Of Fear and Aging

 In 1986, my father died of pancreatic cancer at the age of 67 years and 15 days. Today, my husband turns that exact age. 

People kept saying Dad died too young, but to me, he was old. Sure, I grieved for him and wished he could have stayed with us longer. But I figured he’d lived his life. More significant to me was that 27 was too young to lose one’s father.

My perspective has changed. I mark this day in my husband’s life, knowing I’m only a year behind him. I recognize that I could lose him, or he could lose me—as though that hasn’t always been true. I ask myself which I’d prefer—to go first or to be left alone—as though the choice is mine. Some might say I do have a choice, and in today’s world, I suppose I do. That’s disturbing.

I’m not afraid of death. The aging process, however, I’m not crazy about. These days, my siblings and I are observing our mother’s growing confusion and forgetfulness. Though her body remains healthy for 93 (and for that we feel grateful), her short-term memory is almost nonexistent. This requires more patience than I ever needed with my children to answer the same questions repeatedly. I fear the same happening to my husband, and/or to me. I suspect the odds of dementia happening to at least one of us are probably close to a hundred percent. How loving and patient will I be when it’s in my own house, my own bed, my own brain? And that doesn’t even factor in the long list of other maladies that can cause a long, slow, painful decline leading to our last breath. Modern Science has given us longer life expectancy without the quality of life to match. We’re all living longer, but does anyone truly want to? I’d rather die “much too young,” thank you very much.

Such fear-filled thinking can make me spiral down all too quickly—until I turn to God’s word. He is not the author of fear. His words remind me that each day is a gift from Him, with purpose in it regardless of my circumstances. With Himself in it, regardless of my weaknesses. He’s got me through every difficult and heartbreaking day I’ve known until now, so why would that change? He tells me my future is secure, I am His for all time and beyond time. That no power can withhold my inheritance in heaven or my security in Him. So, no matter what comes my way—whether caring for another or becoming the dependent one—He will never let go of my hand. He will give me the grace and endurance to do whatever I’m called upon to do, when I need it and not before.

With this knowledge, I can live today with purpose and abundance. As I walk in obedience to Him, focused on whatever lies before me in the moment—including the interruptions caused by my own or others’ human frailties—I can trust Him to be my strength and guide until my journey here on earth is done.

II Corinthians 12:9

 “But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’”

 I Peter 1:4

 “In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil, or fade—kept in heaven for you.”

 Psalm 37:23-24

 “If the Lord delights in a man’s way, he makes his steps firm; though he stumble, he will not fall, for the Lord upholds him with his hand.”

 

War Brides, Part 1: Embarassing Misunderstandings

His uniform, clean and polished for a wedding.

During World War II, Canadian servicemen spent more time away from home than any other nationals—some as long as six years. While British soldiers saw action beginning in 1939, however, the Canadians who were shipped over as early as 1940 remained primarily in England until 1943. This gave them plenty of time to find English girlfriends, and, in many cases, wives. 

Nearly 48,000 women from Britain and Europe immigrated to Canada to begin new lives with their Canadian husbands—often without their husbands and some with young children. While some left their husbands behind, still fighting in Europe, other women were left behind to wait after the war when their husbands were shipped home. In each case, the adjustments to be made were enormous.

Their stories are fascinating, astonishing, and often humorous.

More than one young woman described instances of extreme embarrassment when naïve Canadian boyfriends handed them money in public places, not understanding how this act appeared to onlookers. In one case, the soldier had offered to pay for their tram ride. Not being familiar with British currency, he reached in his pocket, pulled out a handful of change, and held it out. “Here,” he told his date. “Take what I owe.”

In another case, the embarrassment surrounding their leave-taking nearly ended the relationship after a week. Betty was seeing Ken’s train off at the station. As an afterthought, Ken handed her money in clear view of all the other troops, asking if she could get his civilian shoes repaired while he was away. Though she wanted to die on the spot, Betty forgave Ken his faux pas and their lovely courtship continued when he returned.

