The Tale of the Orange Crush, republished in honour of my husband’s birthday!

Jan25

Today is my husband, John Andrew’s, birthday. Now in his 60s, his dark brown hair has  developed a few patches of white. He is calm, serious, kind and loves to challenge people with trivia questions. Over the years, though, I have heard stories of a younger, different Andrew, capable of driving his parents and other authority figures to distraction. The story I am about to share, in honour of his birthday, is his favourite and mine.

In the late summer of 1960, Andrew was five and a half. His mother was expecting his baby brother, Christopher. The family were living  in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, not far from where Andrew’s father, John Adams, grew up. Andrew’s maternal grandfather was visiting, awaiting the new arrival. In order to give Mom a break from caring for a very active little boy, Dad, GrAndy young boy picandpa and Andrew went for a trip to the foothills of the Canadian Rockies.

By August, the long days of sunlight and limited precipitation had taken their toll on the vegetation. Andrew looked out the window of the car and saw brown, barren land. The grass had turned yellow and most of the beautiful wildflowers had disappeared or gone to seed. Some of the trees had started to turn yellow, a contrast to the faithful evergreens. Harvest was about to burst into full swing, with harvesters, combines and grain trucks.

The rambunctious five-year-old was hot and probably a little bored. Their route was taking them along a highway  which was  away from any major centre.

“I’m thirsty!” Andrew said.

There weren’t many places to choose from. Finally Dad and Grandpa found a roadside Orange Crush concession booth. Dad stopped the car and the three of them went in.

“What do you have to drink?” Andrew asked.

“We just serve Orange Crush,” the clerk explained.

“I don’t want Orange Crush,” Andrew complained.

Dad and Grandpa grumbled as they took Andrew back to the car.

“I’m still thirsty!” Andrew whined.

About 10 to 15 miles down the road was a hotel with a diner. This might prove more promising. They went in and sat on the  bar stools in front of the counter. The interior was dark. The middle aged lady behind the counter was occupied with another customer, Andrew was restless. He begin to swing over and over, round and round, on the bar stool.

“Stop that, Andrew,” Dad commanded, increasingly irritated  with his young son’s behaviour.

Finally, the lady was free to serve them. “What kind of drinks do you have?” Andrew asked.

“We have Coke and Orange Crush.”

Andrew didn’t want Coke. He realized that Dad and Grandpa were unlikely to take him to a third place, so he said, “Okay, I will have the Orange Crush.”

It was all Dad and Grandpa could do to keep their tempers under control on this hot August day in the Rocky Mountain  foothills. However, Andrew got his drink, most likely having no idea why they were so annoyed!

Happy Birthday to my beloved husband! We will make sure that there are other selections of drinks at your party, besides Coke or Orange Crush!

Searching for Sheep

Jan10

Each year at Christmas, I give my friend, Janet, a gift card to thank her for the rides she gives me to our local writers’ group meetings. Last Christmas, I decided to do something different. Janet has a collection of sheep: stuffed animals that have names and sometimes accompany her to meetings or on trips. Adding to her collection would be different and special. It shouldn’t be a hard gift to find. After all, sheep and shepherds share the spotlight with angels and wise men, coming to worship Jesus. So the hunt began.

My husband was quickly enlisted in the search. While I went into a craft store one day, I sent him elsewhere to look for a sheep. He came back and said, “There was one but I don’t think it was exactly what you wanted.”

I thought of another store. “Would you check there?” I asked.

He walked off to the second store but with no success. We kept searching. “I found an animal,” my husband said, “but I am sure it was a llama. It had a long neck.”

One afternoon, I searched through another pile of stuffed animals and pulled out one that I thought might pass for a sheep. The little knobs at the top of its head were troubling, though. Could it possibly be a sheep? I had the unhappy thought that it was likely a goat. Still, time was running out. I whipped my cell phone out of my bag and googled sheep and goats. The pictures weren’t promising. The sheep had smooth heads while the goats had horns. One article did say that some species of sheep have horns, but I thought it unlikely that this stuffed animal was one of them.

