It Tolls for Thee

My third novel, Bleak Landing, released two years ago this month. Its first page contains an unusually lengthy dedication page. I chose to dedicate that book to the pastors and pastors’ wives who have influenced me in a positive way throughout my life. There are ten couples on the list. I suppose it’s an unusual thing to do, but I knew I’d never write enough books for each to have their own and I wanted to honor them all.

In recent weeks, two of the people on that list of twenty have died. In May, my friend and mentor Linda Letellier left this world for the next. I’m thankful to have seen her last fall and for modern technology which allowed me to view her funeral service online from Mountain Lake, Minnesota. The cover of the program showed a beautiful picture of her pulling biscuits from the oven, holding them toward the camera with her huge, hospitable smile. It said, “I’m home. I’m safe. I like it here.”

More recently, we said good-bye to Donna Lee, who was my pastor’s wife when I was growing up in Amaranth. In a packed-out little country church, we felt inspired by stories of the impact made through her humble, obedient life. She touched many hearts. We walked away encouraged to never let go of God, no matter what life throws at us.

I sometimes wish I lived in a place and time of tolling bells. In our world of rapid communication, we see no need for happy church bells to ring out on wedding days, or for somber funeral bells to let us know someone in the community has passed away. I think the clanging of those bells would serve as helpful and regular reminders that we are here for only a short time, that our turn is coming. The bells remind us we are all part of one another.

Often, people don’t want those reminders. I happen to believe they are healthy. If we live each day remembering that the next funeral could be our own, wouldn’t we live differently? I don’t mean in the “life is short, grab all the gusto you can get” kind of way. I mean it in the “what will really matter after I’m gone?” kind of way.

On the day you die, will the things you’re worried about today matter? Your fears and cares? The grudges you’re hanging on to? What do you hope people remember about you? When stories are told, will they be of love, generosity, and grace from your hand? Or will you be remembered for lesser things…your hobbies, your possessions, your obsessions? Will the funny stories about you be tainted with a hint of bitterness or will they be shared with pure and honest admiration? Will others aspire to be more like you? Will those who know you best have sweet memories to inspire and encourage them on their journeys? Will they know how much you loved them?

Each day brings you one step closer to that day. What’s one thing you can do this day to make that day everything you hope it will be? Name it, then do it. What’s stopping you?

No one has said it more poetically than John Donne: “…any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.”

Lessons from My Garden

 It’s remarkable how much even a small garden and yard can teach you about life and faith. 

The fresher, the better 

I start every morning with a smoothie made in my little NutriBullet: a banana, a few pieces of frozen fruit, a teaspoon of hemp seed, a cup or more of almond milk, and a handful of dark green leaves like spinach or chard (these days I’m using beet leaves because that’s what’s growing). I derive great satisfaction from knowing that within minutes of pinching those leaves from their stems, their nutrients are advancing through my bloodstream like little soldiers pushing back enemy lines. 

I can’t count on the food I ate yesterday to sustain me today, and I can’t rely on last Sunday’s sermon to get me through the week. Time with God must happen every day if we’re to stay spiritually strong. God’s mercies are new every morning. (Lamentations 3:23) 

Roots of bitterness 

Every gardener knows that when you pull a weed, you must yank out the entire root or it will quickly grow back. We have a lot of crushed rock in our yard, and the weeds inevitably find their way through it. I’ve been spraying them weekly, but the environmentally friendly products available rarely reach the roots. At first, my efforts appear successful when the weeds shrivel up. But within days, I see a persistent shade of green sprouting from the middle of the deadness.

There’s a good reason the Bible calls bitterness a root. On the surface, it might manifest as anger, envy, or resentment. You do your best to get rid of those ugly sprouts through confession, snipping them off at ground level. Everything looks fine—for a while. But when a root of bitterness still lives in your heart, it eagerly shoots to the surface at the first opportunity. Pulling weeds in my yard and garden reminds me of this soul truth every time: bitterness needs rooting out. I can’t do this myself. I need God, the master gardener, to do the work in my heart. 