Connie Robitaille’s Canadian husband, Roger, had been sent home while Connie stayed behind in England, awaiting word that she could join him. When a puzzling letter arrived from Roger, Connie shared it with her friend. Roger had written to say his brother was getting married. “There’s to be a bridal shower here, so everything needs to be clean as there’ll be a lot of women here.”

Connie and her friend certainly knew what a shower was, but they’d never heard of a bridal shower. The only conclusion they could reach about this odd Canadian custom was that the bride-to-be must be required to take a shower in front of all the other women.

“Aren’t you glad you were married over here?” Her friend asked.

Connie surely was.

More next time. 

A Rotten Thing

Imagine that you’ve worked at the same company, in the same position, for 14 years. You like the job. You’ve never missed a deadline. You’re pretty decent at it and the clients/customers love you. Then one day, you receive a second-hand message from the new boss:

While you are welcome to continue coming to work, you will no longer be paid.

What do you do?

Essentially, this is what happened to me with my newspaper column in July. The new owner decided freelancers would no longer be paid—take it or leave it. Sure, I realize I wasn’t an employee and it’s not quite the same. It sure felt the same, though. It may have gone down more smoothly if I’d been told, “Sorry. Although we appreciate your work, we can’t afford to keep paying you.” At least I wouldn’t have felt so undervalued. But there was zero communication from the new owner—just a message conveyed by my editor, with his regrets.

I chose to leave it—and then felt like the greedy one for not staying on to work for free.

I felt bummed, but I’d also been in similar situations before—often enough to know that if I waited awhile, I’d see why it needed to happen. My faith in God has taught me that he truly does have my best interest at heart, even when I can’t see it.

A couple of months later, I was gearing up to launch another book. I was also starting a new writing class which had me teaching three hours a week for eight weeks. When my mother suddenly required round-the-clock care, my available time was cut in half. For six weeks, my sister and I tag-teamed in caring for Mom. Between that, the class, the book launch, my regular homemaking tasks, and other writing commitments, I felt completely overwhelmed. Having to meet a weekly column deadline on top of it all would have finished me. By Thanksgiving, I was truly grateful for that column’s demise.

I still think what happened to me—or, more accurately, the way it was handled—was rotten. But I hope my experience encourages you. Next time something rotten happens to you, as it inevitably will, wait. Wait with a “watch and see” expectation. “What are you up to, God?” is a great question.

He won’t always show you. Sometimes, he does.

"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." (Jeremiah 29:11)
 

"I Want Mum"

As an adult, Mary Ann Waghorn’s memories came in snippets of black and white and gray. As a seven-year-old, she’d been told she was going on a holiday to Canada. She had no concept that she’d be leaving behind her three-year-old brother or the many aunts, uncles, and cousins who made up her happy extended family in Maidstone, Kent, England. Early in August 1940, she waited excitedly at the Maidstone West Station with her heartbroken mother. Mrs. Waghorn had agreed the evacuation would be best for her daughter but found the goodbye unbearable.

Mary Ann spent two days in the nearby town of Eltham in the care of CORB volunteers (Children’s Overseas Reception Board), until her party of 200 children was assembled. They traveled to Liverpool where Mary Ann remembers feeling nothing but confusion. The voyage across the North Atlantic on the Duchess of York proved no better. Most of the children were seasick and cold. On August 11, they docked in Canada.

The Duchess of York

Although Mary Ann was a CORB evacuee, it was up to the Toronto Children’s Aid to match her to a family. The process took weeks, during which time she stayed at Hart House, University of Toronto. Finally, she went to live with Roland and Coral Mann in Leaside, a small town on the outskirts of Toronto, and their twelve-year-old son, Teddy, and their dog, Sport. Since the Manns’ parents had been born in England and Scotland, they had close ties to Britain and Mary Ann fit in nicely despite her unsettling beginning. Mary Ann was soon calling her foster parents “Uncle Roly” and “Aunt Coral.”