I was about to totally embarrass myself by asking a complete stranger her opinion when my husband walked in. It was a good thing. She might have questioned the sanity of someone blathering on to her, in the midst of a crowded store, about the characteristics of sheep and goats. “Do you think this might be a sheep?” I asked my husband. “It has knobs on its head.”

“Well, perhaps,” my husband ventured, “but with those knobs, I really think it is a goat.” Reluctantly, I  placed the animal back on the shelf.

It was becoming apparent that sheep were not the hot Christmas commodity that I had imagined. “I may have to look for a sheep at Easter and give it to Janet next Christmas,” I told my husband. “There are sure to be lots of lambs for sale then.”

Early one evening, we went into a store to mail off some parcels at the postal outlet. There at the front of the store was a stack of stuffed animals. One last try. My husband pulled one out and said, “The neck is too long. It’s a llama.”

“Yes, it is, and I want a sheep.”

A sales lady said to me, “Are you looking for a sheep? I may have one!” She reached to the bottom of the pile and just like that pulled out a sheep. I waved my arms in the air with excitement! She waved her arms in the air with excitement! I was excited because I had a sheep! She was excited because she had found one for me! My husband refrained from joining us in this public display, but he was pleased, no doubt relieved, that the sheep quest was over.

The Bible contains many stories and references to sheep. In Luke 15, Jesus tells a parable about a shepherd who has 100 sheep in his flock. One wanders off and the shepherd leaves the 99 to rescue the lost sheep, the one who needs him most. When he finds the sheep, he is filled with great joy and shares his happiness with his companions.

Jesus uses this story to illustrate God’s passionate love for the individual. The shepherd cares for the 99 but he cannot rest until he rescues the one. No one is dispensable. No one lacks importance. No one is outside of God’s love. The shepherd will not sacrifice a single sheep in his flock.

The parable also teaches us the value of persistence. The shepherd refuses to give up his search. We need that type of tenacity. A new year has arrived: a year to love, to create, to show kindness, to dream big and to keep going, keep going, until we reach our goal.  The sheep we are searching for may be right ahead of us, among the llamas and goats, at the bottom of a pile of stuffed animals.

May 2019 be your best year yet!

Note: The recipient of our sheep is a Canadian writer of devotionals and Christian suspense stories. Check her out at: https://janetsketchley.ca

A Thanksgiving Birthday

Oct10

Since my October 8th birthday coincides with either the week of Thanksgiving or the day itself, it has always felt extra special. At a time when we consider our many blessings, I am also reminded that God gave me the gift of life. We are not random creations but chosen by God to be uniquely who we are.

On the evening that I was born, my Dad rode his bicycle to a London, Ontario hospital. Mom and Dad were not rich. Dad was attending London Bible Institute and working long shifts at Canada Bread. Now a child was entering the equation. My parents often told me that before I was born, someone gave them clothing for a baby girl. This occurred long before modern technology could determine the sex of a child before birth, but God knew precisely that a girl child was on her way.

God provided for me before I was born but didn’t stop there. Over and over, he has met my needs and those of my family. Sometimes it has taken both courage and faith to believe in what I could not yet see. God often works  outside the  box, answering prayers in ways I could not possibly imagine. Why not? He is the creator of the universe, with infinite knowledge and power.

This year, our adult children and sons-in-law gathered on Sunday to celebrate both Thanksgiving and my birthday. One of my greatest joys is having all ten of us  together. My family spoiled me, as always, with thoughtful birthday gifts, including the lovely blue rug now gracing our living room floor. When we sat down to eat, my daughter, Hannah, asked us to each name something we were thankful for. This has become a tradition, a time to reflect on the many blessings we have. All of us have so much. As my pastor says, many of the best gifts are free. We only need to recognize them.

