his feet in there. Like an invalid. Like some 90-year-old doddering old man. He's not even 74 yet. 

So without further ado, I will share the link to the fundraiser here which will open in a new window for you. Please visit the page and look at the story. With the price of everything going up exponentially in the last year or so, (THANKS tRump!) the cost of materials and labour has skyrocketed. And please keep in mind that donations to GoFundMe are quite possibly tax-deductible when you do your income taxes.

And that is all I have to say at the moment. Please share this post and/or the link to as many platforms as you can. More people asked means more donors. And God knows we need generous people like you, my readers, to contribute to something we couldn't possibly pay for ourselves. 

I have never asked you for help before. God willing, I won't ever have to ask again.  

Thank you! 

 

Face-plant

I fell down yesterday. 

It was totally avoidable. I wasn't watching where I was stepping. And I landed face first in the dirt with a skinned knee, a bruised elbow, and a bump on my right cheekbone. 

The reasons for my fall (I could call them excuses) were that someone left the garden hose in a high-traffic area, I was distracted by trying to focus on the dog who was anxious to make his way to the yard to do his business, and the path was fairly narrow. However, I could have avoided the situation if I had just been more careful about where I placed my feet. So, I take full responsibility for my error. 

The end result was that I was flat on my stomach with my face in the dirt, pebbles and grass, about 2 feet from an outdoor garbage can, and I felt helpless to right myself. 

The dog did his best to help. Unfortunately, his version of helping was prancing around my head and licking my face until I could hardly breathe. 

No help there.

I'd been in that position for about 2 minutes (it felt like longer) when I heard the door open and someone step out onto the deck above me. He told me later that he didn't even know I was down there until he moved closer to the railing and saw my white Crocs upside down on the pavement (my feet still in them.) Then he saw my legs and oh-my-gosh-are-you-all-right? he was there in no time flat. "Can you get up?" he asked. "I think so," I stammered, "but the dog wants to help me and I don't want to hurt him ..." 

He laughed, "I can see that," and picked up the leash. He held the dog back while I got to my hands and knees and then got my feet under me and stood up. He offered his arm to lean on as I pulled myself to my feet.

Without his help, I would not have been able to get out of my predicament. So I was (and am) extremely grateful for him coming to my aid.  I made sure to thank him sincerely. After that, we started joking around about it. Laughing privately after the fact helped me not feel so embarrassed.

Sometimes, whether by their own fault or not, people need help and not judgment or criticism. That was one instance.

My would-be hero. NOT!   ;)

When someone makes a mistake and needs help to get out of a jam, it could be very easy to ridicule or find fault. "You should not have done that" can be reserved for after the crisis ... or not said at all, how about that? My benefactor was more interested in whether I was hurt than whose fault it was that I fell. I like that. It confirmed to me the fact that he cares about me. When an examination revealed that my glasses were also bent in the fall, he drove me to the optician's office to get them fixed (which they did, thank you very much!) 

So in spite of the aches and pains I had later in the day, and in spite of the embarrassment of the fall, and the vulnerability, and the silly behavior of the dog, and the extra trip to town, I could look back on the day and call it a good one. Why? because in spite of it all, I knew I was loved, cared for, and appreciated.  I was not angry at the dog for preventing me from getting up or for distracting me. I was determined not to let my attention wander like that again, and grateful that I didn't sprain my ankle, and that's it. 

That's all. A fast fall on the hard-packed, dusty ground, a bit of road rash on one knee, and the helping hand of my best friend. What could be more simple than that?  

Perhaps the next time I see someone in a helpless position, whether by accident or not, I will not be so quick to judge, and quicker to just lend a hand. 

Puppy Love

It was a clear-cut case of love at first sight. And it couldn't have happened at a more opportune time. 

My brother had just passed away unexpectedly. He had been doing so well, and then, he wasn't. Just like that. And I never got a chance to say goodbye. And it was so sudden, so wrenching, so ... raw. 

I'd been initially planning to get a puppy at the end of 2020. But here it was, end of February, and I was scrolling through the 'puppies for adoption' page at a site I frequent. And there it was. Someone not 30 minutes' drive from me was selling puppies, of the breed I was looking for. I clicked on the ad. The mother dog had given birth to five puppies and they pretty much all looked alike - except one. I clicked on his picture. And he was standing there so pretty, so proud, so sure of himself, and showing so much personality and yet gentleness that my heart almost skipped a beat. 

After talking it over with my family, and given the current restrictions of Covid-19, I decided to send the breeder a note and see if I could set up a time to visit the litter (this was before the isolation rules started.) She said sure, and before long I and my daughter were knee deep in little dogs. All of them Pomeranians!! Some looked like the standard image I had in my mind: orange with big floofs around the face and a plume-like tail. But these were different. They were white with brown and black markings. Only this little guy was white with black markings, and just a touch of brown. 

I left holding him to the last... wanting to give the others a chance. But it was no use. He had stolen my heart from the first click. And when I picked him up, and saw how curious, interested, and confident he was, even though he did let me roll him over on his back - when I saw him not once ask to get back in the pen with his siblings - he sealed the deal for me. And I was absolutely, 100 per cent smitten. 

I reserved him with the breeder and waited for him to be old enough to come home with me. That would not be until another few weeks, after we had completed our 14-day self-imposed isolation. 

Bullet - born Feb 7, 2020, age 9.4 weeks

We picked him up last Friday. And it seems now like he has always been here. What a ray of sunshine in otherwise dark times! What a reminder that there is still some sweetness, light, and humour in this crazy climate of rules and distancing and fear! He's melted the hearts of all who have seen his pictures or met him in person (like the vet, earlier today). I've filled an album already on Facebook with photos and videos of him. 

He loves his harness. He loves his kibble. He loves his pen and his crate. He loves pleasing us and learning new things (like going potty outside). 