Teddy proved to be an exceptionally patient big brother. He took Mary Ann skating, taught her to row a boat, fish, and bait her own hooks. At one point, Mary Ann announced to Mrs. Mann that when she was twenty, she would return to Canada and marry Teddy.

Although she looked gaunt upon arrival, she quickly gained weight and made lots of friends in her community. She recalled people being nothing but kind and compassionate to this little English girl. While Mary Ann appeared happy and well-adjusted, her inner feelings came out in her drawings. Her foster mother recalled her drawing pictures of girls in various activities like jumping rope or pushing a baby pram. Always, the girl was saying “I want Mum.” She drew great comfort at Christmas when she received some of her familiar toys from home.

The Manns found it a challenge to know how much news about home to expose such a young child to. At first, they never listened to war news on the radio. Later, Mary Ann was encouraged to take an interest in what was happening and to participate in fundraisers. Letters, photos, postcards, and cables kept her in touch with home.

Mary Ann says she’d have been happy to stay with the Manns after the war had they not so carefully kept her family in mind. Almost five years to the day she’d arrived in Canada, the Manns took her to Toronto’s Union Station where they said a tearful goodbye in front of newspaper photographers.

After a week aboard the Louis Pasteur and another train ride, twelve-year-old Mary Ann reached home—much taller and with a Canadian accent but otherwise the same girl with long blond braids. The brother who had been only three when she left was now eight and barely remembered her. Naturally, he resented this sudden intrusion of a big sister into his only-child status. Mary Ann, used to the older Canadian brother who’d doted on her, resented him as well and they fought a lot. She found the adjustment back to British school and life harder than the first change. Over time, she settled in.

For the next forty years, Mary Ann wrote monthly letters to the Mann family. On the four occasions when they met, she admitted feeling closer to them than she did to her own family.

His Body Kept Score

(NOT John Hutton's house!)

John Hutton’s mother died when he was only five years old, leaving him to live with his widowed father and his grandmother in a big old house in Colchester, Essex, England. One day in July of 1940 when he was seven, John’s father informed him he would be leaving for Canada in three days. He asked where Canada was and whether he’d be able to speak the language. His Uncle Leslie showed him on a map where he’d be going—to Toronto where people spoke English and where he’d be near Niagara Falls, the largest waterfall in the world.

Niagara Falls

Years later, John would recall his father taking him and his rucksack to the train station where he joined several other children embarking on the same journey. None of them had any comprehension of how far they would be traveling or for how long they’d be gone, but John felt the vision of his hometown receding into the distance staying with him throughout his five years in Canada.

The children waited in London through the Battle of Britain, and the gunfire overhead confirmed their parents’ decision was a good one. After they finally took the train to Liverpool, John boarded the troop ship SS Oronsay for Halifax. The crossing took two weeks, which were filled with lifeboat drills and activities organized by the CORB staff (Children’s Overseas Reception Board) who accompanied them. Among his memories are the massive ships in their convoy, the long series of tunnels they walked to reach the Halifax train station after disembarking, and the lower platforms of Canadian train stations that required them to carry their luggage up several steps into the cars. Big steps for a seven-year-old.

SS Oronsay

The journey to Toronto took four days and three nights, and John was impressed by the endless forests and lakes, relieved only by small clusters of wooden buildings. He and the other children were stumped when, at every stop, they were greeted by loud cheers from Canadians.

John settled in with his foster family but grew increasingly withdrawn, concerning both his foster parents and his father back home with his fibs and minor misdemeanors. When his foster family moved away a year later, John was taken in by the Pellett family in the village of Agincourt. Here, he fitted in nicely and found himself at home with foster parents whose families descended from Britain and their two young children.

Soon, John was calling Mrs. Pellett “Mother” and keeping his two fathers separate by referring to his foster father as “our daddy” and his father as “my daddy.” He feared that “My Daddy” would be called up as a soldier and have to leave Colchester.