When my Dad rode his bicycle to the hospital, he likely felt many emotions. Perhaps he wondered how a baby would impact his already hectic life.  However, Dad knew that God provided. He understood gratitude.  At Thanksgiving and my birthday, I know that God is my Jehovah Jireh, my provider, who bestows life and all that is good.

Happy Thanksgiving!

 

 

 

 

Graduation

Jun29

Last evening was the twenty-fourth graduation ceremony for a high school I teach at. Graduation is the highlight of my teaching year, a time to watch with pride as our Grade 12 students walk across the stage to receive their certificates and awards. The principal said in her address that these young men and women had the ability to create their lives. I thought that while some circumstances would be out of their control, their responses would always be their own.

More years ago than seem possible, a group of my fellow high school graduates and I stood on the stage of the Owen Sound Collegiate and Vocational Institute. The principal announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, here are your Ontario Scholars!” It was a proud moment. The hundred dollars we each received went a lot further than it would now but the biggest reward was in the achievement itself.  Our moment in the spotlight was also balm to the soul. Since graduation took place during October, most of us had already experienced our first weeks of university or other destinations, and with them the sometimes difficult transition period change involves.

The future was before us, unknown, full  of possibilities. I knew what my goals were: to become an English teacher, write, marry and have children. Even though, I have done all these things I could never  have anticipated what lay ahead. I had no idea that my future husband  sat at the back of the room in my Canadian Literature course.  I would never have envisioned that his job would take us across Canada, that our first child would be born in Saskatchewan and graduate from high school in Nova Scotia. There would be difficulties to face, loss and family tragedies, but also unexpected opportunities, adventures and rich relationships. My strong faith in God would always empower me to rebuild and carry on.

After the ceremony was completed, last night, the students threw their hats into the air. This is always my favourite part: a celebration of the past and a nod to the future!

Congratulations and much happiness to our 2018 graduates!  Write your own stories.  Life awaits you. Seize it and use it wisely!

 

 

Guest Post by John Andrew Adams, for Father’s Day

Jun17

Father’s Day tribute to my father, John Rayson Adams, 1916- 2006, by John Andrew Adams

One of the teachings of Jesus was that believers in the true God could and should address Him as “Father.” Even more distinctive was the fact that Jesus addressed God as “father,” and used at least some times a very intimate personal word for father, “Abba.” When Jesus was praying the Gethsemane prayer he used this word as Mark indicates: “Abba, Father,” he said, “everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will” (Mark 14:36, NIV)). Paul the apostle also indicates that the Holy Spirit gives true Christian believers the ability to address God as “Abba, Father.” Romans 8:15 in the NIV says: “The Spirit you received does not make you slaves, so that you live in fear again; rather, the Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship. And by him we cry, “Abba, Father.” Galatians 4:6, NIV, also states,:“Because you are his sons, God sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, the Spirit who calls out, “Abba, Father.”

The interesting thing about the Semitic word for father, “Abba,” is that it not the formal way to address one’s male parent but is best translated in English as “Dad,” “Daddy,”or “Papa.”God wants those who know Him through faith in Jesus Christ to address Him as not just the formal “Father,” but as we would have addressed our fathers as young children. God wants us to relate to him as Father, as we related to our earthly fathers.

Now for many Christians this is a problem because their earthly fathers were either absent or abusive. I, however, have been blessed in the fact that my earthly father was a very good image of God as father to me. My father, John Rayson Adams, really showed me, especially as a young child, something of God’s Father-love. I can remember one instance in particular when I was probably about 7 years old. We were discussing a number of issues, including who the real Santa Claus was. when my father made this wonderful comment about his life. It went something like this: “Your mother and I got married and we we’re very happy. But what was really special was that then you came along!” By this he was referring to how I, as his firstborn child, made him a father and gave him one of the highest pleasures of his life just by my very existence as his son.

Because of this and other times, I always felt that he loved me, just because I was his son, not because of anything I did. I also could depend on him, to really have my best interests in mind. I even deep down understood that he was being a good father when he applied some, at the time, unwelcome discipline.

