Out of My Mind

Saturday, May 18, 2013

A Moving Tale

(This is part of a ten-minute blog challenge put out by my new friend, Sarah Kovac, whose book, In Capable Arms, I cannot wait to read. Check out the link. I wrote this in ten minutes, so be kind.)

Well, it’s official. Hubby and I are moving again. Four years ago, we moved into a large house with luxuries we’d never known—a screened-in porch complete with hot tub, an attached garage, a dishwasher, and a laundry chute leading to an actual, spacious laundry room!

We knew it was temporary. Friends of ours were taking a two-year teaching contract in Malaysia and needed to rent out their home. We needed to dispense with our 21-year-old mobile home but were not ready to commit to a purchase. It was win-win. We moved in, treating it like an extra-long vacation at a nice resort, except you do your own cooking and housekeeping. I was determined to enjoy every minute.

When the two years were up, our friends decided to extend their contract another year. That suited us fine and we stayed in the house. When the third year was up, they extended again. So did we.

But now, the jig’s up. They’re coming back to Canada and need to sell the house so they can buy another. They got an offer we dare not match. So be it.

We house-shopped for about three weeks and settled on one we could both live with. I love the kitchen and the room that will become my office. He loves the garage. It will be a shorter walk to work when I’m not too lazy to do it. We take possession in six weeks and I’m excited.

So now packing has begun. When we moved here four years ago, I didn’t worry about downsizing our belongings because I knew there’d be plenty of storage space and really didn’t want to fight those battles. Now, though, we’re moving to a pretty compact house by comparison. Some stuff is just gonna have to go!

Going through your old stuff is an exercise in time travel. I find myself lost in a world that no longer exists, looking at old photos or reading things I wrote decades ago. And I’m torn over the craziest items. Do I keep this dress from my high school choir days? Well, seriously, like anybody else is going to want it. What about my collection of decorative tins? They haven’t been unpacked for four years, I can obviously survive quite nicely without them. To the thrift shop they go.

Today I used Facebook to help me decide about my collection of antique high school texts of Shakespearean plays, most with fountain-pen notations in the margins, some going back to 1918. To my surprise, my daughter (the Queen of de-cluttering and downsizing) is interested in them!

Well, that settles it. The “keep” pile.

Most of all, I’m struck by the reminders of God’s faithfulness through the years. The choir dress represents a host of Christian teachers and fellow students who invested in me way back when. Most of the playbooks were a loving gift from a dear friend and member of the church drama team I led for 20 years. The various articles and stories I wrote over the years tell of frustrations and blessings and growth.

God has had his hand on my life and it’s good to remember. It’s too easy to get caught up in the worry of NOW, forgetting that he is eternal. He has always provided, always protected, and always led the way with grace and mercy. I can move into the next phase with every assurance that he always will.

<div align="center"><a href="http://sarahkovac.com" title="Saturday Sprint | SarahKovac.com"><img src="http://sarahkovac.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/Saturday-Sprint-125-button.png" alt="Saturday Sprint | SarahKovac.com" style="border:none;" /></a></div> - See more at: http://sarahkovac.com/674/#sthash.PG9t2zTx.COynTIQP.dpuf

- See more at: http://sarahkovac.com/674/#sthash.pMbMFAzA.dpuf

Thursday, May 16, 2013

My Fellow Graduates...

Who’da thunk it? On April 30, I graduated from the Manitoba Municipal Administrator’s certificate program through the University of Manitoba and can now put the initials CMMA behind my name. The last time I graduated from anything was high school, about 147 years ago. Some things have changed, and some remain the same since that day.

Difference: Back then, we wore caps and gowns. For this grad, only corsages distinguished us and I’m quite all right with that. It gave me a chance to wear a pretty dress and actually have it seen.

Similarity: Both times, I needlessly worried I’d trip going up to receive my diploma.

Difference: Back then, falling would have been mortifying. This time, it would have only provided more fodder for this column.

Similarity: For the group picture, the tall people stood in the back. I am still one of the tall people.

Difference: My CMMA certificate says “with distinction” on it. How about that, eh? In high school, I was an average student. The grades I’ve earned as an adult make me wonder if I’d have done much better as a teenager if only those dang boys had not been such a distraction. Speaking of boys…

Similarity: I had the same date for both grads. Somewhere, there’s a picture of Jon and me together on that day back in 1977. But after 35 years of marriage, his congratulatory hug, his pride in me, and his presence hold far deeper significance. Besides his being both a witness to my struggles and a personal coach through these particular courses, the rivers that have passed under our life bridge make his support infinitely more precious now.