Thinning is difficult, but necessary 

I feel like a meanie when it’s time to thin out my carrots, beets, or onions. The poor little babies didn’t ask to be planted so close together. Why must they be sacrificed? Plus, it’s hard work! Unlike pulling weeds, you must use surgical precision or you’ll remove too much and end up with nothing. But if you don’t pull the smallest plants from an overcrowded row, the entire row will yield only small, misshapen fruit. The stronger plants need space.

What in your life is devouring time and space that you could better invest in your strengths? Do you need to sacrifice something good in order to produce the choicest fruit? 

Beautiful does not equal perfect 

As I deadheaded a basket of Calibrachoa, I made a spiritual exercise of it by imagining each dead blossom I removed represented something dark in my soul, such as a lie I was believing. I asked God to remove every lie from my heart, leaving only truth and beauty. Even as the deadness came away and the plant became more healthy-looking and beautiful, God reminded me that it had always displayed far more good stuff than bad. Although I could never manage to find every teensy flawed bit, that didn’t stop the plant from being beautiful just the same. This encouraged me so much.

You and I will never be perfect as long as we’re on this planet. Don’t despair. Life and beauty still abound. The splendor of your well-lived life can still inspire those around you.

Happy gardening!

That Time I Ran

Did I ever tell you about the time I ran faster than a car? I was about six years old, barrelling downhill full bore through our yard. I discovered that when I really applied my turbo jets, I could go faster than a car. Definitely faster than any human had ever run before. Too bad nobody was around to clock me.

When I employed the same effort in the hundred-yard dash at my school’s field day, I discovered to my dismay that others could outrun me. Throughout the next eight years of athletic competition, I was awarded precisely one ribbon: third place in high jump. Maybe I was one of only three competitors. Or perhaps my height gave me an advantage. In any case, I eventually accepted the fact that not only would I never be a runner, but I would never be an athlete. I’m fine with it.

Perhaps that’s why it is completely mind-boggling to me how Terry Fox, whose legacy we honor this weekend, could have had the determination to run his Marathon of Hope after losing a leg to bone cancer. While digging into his story, I discovered he was born in Winnipeg but raised in B.C. I learned that in grade 12, he won his high school’s Athlete of the Year award jointly with his best friend Doug Alward. Still eighteen when diagnosed, his right leg was amputated fifteen centimeters about the knee in 1977.

It was seeing first-hand the suffering caused by cancer, especially to children, that inspired Terry to do all he could to end cancer. He trained for a year and a half before beginning what he hoped would be a cross-Canada run to raise funds for research, starting in St. John’s: a full marathon every day. I can remember his story gaining momentum as he made his way across our country, and how sad it was when he had to stop running outside Thunder Bay (after 143 days and 5,373 kilometers) because cancer had appeared in his lungs. I remember how stunned we all felt when he passed away on June 28, 1981. He was 22.

His legacy, of course, was only beginning. The Terry Fox Foundation has kept working to achieve Terry’s dreams. His initial goal was to raise a million dollars. To date, over $750 million has been raised for cancer research in Terry’s name through the annual Terry Fox Run, held across Canada and around the world.

I can’t help wondering whether any of us would have heard of Terry Fox if he had never contracted cancer. Was he talented enough to have become a national champion? An Olympian? Given his gutsy nature, it’s possible—but not likely. And even if he had earned a gold medal for Canada, how many of us would remember it now, nearly forty years later? Yet hearing the name “Terry Fox” easily summons the picture of that curly-haired young man with the awkward gait and the obvious pain and determination emblazoned across his face. He inspires us, not because of his great athleticism, but because of what he did with what he was dealt.

Life throws tough stuff at us, doesn’t it? No one is spared. What might happen if you took your tough thing and turned it into something good for others? I believe we can always find a way to do so. It will take time. It might not result in becoming a household name, or in raising millions of dollars for a cause. But if you can bless even one other person by the way you handle your tough thing, then your tough thing will not be in vain. You will grow. They will grow. And the enemy of your soul will not win.

The world calls it making lemonade when life hands you lemons. Obviously, it’s not as simple as adding sugar and water. The lemon must be squeezed dry. Think about it. Your tears are never wasted when you ask God to use your affliction to encourage others. (See II Corinthians 1:4.) He’ll show you how. Maybe he’ll even have you, figuratively speaking, running as fast as a car.