Quite some time ago, when I was seeking God for some personal and professional problems, I felt called to address God as I usually addressed my earthly father as “Daddy,” in a prayer about the situation I was facing. Minutes after I typed out this prayer to God, addressing him in this way in a computer prayer journal, I walked to the mail box of my then employer and in the mail there was a check for a large sum of money  that actually allowed my employer not to force me to take a significant pay cut! God was clearly underlining that He wants his children to call Him, “Daddy,” and He was pleased to answer my prayer at this time to show this.

More recently, when I address God as “My heavenly Daddy,” I really sense His love and his presence that was so adequately represented by him. I realize that God loves me just because I am me, no matter what, just as my earthly father John Rayson Adams, just loved me because by being his firstborn son, I made him a proud father!

The Birthstone Ring

Apr3

29745020_10160192418570156_3318653196796217566_oA close friend unexpectedly slipped a ring onto my finger. “A birthstone ring!” I exclaimed. Not only was this Easter gift a beautiful expression of the generosity and love of my friend, but it  took my mind back to the first birthstone ring I had owned…and lost.

When I was eight-years-old, my grandma gave me a beautiful birthstone ring on Christmas morning. It was an amazing gift for a little girl to receive and even more special because it came from Nana. I wore it with pleasure. Then the unthinkable happened and my ring disappeared. I was attending university at the time and living in a student residence, a charming, older building covered with vines. Where did my ring go to? My best guess is that I left it unattended on a bathroom counter  and it was stolen by a lady who had been seen in the building and was suspected of committing petty thefts. It was a great loss and I did not think to replace the ring Nana had given me. After a few years, a diamond engagement ring and then a wedding band graced my hand. Life went on and the ring was a treasured  memory from the past.

Then suddenly, this Easter, after  many years,  God restored my ring – a different ring, but given with thoughtfulness and friendship. I thought of how fitting this gift was for the Easter season. God is in the business of restoration, sometimes in areas that we would never expect. The Bible is full of verses about God giving back that which is lost. One of my favourite is from the book of Joel: “I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten…(Joel 2:25, NIV).”  Growing up in Ontario, I was familiar with grasshoppers (similar to locusts), but when my husband and I lived in Saskatchewan for three years, I saw the damage these insects can do. I yelped the first time a grasshopper leaped in the car window next to where I was sitting, but this was nothing compared to the fields with large sections stripped bare of crops. The farmers had a saying that next year’s crop would be better and eventually the grain would stand tall once more. Restoration  would occur. There are many areas where we need restoration: relationships, finances, sickness, shattered dreams, broken hearts. Like the farmers, we can hold our hope before us, knowing that losses do not define us and that God will in his time and way repay us for all that has been stolen.

This brings us to Easter. Adam and Eve lost their intimate relationship with God in the Garden of Eden. Since God’s  holy nature cannot tolerate sin, the only solution was for Jesus to die on the cross, take our sins upon Him, and restore us to being full sons and daughters of God. All we need to do is believe. This is the greatest restoration of all.

As I look at the birthstone  ring on  my finger, I am reminded of what Christ does for me on a daily basis, and of the priceless gift of salvation, that we celebrate at Easter. Jesus has risen, and because He has risen, all things are possible!

 

 

Loss

Feb1

AscensionA few nights ago, my tabby coloured cat, interspersed with lovely shades of brown, passed away with almost no shadow of warning. Ascension, or Gorgeous as we sometimes called her, was 14 years  old. She came to live with us when several of my daughters encountered some people outside a pet store who had a small abandoned kitten to find a family for. Ruthmarie and Andrea failed to mention to their Dad exactly what they were bringing home. He said her little squeaks sounded like a bird’s. However, she was a fully-fledged feline and we fell instantly in love with her.