He loves his bully sticks. He loves his Miss Kitty, a soft plush kitty with a heart-beat inserted into her (which we can control off and on through a button on the unit). He loves me and my husband and my daughter. Plain and simple, it's a terminal case of puppy love, which is whole-hearted, unreserved, unadulterated, super-intense and highly focused, unconditional positive regard, for which there is no cure. He loves the way I want to love. With the passionate love of a puppy for everything and everyone in his world. 

And at this point in my life, I needed a daily, constant reminder of that kind of love. Perhaps it is no coincidence that d-o-g is G-o-d spelled backward. I'd like to think so. Because if any being on this earth can show the kind of love God does, it's a little, 2.2-pound ball of fluff who is right now chewing on his bully stick at my feet. He's happy to be with me, happy to be doing what he loves, and confident in my love for him. 

What a lesson. What a beautiful, soft, gentle, fun-loving, joy-bringing lesson to my heart. Live in the moment, love with all your heart, and keep doing that. What a gift! I am so very blessed.



 

Giving and Receiving

Today was a full day, especially because I didn't think I was going to be doing much at the start of it. All I wanted to do was head to Walmart and pick up some supplies / groceries for the rest of my 2-week stay in Calgary (I head back this coming Friday and today is the Saturday prior to that.)

It didn't start too well in a sense. The cab driver was wearing heavy scent, so I went to the store (an 8-minute drive) wearing my face mask. I tipped him for choosing the most direct route there... and then spent the next hour wandering the aisles of the store in my mask (lots of scent clouds, it was Saturday) looking for various items (the last one, pepper, took me ten minutes and even then I finally had to ask someone. It was in the meat aisle by the way...). I paid for my stuff, called a cab in a different company, and submitted to another drive back with my mask on, with another pee-yew cabbie who (again) took the most direct route and even helped me with my huge / heavy shopping bag. (I'm done shopping alone without buying a sturdy bag... last year was enough.)

After I got back though, had some food and took an Advil for the killer headache the scents gave me, and talked for a while on the phone with my brother, and then with my husband, I saw an email message from a classmate asking me if I would like to spend some time together. I agreed and she picked me up for a drive out to see the Rockies!

"The Three Sisters" - near Canmore, AB, July 15, 2017

Yes ... I took that picture only 2 hours ago. The peaks here are called "The Three Sisters" and I took the photo from inside the vehicle as we were driving!

Seeing the mountains up close like that was ... well, the best word I can think of is ... spiritual. 

I felt very connected to my youngest daughter, who saw these mountains in late September 2013, only 3 weeks or so before she died. It was like she and I got to share the experience of the majesty of that place. The tears started to fall as I could almost hear her say, "It's okay Mom. I'm okay. Everything is going to be fine."  And it was fine. 

My classmate gave me a wonderful gift, a gift that meant so much to me. And all it costed her was time. Time she took away from other things in her life so that I could have a good experience in Alberta. She had no ulterior motive. She honestly cared about how I felt. And all I needed to give her the joy of giving was to receive. Fortunately, I received so very much when Arielle first passed away - so much love and so many outpourings of giving, that I had learned to receive... and so I gave her the gift of my grateful acceptance of her gift.

The world is a funny place - and as much as it is filled with horrible, unspeakable things, it also has people in it like this lady, and my dorm-mates who invited me to come with them to the grocery store my first day here, who helped me take my stuff into the apartment and cleared a space for my food. And so many others here - the friends of my other daughter who met me at the airport and drove me to the residence (saving me $50 in cab fare) invited me to their place last Thursday night for the most tender sirloin steak I have EVER tasted, done via a "sous vide" method. WOW. And when they learned that tomorrow would have been Arielle's 25th birthday, they offered to take me to breakfast at one of the many Denny's Restaurants here (something we don't have where I live) to start the day off right, even though one of them has to work tomorrow at the other end of town (a 30 to 45 minute drive depending on traffic).  They are also planning to take me back to the airport on Friday. Could it get any better than this?

I feel so blessed.  It's a way better experience than I ever dreamed it would be, being in Calgary this time. And as I head to bed, I feel as though this has been the kind of day that restores the soul. Even though it might not have started off well, a simple gift - the gift of time - given and received, made all the difference.

This Old House

It doesn't look like much from the top of the hill where the old church sits.  It looked like even less when I was growing up, shaped like those children's drawings of their house, taller than it was wide, with windows that looked like rectangular eyes. Dad always said that it looked like a "two-storey outhouse." It was nothing more than part of someone else's house when it was moved to the property in 1954. Dad, providing for his oldest son and pregnant wife, closed off the open end and built the second storey. Though it served the purpose, it wasn't much to look at.

But it was home. All the rooms were cramped, and there was never enough space to put things, but there was always - miraculously - room for one more person to share a meal. I remember one family gathering where there were nineteen people there for the meal and we ate at two tables plus a child's table to accommodate everyone. 

When my brother's marriage ended, and he had nowhere else to go, they opened their arms wide and the house became home again to him. Dad realized that their other children had homes of their own, but that this child no longer had that luxury. He insisted that the family home pass to this son. My mother honoured his request only a few short years ago.

Photo "Childs Drawing Made With Chalk" courtesy of
m_bartosch at www.freedigitalphotos.net

Dad had always wanted to "build on." He never saw that day, but in 1994, about a year after he passed away, Mom got a contractor's license and contracted the work out herself. That's how the house got an extra bedroom, bathroom, dining room, and living room, all on the main floor, and the stairs got relocated to the "new part." This opened up the old living room to convert to what is essentially a bedroom with a TV in it.  This is where my brother sleeps now.

The walls of this old house have rung with laughter. They have dripped with grief, and fear, and anger. The memories haunt me when I go there to visit, so I focus on the people and not the memories. The last time I was there, Mom was still living there, but now she lives in a hospital room, waiting for someone else to die so that she can be placed in a nursing home ... not by her choice or any of ours. 

It will be hard going back there without her to greet me with a hug ... but go I will, to visit my brother. He and I and this house are linked together. We have all experienced a common history.

It is my brother's ability to manage the house and its expenses that occupies my thoughts lately. He is missing Mom, and having to deal with paying the bills and providing for his needs without help.  If all goes well, though, he will be able to handle this responsibility. 

