We moved in on Saturday!
It has been a miraculous whirlwind, and Orion and I are a bit too tired to think straight, but we're here. We have had amazing, beautiful help. The house is still pretty chaotic, and electricians are ripping it apart to wire it up right. But we're here.
I'm itching for the setting-up phase to be over so that we can settle in to normal. See how even when whirlwind, miraculous interventions happen in my life, I'm still yearning? Seriously, Rebecca. So I need to stop, breathe, and give thanks. Give thanks! Even when I can't find the flour or a clean towel, choose to give thanks.
Each of the kids has taken their turn with a 12-hour Vomit Day in the past week, and a wee part of me has been thankful. Their sickness has forced some of the House Stuff to just quiet down take a back seat to cuddles and hugs, and I've literally needed to spend time rubbing little backs, stroking their foreheads and looking into their eyes. It has been good for my heart. Too bad they've felt lousy.
That's about all I've got for tonight -- Orion's banging around in the basement, removing some bookcases, and I need to clear enough space to walk across the floor.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Yearning for (a) home
Hi.
We are back at Camp Ifland after a two-week house-sitting adventure in Seattle. We are so close to closing on our house that we can almost taste it; we're signing some more papers tomorrow, and we may have keys as soon as Friday. Almost, but not yet. I feel so ... I don't know ... worldly and selfish for yearning for our own house so badly. Those are ugly words, but the truth is that I am yearning to put down roots. I am yearning to put clothes away in our own closets and dressers. I am yearning to hide our suitcases away in storage. I am yearning to meet neighbours and start investing in a community. I am yearning for routine. Sometimes I want to shout it out. The next moment I want to clamp my hand over my mouth, silencing my sense of entitlement by giving thanks for all I *do* have. I make a lousy nomad. I gave some bananas and some individually-wrapped cheeses to the man who was actually homeless and asking for food outside of the grocery store last night. I hope that this relatively plush adventure of mine can awaken in me some sense of our common homelessness -- I could be him, he could be me, and I'm not so entitled as I might think.
This world is not my home, I'm just a-passin' through...
***
Out and about in Seattle: visiting The Locks (aka The Boat Elevator!) in Ballard.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Grandma
A week ago I woke up to discover that my uncle had been trying to get a hold of me since 4:00 am. Grandma had died in her sleep.
My last visit with Grandma this summer had been a good one, and I'd cried as we left the nursing home. A chapter was finished; we were moving away from the prairie, and moving away from a grandmother who hadn't known my name for years but who was still sad to see our time together end. As long as I can remember, she ended our visits by gently calling out, 'Come again!'
Grandma lived an unassuming life. She had to quit school at a young age to help at home with the farm and the growing family. She was a very hard worker and she loved Jesus. She was quiet but she liked to laugh; she loved to have her family gather under her roof, eating the food she had prepared. Her life was simple. As a girl, she was denied her desire of music lessons, but she was my first music teacher. In the basement of the farmhouse, she taught me to play 'Jesus loves me.' She taught me the notes and the truth.
Those summer days when Mom would bring me to the farm were good days -- they were part of a blessed, happy childhood that I realize, more and more with each passing year, I must not take for granted. Grandma's garden seemed massive to my young eyes, and her tomatoes were second to none. I would watch her make buns in her kitchen (she even let me 'help'); to my memory, every batch came out perfectly. She always felt her cooking was simple, but I never tired of her jam-jams or date cookies (or her mashed potatoes -- my brother can back me up on this one). When it was time for coffee, Grandma would open the front door and call 'Yoohoo!' to summon Grandpa and Dad to the kitchen. I loved those times; sitting around the kitchen table, learning a few Low German words (not the bad ones), watching the adults drink their coffee, eating a cookie, and hearing about the the crops and the rhythms of farming life. I was secure in my family's love. What they had, they gave to me: their faith, their love, their encouragement.
Now Grandma, Grandpa and Dad are buried in the cemetery next to that farmyard. The ancient trees tower above the graves, with roots that stretch deep into the earth and branches that stretch up to the heavens. At each of their memorial services, my eyes have been drawn to those top branches, yearning to catch a glimpse through that veil that separates us from eternity. But I'm still here on this dirt.