To our knowledge Ascension had not been ill. Except for a little extra stiffness in moving around, she did not look like an older cat. Her fur was glossy and thick, and as the alpha cat, she had no trouble maintaining her position. The day she died, Ascension appeared to be fine until around suppertime. She was lethargic but that had happened before. We made sure she had some water and my daughter, Andrea, settled her comfortably in her bedroom.

Sometime around 2:30 a.m. Andrea came to our bedroom door and said there was something terribly wrong with Ascension. We brought her to our room and I lay down beside her. She had a short spell of convulsions and then was still. I kept my hand on her, certain she was still alive. My husband had to do the hard part and convince me that she had slipped away, with me crying and telling him not to take her  from me. He put her in a little box and I cried inconsolably. She was very much my cat and I wonder if I will ever get over feeling the way I do now.

We all experience loss and it is never welcome. Losing something or someone is highly personal and unfortunately, one loss can trigger feelings from  a host of others. Over the past few years, there has been way too much of it – the deaths of family members and friends, the unforseen  breakdown of a close relationship, and a temporary loss of identity and purpose as roles shift and self examination takes place.

We also grieve for the losses of others. Dementia, for example, takes a terrible toll People lose a loved one twice: the gradual, downward spiral until the person is not longer him or herself and then death itself.

Since I am in the grieving stage, this all sounds like doom and gloom, but there is hope. Some losses require forgiveness and understanding. Some require fresh ideas or altered paths to travel, an inventory of what is next in life. We never really get over the deaths of those we love but as many have pointed out to me, we may have wonderful memories to sustain us, as I do with Ascension.

My mind keeps going to Paul’s words in Philippians 3:8: “What is more, I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things” (NIV). Perhaps Paul is saying that none of these earthly losses compares with the joy of knowing Christ in a personal and intimate way. He is the one who gives us peace and holds our hand in the storm. Our own losses also enable us  to comfort others, to really understand their pain, even if the actual details differ.

And, as several friends have pointed out to me, Ascension is immortalized in a story I wrote and had chosen for publication in Hot Apple Cider with Cinnamon, edited by N.J.Lindquist. How many cats have a claim to fame like that?

If you are grieving be gentle with yourself, put your hand in God’s and know that he will never let it go.

Thanks for listening.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

100th Anniversary of the Halifax Explosion

Dec5

Today is the 100th anniversary of the Halifax Explosion. We remember not only a devastating  casualty of war but the courage and compassion of the Halifax people and their ability to rebuild from the ashes of tragedy.

As a tour guide, I told the story of the Halifax Explosion as we travelled from Agricola Street to the Hydrostone area in the North End. This is my story.

 

Remember the three red and white smoke stacks that I asked you to keep in mind as we drove down Citadel Hill? Now I am going to tell you the story of the Halifax Explosion.

The early morning of Dec.6, 1917, during the First World War,  seemed no different than any other. Adults went to work or attended to household tasks and children walked to school. The Halifax Harbour was bustling with ships. The two principle characters in our story are the Mount Blanc, a munitions ship from France, under Captain Medec,  and the Emo, a relief ship headed to New York City, under Captain Fromm. The Mount Blanc was like a sailing bomb, carrying such dangerous items as TNT, picric acid, gun cotton saturated with nitric acid, and benzoyl, which was placed in secured barrels on the deck, away from the other explosives. Normally, such a ship would have flown a red flag to warn people of danger but Captain Medec did not want to fall prey to enemy vessels.

On the evening of Dec. 5, both captains were anxious to complete their missions.  Captain Medec wanted to enter the harbour and  join a convoy of vessels which would give protection sailing across the ocean, and Captain Fromm was in a hurry to exit the harbour and load his ship with relief items in New York City.  However, the captains were stalled because the submarine nets, created to keep out German U-boats , were already in place.

The next  morning both Captains were eager to be off. They both travelled towards the narrows, where the smoke stacks are, but because of some blundering decisions, crashed into each other at 8:45. The Mount Blanc caught on fire. It proved  impossible to put out and both crews abandoned their ships.