Although I no longer call this old house "home", I still feel a connection to it, and I want to make sure it is available to my brother for as long as he needs it. I don't know exactly what all that will mean, but the old homestead still has some memories left to build. And I'm willing to do my part to make sure that they are good ones.

Lighting a candle

For me, and for too many of my friends and family, the darkness starts with the letter C. Cancer. Even the word itself conjures up helplessness, fear, anger, in the face of this tyrant that consumes everything in its path.

As we all get older, we know more and more people who have it, and the monster gets closer and closer to home. Or it has already touched us. It is a horrible, hateful disease in whatever form it takes. 

There was a time - years ago - when the very word was a death sentence every time. That was when it was detected too late and it had already morphed into another beast: metastatic cancer (cancer cells that were in one place in the body, and traveled to another place, like a horde of evil missionaries, to continue their dastardly mission). Today, with more early detection, cancer need not be a death sentence.  But the oldest ones among us usually think of it that way.

Time is both friend and enemy with this thing. Early detection is our friend; a delay in treatment is not. Waiting - especially with no indication of how fast the cells are growing - is torturous. Add to that any other pressure: financial, family, work, school, or community (whether that means neighborhood or church involvement) and molehills become mountains pretty quickly. 

The darkness does not need to win. All it takes is one candle to push back the darkness. The people most likely to recover (regardless of the type of cancer) seem to be the ones with the most positive, and peaceful, attitudes. One man I know has a rare form of non-Hodgkins lymphoma - aggressive and dangerous - and from the moment he found out he had cancer, his attitude has been nothing short of inspiring. Today he is fighting infection (which happens 70% of the time after the kind of treatment he just had) and is feeling weak - but he is fighting. And he is peaceful, and happy. 

Another lady I know had breast cancer about 5 years ago. She had surgery, chemo, and the recovery process was long ... but she beat it! Throughout it all, her sweet temperament and thankful spirit came through. Still another lady went through this process not long ago - with four surgeries and treatments that made her feel sick and weak, she still never lost her positive attitude, and she made sure that she looked after herself. 

Fear is (of course) inevitable. But it is the enemy. I know the enemy. But it doesn't have to win.

Recently, my family doctor referred me for a biopsy for an abnormal pap smear. While I was at the gynecologist's office, I mentioned some unexplained spotting, since I was in menopause,  The gynecologist said, "That shouldn't be happening." And so when I was under general anesthetic for the cervical biopsy, he also took cells from the lining of my uterus.  It turned out that I have "pre-cancerous" cells in my uterus... and although this type of thing usually takes a long time to develop into cancer in that area, it's like there is this ticking time bomb in my womb - and so he told me that my uterus and my ovaries had to come out. I am waiting for a surgery date and I expect the hospital will call me soon with one.

The same day I found out about this problem, I got a call from a very close friend who informed me that my brother was in the hospital.  Over the course of the next week, through testing and so forth, doctors discovered that he had stage 1 colon cancer.

Photo "Candle" courtesy of phanlop88 at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

The monster didn't win.

We both lit a candle in the darkness. 

Fear has far less power in the light. 

Each of us is looking forward to his or her respective surgery, and grateful that the doctors caught the problem early. My brother is thankful for the excruciating abdominal pain that first caused him to seek medical attention, and for the excellent care and attention that he has received since he went to the hospital to get checked out. They saved his life!  In much the same way, I am so grateful for the lady that put me onto my new family doctor's patient list just this past spring, as well as for the people involved in my care - my doctor, plus my gynecologist, and all of the medical staff on his team. They pretty much saved my life.

A few things about lighting a candle in the dark ... yes, you can see to find your way, but ... your attention is more drawn to the candle flame, and to what it illuminates, than it is to the farthest corners where the darkness still hides. You learn to go slowly, because going too fast would damage the flame or put it out. You learn to stay away from people who would bluster and blow more fear into your situation. Their negativity is something that you don't need or want in your life, ever! You learn to see their reaction as "cursing the darkness." You light your candle, you protect it, and you cherish it.  And you look for other candles to light from your own flame.

That's what I'm doing today. You - if you need to and want to - can light your candle from mine.

Still learning

My baby girl ...
It's been over two years since you passed away.  Trying to grasp it, I shake my head.  I still don't know how I've been able to survive these months with you gone - well, maybe I do - the love of those left behind has really helped.  

I've been thinking a lot about how much of an impact you have had on my life, not only by your death, but also (and much more) by your life, how you lived it, and what was important to you.  

I have talked a lot about what I learned through your passing, and the miracles with which I have been blessed in the midst of my grief.  I focus on those blessings because they are truly miraculous, and I so need the miraculous. 

The day-to-day reality is still of such unutterable sadness; I try to fill my days with other, busy things to occupy my mind.  Work, school, eat, sleep ... never enough sleep. Every day I am reminded in some way, whether I talk about it or not, of your absence from my life.  I can't say that I have gotten used to the dull ache inside that is my constant companion.  Sometimes it lifts, but then it comes back.  It is relentless, this "new normal."  And sometimes, it overwhelms me - even now.  

And so, lately I have been allowing myself to be inspired by you yourself, and how you approached (or should I say, attacked) every day.  Carpe deim - seize the day - was one of your guiding philosophies, even though you never said those exact words.  You were more inclined to say go big or go home - and friends matter.  And - of course - every snowflake counts.

If anyone was sad, you were the first to try and cheer them up.  If they were happy, you were happy with them and helped them celebrate. Your hugs were the best... tight and warm and long and heart-felt.  You would do the craziest things to lighten the mood, hated it when things were too quiet.  

Arielle, summer 2003

I remember the day that you and your sister and I went on a trail ride at one of those tourist stables - I think it was in Brackley.  We had such fun - you were around eleven - and then we went to this little diner nearby and got treats.  You had your first milkshake ... strawberry ... you were so excited!  From you, I learned that even the smallest shared pleasures can bring the greatest joy.