Difference: Back in 1977, I graduated from a small, residential Christian high school in South Dakota. Prom night didn’t exist, since dancing was frowned upon. We settled for a heavily-decorated banquet, followed by sitting and listening to a guest speaker and then sitting some more while listening to a musical performance. There was no need for “Safe Grad” arrangements or designated drivers, either.

At my 2013 grad, our banquet was followed by a dance and cash bar. I abstained from the bar’s offerings, thank you, but found dancing a far superior way to follow too much food.

Similarity: A sense of significant accomplishment permeated both events. It’s easy to think that continuing education courses, taken at the rate of one or two per year, mean nothing compared to being a full-time student. But high school students are not generally required to put food on the table, care for children, or make mortgage payments throughout their studies like most adult students do. It’s not “nothing.” Both achievements are worthy of celebration.

And so, to the Class of 2013, be it high school, a university degree, or a certificate program like mine, I say Congratulations! Enjoy your big day for all it is worth and don’t ever stop learning, for there will always be more to learn. The third verse of John W. Peterson’s hymn called “The Student’s Prayer” sums it up nicely:

“May the things we learn, so meager, never lift our hearts in pride

‘Til in foolish self-reliance we would wander from Thy side.

Let them only bind us closer, Lord, to Thee, in whom we find

Very fountainhead of wisdom, Light and life of all mankind.”

Amen!

P.S. Congratulations to Lillian, who won last week’s draw for a free book.

Wednesday, May 15, 2013

This is Yummy

I made this dish last night and am really enjoying it! I think it's the hickory-smoke barbecue sauce that makes it so good. But you could use whatever's your fave. Next time, I'll double the recipe. It calls for canned beans, but I only found dried so cooked them all up at once and froze the rest for next time. Also, here in Canada it seems they are called Black-eyed Beans, not peas.

Black-Eyed Pea BBQ Stew (serves 4-6)

1/2 cup water
1 small rutabaga, cut up
2 celery stalks, diced
1 carrot, diced
pinch sea salt
2 (15 oz) cans black-eyed peas, drained and rinsed
1/2 barbecue sauce. (I used hickory flavour, our favourite.)
1 cup frozen green peas
Sea salt and black pepper, to taste

In a skillet with a lid, simmer veggies with a pinch of sea salt in 1/2 cup water until just tender. Add the black-eyed peas and barbecue sauce and simmer, covered, about 5 minutes. Add water as necessary and stir occasionally to avoid sticking. Stir in green peas and season with sea salt and pepper as desired.

Thursday, May 9, 2013

Don't look now, but your mother's prayers are following you...

It was Mother’s Day, 1981. Technically, I was already a mother since I would give birth to our firstborn a week later. Overdue, I felt as massive as a mammoth, as bulky as a bear, as huge as a hippo. I was retaining so much water, I couldn’t wear my own shoes and had to schlep around in my husband’s moccasin slippers.

To multiply the merriment, I developed a revolting rash all over my body—for which my doctor could give me nothing, for the baby’s sake. So I spent nights tossing and turning (as much as one can “toss” when you’re the size of a whale) and trying not to scratch.

Labour finally began late Friday afternoon and on Sunday afternoon, our nine and a half-pound son was born via C-section. It gave a whole new meaning to the words “long weekend.”

And I had never been so helplessly in love with another human being in my life.

With practice must come proficiency, because we repeated the performance two more times—without the rash, with much shorter labour times, and without requiring surgical deliveries. But with the same overwhelming rush of love every time.

Funny how that works, isn’t it? Methinks the flood of parental love is God’s way of ensuring we don’t ring their scrawny necks when they keep us up all night because they are teething or throwing up or wetting their beds or staying out past curfew or getting married the next day or birthing babies themselves.

It’s also God’s way of teaching us a little about himself. Although we could never love our children perfectly the way he loves his, becoming a parent gives us a window into God’s compassion. Nothing breaks our hearts like knowing our child is in pain or seeing him or her make bad choices. God’s heart breaks for us, too, but he is wise enough to give us freedom of choice and to allow our pain to make us stronger even though he could take it away in an instant. Most parents will tell you that if it came down to it, they would die for their child. In God’s case, he did.