Few people knew how much danger they were in. They stood at the waterfront, watching the burning vessel. Children looked  out through the large school windows. They were no different than us, full of curiosity about an unexpected event.

Curiosity soon turned to terror. At 9:04:35 the Mount Blanc exploded, the biggest explosion caused by man  before the atomic bomb. Approximately 2,000 people were killed and 9,000 injured. Windows were shattered and slivers of glass damaged people’s eyes. Many wooden  houses caught on fire and people were stranded underneath the boards. Halifax immediately took control, calling in medical help from doctors, nurses, and  student doctors studying at  Dalhousie. People without homes were taken in by the Armouries, factories, churches and homes. A flood of help arrived  from other provinces and  countries. Can you guess which was the first city to send in supplies and medical help? I will give you a hint. It was a city in the USA. You’ve got it! Boston, Massachusetts! Each year, Halifax sends Boston a gigantic Christmas tree, as a thank you to the people of Boston. The tree is placed in the Boston Commons and beautifully lit.

When my husband and I decided to move to Nova Scotia, 17 years ago, we  read a novel called “Barometer Rising” by Canadian author, Hugh McLellan. The book is a fictional account of the explosion. A comment that has always remained in my memory is that we often remember a smaller event because of its juxtaposition  to a larger one. For example, many of you can likely remember exactly what you were  doing or where you were when you heard of the death of a loved one. During the night of Dec. 6, a ferocious snow storm hit the area. This made the task of finding family members much more difficult. There are many winter storms in Nova Scotia but this one is remembered because it is part of the story of the explosion.

There were several trials but finally the Halifax Explosion was judged an accident.

Here we are now at the Hydrostone stop. This area was completely destroyed. New houses were built of hydrostone, a fire resistant material. Look at the lovely green area and the many interesting shops. Much work was put into reconstruction.

Postscript  for reader:

Halifax has proven to be capable of handling major disasters. I am a transplant from Ontario,  but am proud to be part of an outstanding community. On Dec.6 we need to remember the people who died, and all those who showed great bravery,  provided aid and rebuilt the city.

Lest we forget.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lest We Forget

Nov11

In the hallway near the office of the school I teach at are large pictures of two young men, former students, who died in Afghanistan. I have often paused to look at the faces of these men and ponder what their lives might have held for them. What were their ambitions? Where would their lives in the military have taken them? How did they die? Did they have the chance for last thoughts or words? How many sunrises would they have  seen, if they had chosen a different walk of life.

Many of us take life and freedom for granted. Not on purpose, but we sometimes go about our days dwelling on mundane details and missing the beauty that is all around us. When a close friend died this year, I realized that I had just assumed he would always be with us. Life doesn’t work that way, of course, but we prefer not to dwell on its ultimate reality.

The young men who look so full of life in their pictures made a choice. They were well aware of the ultimate sacrifice that might await them. Yet, they still decided to put the good of others before themselves.

On Remembrance Day, we think of those who paid the cost for our freedom. We think of their families. We think of all the blessings that we have.

Lest we forget.

 

 

 

 

Over-the-top

Aug8

“Your Mother’s Day gift is over-the-top,” said my youngest daughter, Susanna, as we prepared for our small charges to arrive for Sunday School. My children are normally thoughtful and generous but I had no idea what this gift might be.

After church we enjoyed lunch together. There was a special aura of excitement about my gift and the family urged me to open it.  A pretty spray painted box sat on the coffee table. Inside was this:

 

20248304_10159088014280156_25602449842744537_oMy daughter, Andrea, with her creative flair,  had  made up a piece of cardboard  to look like an airline boarding pass.  It included a picture of my sister, Brenda, and I. Although my family and I had left Ontario to move to Nova Scotia 17 years ago,  there were times when I greatly missed being “home.” I called Brenda and put my cell on speaker phone so everyone could hear her reaction. We were both very excited that I would soon be flying to Ontario.