There was the time when you were four, and we were walking across the parking lot toward the grocery store.  It had rained the day before and the sun was out.  You slowed down almost to a snail's pace, irritating my take-charge agenda... until you told me what you were looking at.  "The rainbow, Mummy."  When I asked where, you said, "... in the puddle.  Look!" and you pointed.  There, in a dirty puddle with a little motor oil residue floating on top, were iridescent colours of red and green and blue and purple, reflecting a mini-rainbow, slowly distorting like a lava-lamp, in the most unlikely of places. We squatted and looked into the rainbow for a couple of minutes. From you, I learned to slow down, and to look for beauty ... because if I did that, I would find it, sometimes when I least expected it.  

There were countless times when you were a child that you would rush into the house in the summer and grab about five jumbo Mr. Freezies from our freezer, cut them in half and take them outside to give treats to your friends.  I complained.  I said you were trying to buy your friends.  I asked if you thought I was made of money.  But it never crossed your mind to withhold good things from your friends.  They were hot and thirsty, and you cared about them.  From you, I learned that love is lavishly generous.  It just is.  It doesn't need a reason and it makes no excuses.  It just gives.  I had to learn that lesson.  You just knew it instinctively.  

The stories I can tell are only a small portion of how amazing you were - wise beyond your years and a never-ending source of happy, crazy, funny, off-the-wall, passionate and compassionate you-ness.  I have learned even more of your stories from those who knew you - the lives you touched in your 21 years here with us has been far more than a lot of people get to touch. And you didn't do any of the things people associate with success: you never finished school, never had a job for any more than a few months ... yet you are still teaching me. 

I am still learning.  Maybe someday, I can be a little more like you ... when I grow up.

A Breath of Kindness

It's been a week of lasts. And it's been a week of firsts. 

This was the week that the last of the insurance money I was hoping for, came to me in the form of a check for the value of my youngest daughter's car before the crash.

This was the last week that I had to dread another car payment coming off my bank for that same car that I had co-bought with her (she in one province, I in another) ... a car in which she was killed a month and a day later. Every time that I had to record that amount in my check register, another piece of me died. Now, nearly 18 months after her death and some 35 payments later, the insurance company sent me a check to pay her loan in full. 

This was the last week that I had to pretend that it didn't happen, that she was somehow still with me, tied to me by that payment every two weeks. 

That is hard. And it's also a relief, which brings me to the firsts.

This week, for the first (and hopefully the last) time, and at the suggestion of my financial consultant at my bank, I ended up having an appointment with a bank employee from a different bank who specialized in estates. She heard me, expressed her condolences, and walked me through the process of paying out that loan. 

"I want to make this as painless as possible for you," she said. Her eyes said what her professionalism could not - "I know how I would feel if I lost my daughter." 

For the first time, I was grateful for this poky little Island with its rural mentality. It had always niggled at me a little bit that everyone has to know each other's business and heritage here. I'm a private person, and that kind of interest in family bloodlines seems ... almost incestuous somehow. But ... this woman across the desk from me remembered me from 30 years ago, remembered my name and remembered that we lived in the country, "down east" as she called it - referring to the east end of the Island and the part that (on the map) looks like it's on Island's underbelly. She was a bank employee back then too, working for a different bank, where we just happened to have our mortgage. And now I just happened to be sitting across from her, thirty years later. 

2009 Hyundai Accent

I don't believe in coincidences. I had prayed, before I left to go to my appointment, for God to go before me and to make the rough places smooth. I believe that He had been working ahead of time (even 30 years in advance!), knowing I would pray that exact prayer at that moment, so He did go before me, much more than I had even meant when I prayed. Thirty years more.

The bank employee even put a rush on the request and stopped payment on another auto-debit that was to come off next week, the day before the payment request was auto-initiated by their computer. (I just happened to mention to her that the next payment was due to come off next week so should I be concerned about it? A flurry of activity from her and it was taken care of. Just. Like. That.) 

She told me that the loan was thus-and-such amount of money, which meant that there would be some money left over after it was paid. And she made it possible for me to be paid the balance left over. In cash. WITHOUT filling out reams of paperwork and WITHIN the rules of the bank itself. I remember standing at the wicket, with her walking another bank employee - a teller - through the screens to process the transaction, watching as the teller counted out the money on the wicket counter and handed it to me - plus the loose change in my other hand. I had the sensation that this was happening to someone else and that I was just watching it unfold ... a curious sensation.

It wasn't the paying off of the loan or the payback of the remaining money that touched my heart, though. It was this lady's willingness to go the extra mile to prevent what could have easily been the beginning of an ordeal for me. 

But it wasn't. It was the beginning of a new chapter in my life instead. 

I kept remembering what my daughter had said to me the day I arranged the loan with the car dealership, and her sitting across from the dealer almost all the way across the country from me. She'd been homeless for a couple of days and she was highly motivated to get a job and "make something of herself" - (she was ALREADY "something", but she had to prove it to herself, I guess.) Anyway, she was on the phone with me and she said to me, "I'll pay you back someday, Mom. I swear." And she meant it.

Well. I guess, for the first time honey, you paid me back. I just wish it wasn't this way.

And besides ... you gave me so very much just by being you, taught me so much about life by the way you lived yours. And that can't be measured in dollars and cents. 

It just can't.

Firework

Eight months ago we were getting ready to say our farewells to one of the most amazing, unpredictable, compassionate, loyal, intense people we've ever met. That she also just happened to be our daughter was a happy bonus. 

When we were talking about how we would remember her, how we would honour her, her sister came up with the perfect tribute. We'd pass out sparklers at her funeral to celebrate her life, her joy, her zest for living to the fullest, her 'go-big-or-go-home' attitude. We'd suggest that when it got dark that night, for people to go outside and light their sparklers, and hold them high in her memory. 

The night following her funeral, a few of her closest friends got together and videoed themselves doing just that. Together. Which is the way she'd want it.