My father used to tell the story of how, as a young man drafted into the Canadian Army during World War II, he knew his mother was praying for him. Though well aware of her faith, he possessed little interest in God himself. The day came when Dad received word his mother had died. That night, he dreamed of a light. His mother was following the light and in his dream, he knew he would eventually follow it, too.

At the time, Dad had no idea what the dream meant, but it made an impact on him nonetheless. Years later, he came to faith as well, and realized the fulfillment of his dream. No wonder one of his favorite hymns went like this:

“I’m coming home, I’m coming home,

To live my wasted life anew,

For mother’s prayers have followed me,

Have followed me the whole world through.”

All mothers make sacrifices. Missing a night’s sleep is one thing. Giving up things we might like for ourselves in order to buy those skates or music lessons for our offspring is another. But praying for our children is both the greatest privilege and the most powerful sacrifice any parent can make. Don’t underestimate it.

To help you with that, I’m offering a chance for readers to win a Chicken Soup for the Soul book called Devotional Stories for Mothers. I wrote three of the stories in this book and will sign it for you if you win. If you’d like your name in the draw, email me at terriejtodd[at]gmail[dot]com. On Saturday, May 11, at 3:00 p.m, I will draw one name from all emails received.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Thursday, May 2, 2013

Of Life, Death, and Road Trips

I may be the only person in the history of the world to have made a round trip from Portage la Prairie to Three Hills, Alberta as the lone female in a 1992 Cadillac with three generations of Todd boys.

My husband, our elder son, and two of his sons escorted me, the two little ones travelling in pajamas since we pulled them straight from their beds at 5:00 a.m. I didn’t have to drive, but took my turn entertaining the five and three-year old boys in the back seat. Lucky for us, their mother had brilliantly packed enough books, toys, and snacks to make this relatively easy.

A snowstorm and engine failure contributed richly to our adventure, especially when you take into account we’d already been cooped up in the car for twelve hours by that point. Sketchy cell service, CAA, a tow truck, and eventual rescue by yet another Todd boy—my brother-in-law—entered into the story as well. Not to mention (okay, I’m mentioning it) a certain writer’s full bladder. Ladies, have you ever tried to “relax” on the side of the highway, in broad daylight, with nothing to hide behind but your car, while being pelted with snow and sleet? Enough said.

For the ride home four days later, our younger son joined us too. This time, we made it without incident except for the extra sardine can-esque squishiness. As always, I felt overjoyed to see Portage and my own bed.

The purpose of this multi-generational trip was to say our good-byes (I won’t say “final” because we’ll see him again) to my father-in-law, and to hopefully bring a little joy into the heart of Mom/Grandma/Great-grandma Todd. Tears and laughter both played parts in our time together. Our grief mingled with relief to know Dad is free at last from the insidious thievery of Alzheimer’s disease.

Jon and I spent a day sorting through piles of family albums, selecting and scanning photos, and creating a PowerPoint show to play at the memorial service. Combined with some powerful music, it provided a deeply meaningful tribute to Dad’s life.

I saw bits of my father-in-law’s life I’d never witnessed. Snapshots of his childhood, teen years, and early adulthood served to remind us, not only of the brevity of life, but of all the elements that combine to make us who we are. We were reminded of the many children he and Mom invested in after their own were grown, as they foster-parented for 20 years. Something sobering happens when you watch 80 years go by in a ten-minute slide show, like those time-lapse videos of a flower budding, coming into full bloom, then shrivelling back to nothing in mere seconds.

We celebrated Dad’s life with sadness, yes, but also with joyful anticipation. We know he is reunited with his parents, siblings, and son, and we will share in that reunion in less time than we imagine. Our faith in Jesus assures us we don’t need to grieve “as those who have no hope.”

The parallels between life and road trips have not gone unnoticed. While we’re in the thick of it, the way seems long and the trials hard to bear. But when it’s done and we’ve made it home, those trials dwindle into whimsical stories to tell and mere circumstances that shaped us into stronger people. The only truly crucial things, in both life and road trips, are the precious people with whom we share the journey, and reaching our desired destination.

Happy trails.

Basil Dean Todd (with foster child), 1933-2013