The  timing was perfect. Perhaps my children sensed that I needed time away to process all that had happened over the past few years. There had been too many deaths, too many losses, too many changes, and with them questions I couldn’t adequately answer.  I needed my sister. I needed to go home.

Right from the start, my trip began filling me with a sense of peace. My close high school friend, Marie, met me at the Toronto airport. We talked about her adjustment to retirement and mine to my swiftly emptying nest. I had been asking myself, “If I am not a full time mother, who am I?” I am extremely blessed with my five adult children and their life partners but sometimes miss the little ones who sat on my knee. Marie is using her artistic talents to help with her life changes and over the week, I gained a new motivation to put a pen to paper (translate keyboard and computer). After having a delicious lunch together, Marie drove me to my sister’s home in Brantford.

I  hugged and hugged Brenda and was thrilled to see my brother-in-law, Mark, and nephew, Ben. The next days were filled to the brim with activity. I met some of Brenda’s friends, people who were bravely coping with difficulties in their own lives. Several friends from university days made trips to visit me. In both cases, I had not seen these dear friends for more years than I care to admit. We had reconnected on Facebook but to actually see them, hug them, catch up on their lives and meet one friend’s husband was an indescribable experience. We were older (well that happens) but essentially the same people. I asked them how they had coped with their children leaving home. When we were in university we likely talked a lot about boys and future husbands but this time we talked about our kids and past or present careers.  I was touched and reminded, as I had been the summer before when visitors arrived,   that no matter how much time goes by, those who are truly your friends will remain so. Karen and Beatrice, we will not let so many years go by again!! My family and I also had a wonderful visit with my husband’s sister and brother and his sister’s husband.  I felt very impressed with an important  project my sister-in-law is undertaking. She has the same drive my mother-in-law had.

On the weekend, we drove to Owen Sound,  the city where Brenda, Mark and I grew up, the place I think of as “home.” We stayed with Mark’s mother, Donna, a  lady who is quite an inspiration with all her  interests and activities. On Saturday  morning she drove me to Inglis Falls, Weaver’s Creek Falls and Harrison Park. I was struck by the sheer beauty surrounding Owen Sound. Even though, I had been back to Ontario  on a number of occasions, this time I felt more than ever that I was home. In the afternoon, we sat  in Donna’s backyard, which includes an immense flower garden, a pool  and waterfall, and visited with my cousin, Cindy, her husband, and a close friend of mine from elementary school who I love to see when I am in Owen Sound.   Cindy’s brother, Doug, had died the year before, too young and  very unexpectedly. It is  not easy to accept that one of the five “cousins” is no longer with us. Brenda, Cindy and I needed this chance to be together. 20294041_10159081441570156_6279791281752930520_n

The next day was the hardest but also brought a sense of closeness. Mark’s brother and his wife drove to Owen Sound and we went out to the cemetery to visit Sarah’s grave. Mark and Brenda’s daughter, Sarah, had died nearly three years ago. This had  marked the beginning of the things I was struggling with. She was only 31, just months older than my first child. Sarah’s grave stone had just been put in. We took solace  in being together again as a family, all feeling the same emotions in our love for Sarah Jane. I kept my arms tightly wrapped around Brenda, as Mark did a beautiful service, emphasizing the resurrection of the dead. Yes, some of us cried, but we gained a greater sense of closure.

Shortly after the service we returned to  Brantford and the next morning Mark drove me to the airport. I didn’t want to leave my sister, didn’t want to leave Ontario. For that brief week, I had felt so strongly that I was home again. I still didn’t have all the answers, but something  deep in my heart was starting to heal. Brenda’s courageous and accepting attitude towards life had touched me. My friends had reminded me that true friendship never fails. We had come another step forward in our grief over Sarah’s death.  I don’t know what the future holds but God impressed upon me the verse, “…Be still and know that I am God…”(Psalm 46:10, NIV). He knows all the answers, what is ahead, and shows His love for us every day.

And when I saw my daughter, Hannah, at the airport in Halifax, I  knew I was home!