 
In fact, a lot of what I and those people who remember her best have done these past several months, has been in honour of her and the way she lived her life. Full bore. Full court press. Hard forward. Brightly burning just like the firework she was (and is.) Mediocrity wasn't even in her vocabulary. If she believed in something (or someone) she showed it, no questions, no reservations, no holding back. She plunged head - no - heart-first into everything. Fiercely loyal. Generous to a fault. Passionate. 

And whole-hearted. Courageous.

If you are on Facebook, I hope you can view this video, taken by Darcy Anthony Brown on November 2, 2013 and shared on Arielle's wall. 

The idea was inspired by Katy Perry's "Firework." CARPE DIEM. Seize the day!

 https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10151698891516817
 

The Truth : Taking Responsibility

| This above all: to thine own self be true,
| And it must follow, as the night the day,
| Thou canst not then be false to any man.

- Polonius, in Hamlet, Act I Scene iii (William Shakespeare) 

I've been having discussions with a few people lately about how important it is to be honest about even the little things, to maintain personal integrity. The practice of honesty with oneself (and then inevitably with others) is one that, in today's society, is slowly going the way of the whooping crane. 

It is high time to revive it. 

During the last four and a half years, I've been living a lifestyle that demands rigorous honesty - first with the self, then with God and with others.

That forces me to be realistic with myself about a great many things I might otherwise have shoved under the carpet and lived in denial about. It fertilizes my conscience. It demands that I own up to my mistakes - even to (and especially to) my children. It makes me examine the motivations behind my own behaviors that still at times baffle me.

I've discovered that as I embrace this personal honesty, I have less tolerance for being snowed, no matter who's doing it. It's like I have this "BS meter" that points not only within but also outward. It pings all over the place when I hear people talk whose power has gone to their heads - notably politicians, high-ranking officials in businesses or organizations, and the like. 

However, the loudest pinging goes on when I am not being true to my moral compass, when I allow myself to be led astray or I start rationalizing my behavior to myself. That's a good sign. The loudest pinging used to be when I noticed someone else being dishonest. I still notice, but it's tempered with the knowledge that it could just as easily be me compromising my principles to satisfy some ulterior motive.  I know. I've done it.

Insisting on honesty doesn't mean I'm not tactful when I notice something askew in someone else's behavior. It doesn't mean I "let it all hang out" and justify my lambasting someone by saying that I'm being honest. Nor does it mean that I keep silent when silence is not called for. It means that I look at my own reactions and check my own integrity first. It means that I understand that I am human. Fallible.  And that it is okay to make mistakes - as long as I recognize them, and that I learn from them. 

Telling myself the truth is the first step in me taking responsibility for my part in whatever situation has become unlivable. It doesn't allow me the luxury of blaming another person entirely for the state of a relationship or a situation.

When I do need to confront someone, I remind myself to do so in meekness and kindness, with consideration for that person's feelings. It's the way I want to be treated whenever I mess up.

Wouldn't you?

Two highly underrated words

I was chatting with a buddy earlier, and she happened to thank me for something in our relationship that meant a lot to her. "Although 'thank you' seems so trite," she said. 

What followed was a discussion that took me straight back to the late 1960s and early 70s. "Thank you," I told her, "is highly underrated." I'm a big believer in "thank you." 

It encourages.
It validates.
It helps the one who receives it AND it helps the one who says it and truly means it.

When I was a child, our family would go grocery shopping once a week in "town" - which was a small town of no more than 5,000 people. Everyone knew everyone else - or at least the family they came from. 

I loved going to town. There were two places I wanted to go every time. The first was my great-uncle's shoe repair shop, where I felt accepted and wanted every time I walked over the threshold. I'd burst in through the door and the tiny bell over the entrance would ring in glad abandon, wildly flailing back and forth on its spring-loaded tether. I would sidle past the counter and venture immediately to the back room, where Uncle John was busy behind a heavy-duty sewing machine, amid the smell of cured leather and shoe polish, and where he "held court" with the men who had accompanied their wives to town so they could do the grocery shopping. Yet (unless he was sharpening skates, which took a great deal of concentration to get the edge just right) he'd stop whatever he was doing to greet me with a warm hug and introduce me as his niece. I'd wander about the shop, watch him sew leather on the machine, re-heel shoes and boots, or just go out behind the counter and tidy a bit so I could listen to the men talk. Many times he forgot I was there, minding the store front while he and the other men joked and laughed about this or that thing. It was an atmosphere of total acceptance. 

These expressions of love and caring stay suspended on
our wall all year round. Yes, they are Christmas cards.

The other place was the grocery store. Not the store itself, mind you. Just the little glassed-in passageway inside the entrance and exit doors. 

Back then, people still got their groceries in heavy-duty brown paper bags (with no handles), before the days of automatic sliding doors. Customers would get and pay for their groceries, fill their arms as full as they could with the chock-full paper bags, and head for the door. Some of them could barely see over the top of the bag's contents, especially the older widows who lived in little apartments scattered throughout town, some in the nursing home and some not. Anyway, I stationed myself by the exit door so that when I saw them coming, I'd be able to hold the door open for them. 

I did this so that I could hear the one thing I heard in no other place on earth: "Thank you."  Not perfunctory, polite thank yous, I mean to say, but expressions of gratitude spoken from the heart. I lapped it up and soaked it into my heart like fresh, clear water to a parched throat on a hot summer's day, knowing I'd have to live on that for a week. It saved my sanity - it was something to which I looked forward and on which I looked back when all I got from everyone else was either criticism or indifference when I tried to do something nice. Criticism if I didn't do it exactly as they would have done it  ... and indifference if I did. 

As a result of those experiences, I have always believed firmly in the power of acceptance and of gratitude. These two commodities are in short supply, it seems, and yet they cost absolutely nothing. Since they cost nothing in monetary terms, many people think that they are worth nothing. Nothing could be further from the truth. 

Acceptance says, "Thank you for being you."  This is a lost art in some circles where rewards are linked to performance and where, if someone isn't talented in this or that way, he or she is made to feel like a second-class citizen. Acceptance opens the mind and quells criticism. It strengthens self-esteem and engenders confidence. It sends the message that it's okay that this person exists, that this person is special, unique, worth knowing. There is no feeling in the world quite like feeling wanted, loved, appreciated - not for what you can do for someone, but for who you ARE. 