When I'm gone don't cry for me
I'll be home and I'll be free
The wounds this world left on my soul
Will all be healed and I'll be whole
Sun and moon will be replaced
With the light of Jesus' face
And I will not be ashamed
For my Saviour knows my name
It don't matter where you bury me
I'll be home and I'll be free
It don't matter where I lay
All my tears be washed away
Orion and the kids and I all made the whirlwind trip back to Manitoba for the funeral this weekend. 40 hours on Manitoba soil; 40 hours that were a mosaic of difficult and good, painful and hopeful, sweet and bitter. The reunion with family was strengthening and comforting beyond words; the kids felt almost as though they'd never left (although Seth was quick to point out that it had been 'days and days' since he'd been to Winkler). It was an unexpected grace, a gift of time together that soothed the soul.
One of the hymns we sang at the service was Blessed Assurance. I sang it years ago for Grandma and Grandpa as a five-year-old, wearing a dress Grandma had crocheted for me, for their 35th anniversary celebration.
Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine
O what a foretaste of glory divine
Grandma's life was not spectacular by any worldly standards. She lived a humble life; she kept the faith. Hers was a life that was extraordinarly everyday, and she found purpose and dignity in her work and in her Maker.
This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior all the day long;
This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior all the day long.
My last visit with Grandma this summer had been a good one, and I'd cried as we left the nursing home. A chapter was finished; we were moving away from the prairie, and moving away from a grandmother who hadn't known my name for years but who was still sad to see our time together end. As long as I can remember, she ended our visits by gently calling out, 'Come again!'
Grandma lived an unassuming life. She had to quit school at a young age to help at home with the farm and the growing family. She was a very hard worker and she loved Jesus. She was quiet but she liked to laugh; she loved to have her family gather under her roof, eating the food she had prepared. Her life was simple. As a girl, she was denied her desire of music lessons, but she was my first music teacher. In the basement of the farmhouse, she taught me to play 'Jesus loves me.' She taught me the notes and the truth.
Those summer days when Mom would bring me to the farm were good days -- they were part of a blessed, happy childhood that I realize, more and more with each passing year, I must not take for granted. Grandma's garden seemed massive to my young eyes, and her tomatoes were second to none. I would watch her make buns in her kitchen (she even let me 'help'); to my memory, every batch came out perfectly. She always felt her cooking was simple, but I never tired of her jam-jams or date cookies (or her mashed potatoes -- my brother can back me up on this one). When it was time for coffee, Grandma would open the front door and call 'Yoohoo!' to summon Grandpa and Dad to the kitchen. I loved those times; sitting around the kitchen table, learning a few Low German words (not the bad ones), watching the adults drink their coffee, eating a cookie, and hearing about the the crops and the rhythms of farming life. I was secure in my family's love. What they had, they gave to me: their faith, their love, their encouragement.
Now Grandma, Grandpa and Dad are buried in the cemetery next to that farmyard. The ancient trees tower above the graves, with roots that stretch deep into the earth and branches that stretch up to the heavens. At each of their memorial services, my eyes have been drawn to those top branches, yearning to catch a glimpse through that veil that separates us from eternity. But I'm still here on this dirt.
When I'm gone don't cry for me
I'll be home and I'll be free
The wounds this world left on my soul
Will all be healed and I'll be whole
Sun and moon will be replaced
With the light of Jesus' face
And I will not be ashamed
For my Saviour knows my name
It don't matter where you bury me
I'll be home and I'll be free
It don't matter where I lay
All my tears be washed away
Orion and the kids and I all made the whirlwind trip back to Manitoba for the funeral this weekend. 40 hours on Manitoba soil; 40 hours that were a mosaic of difficult and good, painful and hopeful, sweet and bitter. The reunion with family was strengthening and comforting beyond words; the kids felt almost as though they'd never left (although Seth was quick to point out that it had been 'days and days' since he'd been to Winkler). It was an unexpected grace, a gift of time together that soothed the soul.
One of the hymns we sang at the service was Blessed Assurance. I sang it years ago for Grandma and Grandpa as a five-year-old, wearing a dress Grandma had crocheted for me, for their 35th anniversary celebration.
Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine
O what a foretaste of glory divine
Grandma's life was not spectacular by any worldly standards. She lived a humble life; she kept the faith. Hers was a life that was extraordinarly everyday, and she found purpose and dignity in her work and in her Maker.
This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior all the day long;
This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior all the day long.
Monday, September 3, 2012
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