John was constantly in trouble at school for being inattentive and the Pelletts knew he worried about the war. John grew so anxious that in March 1942, they took him for examination to the Sick Children’s Hospital. Doctors agreed John was worried about the war and there was nothing they could do. When Mr. Hutton’s job was declared war work and the danger of his inscription faded, John settled down. He stayed busy with school, church groups, Cubs, and friends. Though frequently plagued with illness as various anxieties arose, John eventually settled in with improved grades.

In July 1945. John left behind the foster family he’d grown to love and returned home, a tall, heavy, twelve-year-old wearing long pants and carrying a fountain pen gifted to him by his school in Canada. Later, John admitted that it took him a full three years to feel at home in England again.

 

You're invited!

 

"Will I Recognize Mum and Dad?"

Imagine having just turned five years old and being told you were sailing off to Canada without your parents. Fortunately for John Jarvis in 1940, he had a big brother named Michael, 10, who was going too. Little John had no idea where Canada was. The family lived in Southport, a seaside town close to Liverpool. With increasing bomb raids in the area, Mrs. Jarvis wrote to friends and relatives in Canada searching for a place to send her boys. When a Mrs. Foster from Grimsby, Ontario, expressed willingness, Mrs. Jarvis explained that with private evacuations, she’d not be allowed to send any money to Canada. Instead, she planned to follow the children as quickly as possible and find work.

No sooner had she sent the letter than one arrived from CORB (Children’s Overseas Reception Board), informing her that Michael and John had been accepted into the government program. The boys were on their way to Canada by the time Mrs. Jarvis received another letter from an aunt in Calgary, also agreeing to take the boys. She spent the next several months trying to arrange a visa and passage to Canada for herself. None was granted. Not during wartime.

John stuck close to Michael on the voyage to Montreal and Toronto. Staff at the reception center put the tired, ill little boy to bed. Soon, they went to Grimsby to live with Mrs. Foster, an English immigrant with a grown son serving in the Royal Canadian Air Force. The boys settled in nicely. Though their parents naturally missed them and worried, every time bombs dropped, they knew they’d done the right thing.

John’s memories included the peach farm on which he lived, school, wiener roasts on the beach, rabbits, hollyhocks, jumping in piles of maple leaves, and having to daily swallow a vile fish liver oil potion called Scott’s Emulsion. He recalled visits from members of the Children’s Aid Society where he met with them privately in the family parlor to ensure he was doing all right. To John, these were merely annoying interruptions to playtime. At Christmas, he was allowed to choose the tree. He and Michael received lovely gifts.

A 1940s Christmas

When Mrs. Foster sold her farm and moved into an apartment, however, she found life with two growing boys more than she could handle. Michael went to live on a farm a few miles away, while John went to a family with six children—also surnamed Jarvis. John felt at home with the family who practically adopted him. As he grew more Canadian, heartily singing along to “Oh Canada” at school, memories of home and family dimmed. His parents seemed more like a distant aunt and uncle who sent letters and occasional gifts.

RMS Rangitata

Just before his tenth birthday, John was shocked to be told it was time to go home. It seemed like the whole town came out to say goodbye to him and Michael, yet he couldn’t grasp that he wasn’t coming back. They travelled to New York where they boarded the RMS Rangitata for the voyage to England. When they reached Liverpool, the boys leaned over the railing, holding a photograph of their parents and studying the throngs of people on the wharf, worried they wouldn’t recognize each other. With a huge sigh of relief, they spotted them.

Adjusting back to life in England proved a challenge for John, especially at school. He kept in touch with both Mrs. Foster and the Jarvis family. At sixteen, he joined the Navy but it would be forty years before he returned to Canadian soil for a holiday where he visited his old friends.

You can read a fictional account of the CORB children's adventures in my new novel, "Even if We Cry," available for pre-order now. Click on the book cover to order.