Gratitude says, "Thank you for doing (or saying) what you did (or said)." How many of our psychologist's offices are clogged with people who never got a word of thanks from their parents, teachers, or other authority figures in their lives, who always feel like whatever they do is never "good enough?" How many spouses leave, how many children run away, how many workers reach burnout, how many pastors and church leaders leave the ministry because the people they cared most about never bothered to verbally show their appreciation?  All this heartache, all for the lack of two sincere words. It's tragic. 

It doesn't take long. It only takes a few seconds, perhaps a few minutes. 

I've seen "Thank you" actually save a life. I've known it to restore sanity to chaos, to give purpose and meaning to people, to dispel loneliness and despair, to inspire people to do even better, to encourage people that they're not alone, that who they are and what they think, say and do are important, that they've not gone unnoticed, that they make a difference to the world, even just to one person and most likely to many more (remember the movie, "It's a Wonderful Life"?), by just being there. 

Perhaps there is someone in your life who needs to hear those words. I know that there are so many in mine.

Those who matter

Be who you are and say what you feel, because "Those who matter don't mind, and those who mind don't matter."

This quote is incorrectly attributed to Dr. Seuss. The portion in quotation marks was spoken by Bernard Mannes Baruch (presidential advisor to Wilson and Roosevelt) regarding whether he wanted any special seating arrangements at a banquet.

In my previous post, I opened myself up to scrutiny by those of you who still read my blog... and I will admit that when I clicked "publish" ... it was with fear and trembling, even dread of being judged - much more so when I submitted it to the one who issued the challenge about which I spoke, since I have 15 followers and she has over 300. (Gulp.) 

I will also admit that I care - even after three and a half years of recovery from such things - far too much about what people think of me. Being human, I like to be liked.  I am (just like the rest of the world) hard-wired for connection. As much rejection and abandonment as I have known in my life, it still hurts to be excluded, ignored, or passed over - for whatever reason.  

But it's slowly dawning on me, this radical truth of "those who matter don't mind, and those who mind don't matter."  Married with the idea that "friends are God's way of apologizing to you for your family," I'm beginning to see that it's the heart connections that matter - whether those are blood ties or not.  That the support and encouragement of true friends ... trumps the pettiness and poison of those other toxic relationships, whether they are with family or not.  Every time.  I have a few such golden friends.  I value them ... I treasure them more than I can begin to express. And I can express a LOT.  ;)

As I was saying, when I submitted that blog post to my fellow-blogger for inclusion on her site ... it was with much fear and trembling.  I felt exposed, raw, vulnerable to attack. I think I even said to myself, "NOW what have I done?"  

Yet I was curious (morbidly or not) to know what my fellow-blogger thought.  I kept watching my inbox.

Nothing came.

HERE is a great article on hugging!

A few hours later, I once again checked my inbox.  Nothing was in there, but there was something sitting in my Spam folder.  "I wonder..." I said, for sometimes my email server mistakes real communication for spam.  

Sure enough, there it was, an email from Ellie.  And in the first two sentences, I was brimming with tears, which gradually turned to sobbing in gratitude and love by the end.  I won't tell you exactly what she told me -  but suffice to say that it started with a desire to hug me - and contained some of the most encouraging and uplifting affirmations I have heard in a very long time.  

I've already lost count of the number of times I've gone back to that email to read those incredible, supportive words, to feel that warm blanket of acceptance and kindness and trustworthiness enfolding me.  Ellie reached out to me across the miles, even though we've never met in person, to remind me of what is important -- and of what isn't. 

Her words made (and make) me feel ... heard.  Understood.  Even important, and not in an arrogant kind of way, but in the way every human being needs to feel valued.  Worthy.  Safe.  They gave me the courage to lean into, to make peace with, even to embrace, the truth of my birth family's rejection of me.  They gave me access to the Strength to do what I need to do - whatever that is - to accept "what is" ... and to move on.  They gave me enough wisdom to discern who are "those who matter" and who are "those who mind" - and enough security and whole-heartedness to embrace the former and to walk away from the latter.  As difficult as that is (and will be) it is also quite liberating.

I don't have to prove anything to anyone.  
I don't have to justify anything to anyone.  

I just need to look after what (and who) matters ... and leave the rest alone, because it's out of my hands.  If it was ever there in the first place, that is.

SAFE HOME

It was a cozy, if cluttered, nook - a haven of civility in a harsh world.

My father's workshop, which he slowly (over the years) built onto the garage, housed a home-made workbench with a bench vise, several shelves to hold supplies, and piles upon piles of tools, each with its own specific purpose; he knew where each of them was. He would spend hours (sometimes days) out there, working on some project usually for a friend, sometimes for a family member - for which he would take absolutely no payment.  That was his gift, his legacy to the world, if he but knew it.  He cared for each tool like it was an old friend.  He allowed each tool to share in the gift that was his generosity to others. 

On the opposite wall of the "shop", he had installed a wood-fired stove, which kept the place toasty warm and inviting in the winter.  There was a dusty armchair by the door, pervaded with sawdust and a few tiny wood chips, another similar chair beside the stove, and in the corner there was a cot made up into a bed with a small pillow and a woolen bed-spread on it - the perfect place for him to nap, or just to lie down in a little bit of peace and quiet away from the demands and rigors of living with a nit-picking wife who preached at him on every topic from church attendance to the evils of nicotine. The clutter, I learned by osmosis over the years (because he never actually said so), was a barrier to keep her out. She never went out there unless she had to.  He liked it like that. 

HERE's where I got this photo

It was his realm, his kingdom, and he was the benevolent ruler there.  Here, I would go to spend time with him, watch him work, pass him a tool once in a while.  Or just sit by the stove with him and listen to the fire crackle.  The atmosphere was supremely peaceful, restful.  

Safe.  

He didn't expect anything of me.  He was just glad to have my company.  I knew that here, nobody could touch me, nobody could hurt me.  If I brought with me any of the drama from the goings-on inside the house, he would quell it with a sharp look and an unspoken reminder of the unwritten rule:  This is my refuge. I allowed you in here. We come here to escape the shenanigans, the manipulation, the intimidation that is so much a part of what's under the Other Roof.  This is different. This is ...

Home. 

This was where I could be myself.  To have my feelings.  To say how I felt. To soak in the restfulness - to drink in the earthy smell of sawdust, of wood smoke, of 3-in-1 oil.  To enjoy the one thing I could get in no other place (not across the yard, and not in the place with the steeple up on top of the hill): acceptance.  

He died in the fall of 1993, when our youngest was 16 months old.  

Soon afterward, a van driven by a mercenary family member arrived at his little house and literally raped his workshop; the driver took every last thing that he so lovingly cared for and used to help other people, and left an empty shell - only to take it to his own home and let it gather dust and rust.  I tried going out there to Dad's workshop once after that, tried to recapture that sense of peace, of safety.  But it had changed.  It was cold, violated, distant, void of life. 

He wasn't there anymore.  It wasn't safe any more.  It wasn't home anymore.  

When I say that I miss him, I miss him deep in my heart, in that place within which he made a space to be himself with no apologies, and where he allowed me to be me with no shame.  I miss his smile, his deep bass voice, his smell.  I miss his hard, calloused hands that could be gentle enough to solder the broken wires in a tiny hand-held calculator so someone didn't have to buy a new one.  I miss his stories of the railroad and of his logging days with the horses and the pull-chains, his company, his acceptance ... his love.

That safety, that peace, that sense of being protected, of being at "home" is one I've only found in one other place.  I've tried to find it all my life, with different things, in the company of various people.  Sometimes I got the opposite, and other times I've gotten really, REALLY close to that "safe home" feeling.  

But only one place exudes that same ambiance for me.  

It's a little, well-secluded, somewhat cluttered place inside my heart, the one to which I go too seldom - the one with the warm hearth, with the burning fire in the little stove, with two armchairs, and about sixty-six books on the shelves.  I sit in one chair, and in the other, larger chair sits...

My Father.

Last of his kind

He considers himself the last of his line. His offspring includes only girls.  And he's grateful for that.  

He thinks that it's unfair to perpetuate the kind of heartache that has been so much a part of his family for generations, passed down from father to son.  

In his determination to do everything the opposite of the way things were done to him, he has instead become the first of his kind  -  the first to be kind, the first to actually leave a legacy worth remembering, fond memories to look back on.  He may feel unworthy ... but so often, great men do feel that way.  

He was the first in his bloodline of the last hundred years or so, who actually chose his children over his career.  He dropped things he wanted to do - things that would wait until he got to them - so that he could sit down on the floor and play games with them, listen to their concerns (no matter how small), care about them, or thank them for their help, no matter how great or small their contribution.  His subconscious motto was (and is) "People before things."  To this day, his children know they can go to him with their problems, trust him with their feelings, and he'll listen to them without judging.  He listens because he was never listened to by his own dad and he knows how important it is for kids to feel loved and accepted, to have a safe place to land.  

He personally considers Father's Day a useless holiday.  Yet if anyone deserves to be honoured on Father's Day and every other day of the year, he does.  He raised himself and his younger siblings.  He had no model to go by, nobody to look up to, but he's been a rock, even more so the last three years or so.  And his wife and children look up to him and would go to the mat for him... any day of the week.  He's a wonderful life partner ... and a fantastic dad.  

I just wanted him to know that.  Happy Father's Day, honey.

Showing it

About a month ago, while I was going through a very difficult time emotionally (to the point where I was losing sleep and having physical symptoms) I remember being in a store with my husband when we saw a friend of ours.  He stopped to talk to us and expressed his concern for me.  He'd noticed that I had lost the colour in my cheeks, was dragging myself around, and seemed very tired and/or sick. He said that he'd been praying for me, and that my husband and I were very special to him. As we parted, he looked me straight in the eye and said, "Look after yourself...and feel better SOON."

The whole encounter took about five minutes.  But it felt so great to know that someone cared, someone noticed, someone wanted me to be happy, and that he took the time to SHOW that.  I hung onto that expression of loving concern for days and days.  It really meant a lot to me.  It fed my heart, so to speak.

Today, I saw him again.  He remarked how much better I was looking these days - more relaxed, more colour in my cheeks, more bounce in my step.  He said it was encouraging to see that.  Again I was reminded that I was loved, that my feelings mattered.  What a tremendous gift.  

From "The Importance of Hugging"

This fellow had learned somewhere along the line, that it's not enough to just care.  Care must be SHOWN to make a difference to someone.  It doesn't take long - five minutes during a random meeting, a few words or a smile and a wave, an encouraging text message, a short email, even a phone call.  But it can make the difference between someone feeling as though nobody cares, and borrowing a little hope to make it through another day until the sun starts to shine through. 

I really hope that the next time I am tempted to tell someone I care, I will remember to show it too ... just so the person knows I mean what I say and that it's not just empty words.  

Food for thought.

Bumpity-bump

I have a vivid memory from when I was six years old.  It's a happy memory.  

My grandfather lived down a long mud lane.  He drove a twelve-year-old Chevy truck built in the early 1950s with those bouncy-jouncy shocks that allowed passage over a dirt road but were pretty hard on the occupants.  He smelled like pipe tobacco and all the outdoors.  I loved him with everything I knew how to love with.  He never spoke a harsh word to me.  He was a short man - spry - and generous.  

This memory I have is brief.  It was of a day when my mother and I had been visiting him and Grammie at their house for the morning. I'd spent the morning exploring the property, going down to the edge of the lake, heading back up to the barn, visiting with the cows, hearing the grunts from the pigsty, trying to spy the kittens in the loft. And of course, sitting in Grammie's kitchen listening to her talk about the memories she had of my dad growing up, of adventures he had.  

Grampa offered to drive us back home after lunch, well over a mile if we were to walk, and the footing would have been difficult on that lane.  

We accepted.  

And here starts that memory so vivid I can almost smell the dust off the dashboard, mixed with the other smells I'll describe here. It's one of my earliest memories, so it's full of images, feelings.  Very potent.

Source (via Google Images):
http://www.classic-car-history.com/1947-1955-chevy-truck.htm

He got behind the wheel, and I sat in the middle between him and my mother.  

I loved riding in his truck.  It was so much fun!  Up and down, over the ruts and rills we would go, dangerously close to the edge on both sides of the lane. The ditch went down about fifteen feet on a sharp grade on both sides, so it was important to stay away from the edge.  Yet strangely, I was never afraid of him straying too close to the edge.  I only knew I was with Grampa, and he was driving us home, and that's where we'd end up. I felt safe when I was with him. It wasn't something I was consciously aware of, it just WAS.

Bounce, bounce, bounce...  He navigated the quarter-mile-long lane with calmness and aplomb, confidence and quietness.  I was enjoying the ride, being jounced around almost like a rag doll as we headed toward the main road.  And then I said what I always said, "Here we go again, bumpity-bump in Grampa's truck!"  And he laughed - but not in a shaming way.  His laughter said, "I'm enjoying my granddaughter SO much!"  He knew how to make me feel so important.  He knew neat things like that.  He knew lots of things my other relatives didn't seem to care about.  Like how to feed cows and pigs. That was cool.   


I don't remember getting back home, I just remember that little snippet of bouncing and enjoying the ride over that mud lane with all its ruts and rocks.

A little over a year later, Grampa would die in hospital of internal injuries, after his tractor wheel slipped off the edge of that narrow lane and rolled over and over on its way to the bottom of the ditch.  It truly was a dangerous passageway.  At seven years old, dragged to the scene in a panic by my mother after she received a phone call, I struggled to understand how come the ambulance was there, what had happened to Grampa, why they wouldn't let us near, how come he wasn't climbing up the side of the ditch by himself.  It all seemed so surreal, and totally disconnected from that care-free memory from over a year previous.  

I found myself just recently thinking about that ride with Grampa in his truck, how safe and protected I felt - and pondering in my adult mind how that at any moment we could all have plummeted to injury or death down into that same ditch.  

I guess it's because I'm covering some pretty rough territory lately and it feels rather scary.  And I suppose that it's God's way of telling me, "Trust Me.  I've got the wheel and I know the way.  It's going to be bumpy, too. But that's okay, I'm here.  And I'll NEVER leave you.  I will get you safely home."

The Gift of Giving

This time of year, it's all around us... the idea of gifts and giving, presents and receiving.  

When we're small, we get very excited about the receiving part.  Okay, it's fun to get gifts, especially those ones that show that the person put some thought into it.  There's no denying it!

Source: (through Google Images)
http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/ethicallivingblog
/2008/dec/04/christmas

But as we grow up, we start to understand that there is a real gift in giving. There is such intrinsic reward in watching someone receive and appreciate a gift we've taken the time to pick out for him or her.  Whether it's the wonder on a child's face - or a tear of joy from a lonely old aunt - we start to learn the truth behind the saying, "It is more blessed to give than to receive."  

Not the obligatory kind, of course.  There's no enjoyment in that, only the repayment of an unspoken but very real debt.  Folks that use the gift-giving as a means of one-upmanship spoil the whole idea.   But real giving - the kind the other person doesn't expect and can't repay - is thrilling. It's a gift that gives back to the giver a hundredfold in satisfaction and happiness.  We were designed to enjoy it by One who knows the joy of giving.  

I could preach right now.  But I won't.

Life Lived Well - Adieu

This evening I learned that someone I've known since 1976 passed away in hospital in the wee hours of this morning.  He was 87 years old.

When I first met him, he was just a little older than I am now.  I had a crush on one of his boys - what can I say, he was attractive and I was sixteen! - but he was 20-ish and "too old for me" ;)  and so he introduced me to his younger brother, whom I dated for a little while.  During that time, I got a chance to meet his dad, this wonderful man.  He had such a quick wit and dry humour that I was constantly doing double-takes! 

But it was his heart that touched me most.  I instinctively knew that I could trust him and his lovely wife.  They were the salt of the earth. This man was a living example of a Christian life lived well, doing no harm, doing good, being kind, quietly, unobtrusively.

I'll never forget when I was pregnant with my 2nd child.  It was early in the pregnancy and I had been having morning sickness for a few weeks; I kept getting weaker and weaker, reduced to crackers and water.  This one day I looked at my active 2-year-old, and I didn't have the strength to even change her night-time diaper.  I reached for the phone and the first people I could think to call was this beautiful couple, then in their mid to late 60s, bent over but still willing.  I knew that I could count on them.  They arrived about 20 minutes later.  She busied herself with my 2-year-old and he asked where the vacuum cleaner was.  

Sitting on the sofa, I watched them, and the tears of gratitude were trickling down my face.  I had been totally unaware of how sick I was. Their kindness and my helplessness  made me realize that I needed help, and I went to the emergency ward that afternoon.  They kept me on intravenous fluids for 4 days and on a liquid diet for another day before sending me home.  I had been seriously dehydrated, near organ failure when I got to the E.R.

I believe this man and his wife helped to save my life.

When my husband's father died in 2004, my children kind of "adopted" this godly couple as their honorary grandparents.  Their presence, their constancy, helped our teens through the grieving process; I'll bet they never even knew it. 

We let him and his wife know several times and in several ways how much we appreciated them.  We admired his quick turn of phrase, his quirky sense of humour (he thought in puns and/or in literal terms) and his kindness to any and all who crossed his path.  

There is no doubt in my mind where the real man I grew to love and admire is right now.  I can't help thinking about an old hymn called "My Ain Countree" which says in part (I will use the English translation instead of the Scottish burr), "The hills are flecked with flowers, many-tinted, fresh and gay, the birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them so - but these sights and these sounds will as nothing be to me, when I hear the angels singing in my own country."  

His was a life lived well - to God (à Dieu) - and that's exactly what he's still doing.