Drop of Doom

     It was twelve years ago, but I still remember thinking, “I must be crazy. We’re going to leave our oldest son bereft of parents and siblings.”

     Our two younger teenagers, my husband, and I drove to the Red River Ex, where we waited in a long line-up of cars for an hour before we could park. Then we paid $23 for the privilege of just entering the noisy, crowded grounds. Then we forked over another $20 and stood in line for an hour, awaiting our turn at the “Drop of Doom.”

     I could hardly believe we were doing this. “Oh well, once in a lifetime...go for the gusto...life is short...”

     They strap you into your seats, four abreast, then lift you 175 feet straight up and let you sit there for a  moment, feet dangling. The view would be outstanding if you didn’t need to focus so hard on not wetting your pants.

     Then it’s a free-fall drop until the brakes kick in, with about a third of the drop remaining.

     I would have to take the ride another ten times (which I won’t) before I could adequately describe how it feels. It happens so fast, yet you’re somehow suspended in timelessness, silence, and—for me at least—darkness, since I closed my eyes.

     My heart pounded, my hands shook, my knees quivered as I climbed off the ride and put my feet on solid ground again. But my goofy smile wouldn’t wipe off.

     What is it about us humans that we’ll put ourselves through all that—the wait, the expense, the risk—for a few seconds of rush? What odd creatures we are, hovering so near death, entrusting our lives to the unknown engineers who designed the machine— not to mention the questionably-clad carnies who assemble and disassemble it over and over.

     Why can we trust like that when we so often fail to trust an all-powerful, all-knowing God who made us and loves us beyond measure?

     Is it because we see the machine with our physical eyes, and we see people taking the ride and getting safely back to earth? Worked for them, it’ll work for me.

     When we learn to see with spiritual eyes, we don’t need to look far to see others around us taking the ride. People who have trusted God and not only survived, but thrived.

     This week, I read a blog entry by a woman who was in the Colorado theater with her two teenage daughters the night of the shooting. I encourage you to read her experience here.

     I’ve survived a few unnerving carnival rides in my life, including financial setbacks, health issues, a disabling accident in the family, and plenty of uncertainties.

     Maybe 53 years is too soon to say, but so far, God has proven himself someone who can be trusted, not only to catch me but to hold my hand on the ride.

     I’ll let you know if things change.

    Meanwhile, free-falling can prove freeing indeed.

A Souper Dooper Adventure

     Relearning how to do a task you’ve been doing mindlessly for 35 years is a challenge, and this was not one I particularly wanted to tackle. Like my mother before me, I have always taken a certain amount of pride in how quickly I can throw a meal together. I thought Kraft Dinner was a food group and frozen pizza made perfectly acceptable Friday night fare. (Just so you understand the learning curve here.)

     But, determined to do my part for my wellness journey, I am learning to shop for and prepare food I’d barely heard of before. On Friday evening, I single-handedly cleaned Sobeys out of Kale (which I previously thought God created solely for decorating our salad bars) and Leeks (which don’t actually leak. Who knew?)

     On Saturday, I set out to create something called “Black Forest Cream of Mushroom Soup.” I’ve made plenty of homemade soups before, but never like this.

     First of all, you need to know that when it says “Preparation Time: 40 minutes,” it really means three hours. I guess they forgot to include the time it takes to juice five pounds of carrots to form the stock, the hours of chopping vegetables, the necessity of going online to watch a video about how to clean and cut a leek, the need for a clean t-shirt partway through, and the kitchen cleanup afterwards.

     Secondly, when it says “Serves five” it really means “serves five adult elephants.” You’ll need a big pot.

     Have you ever cleaned, sliced, and sautéed two pounds of fresh mushrooms at once? This soup also includes bushels of fresh spinach, carrots, onions, corn, celery, leeks, garlic, almond milk, canned beans, and assorted fresh herbs. For the next couple of hours, I cranked up the music and juiced, peeled, chopped, and blended like a madwoman. I was Iron Chef! Julia Child! That little rat from Ratatouille.

     Everything was going swimmingly, too. Until the big, shall we say, eruption.

     The instructions said to take raw cashews and puree them with almond milk. Then fill the rest of the blender with some of the hot soup mixture, puree it all together, and add it back into the soup pot. With my left hand on the blender’s lid, I hit the button with my right. My right hand, that is, not the right button. The wrong button, actually.

     That’s right.

     The high-powered force pushed the lid off, spewing the mixture onto the counter, the floor, the upholstered dining chair on the other side of the counter, the wall, the microwave, and me.

     Did I mention it was hot?

     It’s a good thing the puree smelled yummy, because my kitchen looked like an air sickness bag had exploded while the plane executed a loopty-loop.

     And yes, I said a bad word.

     But they tell us nothing bad ever happens to a writer – it’s all material. Lucky you.

     By this time I had so much invested in that soup, I’d have eaten it even if it tasted like dirt. It didn’t. Even my grandsons finished their bowls at supper that night. I froze several future meals and I learned you really can teach an old cook new tricks.

     But I think I’ll rename the recipe. Volcanic Veggie Vexation has a nice ring to it.

Bits and Pieces of Canadiana

National Film Board of Canada Vignettes

     I recently rediscovered an old CBC video on You Tube that played daily after school when my kids were small. Based on Wade Hemsworth’s song The Log Driver's Waltz, a young girl who loves to dance and is ready to marry chooses a log driver over his more well-to-do, land-loving competition. Driving logs down the river has made him the best dancing partner to be found. This lighthearted, animated tale starts out with actual black and white footage of men standing atop logs as they float down the river. It then morphs into a cute and colourful cartoon. The tune is so catchy and fun, I used to scoop up whichever child was handiest (or lightest) and waltz around the living room.

     When I posted the video on Facebook, I tagged my three kids thinking it might trigger fond memories, and it did. What I hadn’t predicted was how many other friends, both local and from across Canada, would respond. It seems everybody remembers and loves that clip.

     There were many good ones, weren’t there? Remember The Cat Came Back, The Big Snit, and The Black Fly Song? And for you Habs fans, there’s Roch Carrier’s telling of The Hockey Sweater. They’re all there. If you’re looking for some nostalgic Canadiana, check out You Tube and enjoy!

Timmies

     Okay, I know this is old news too, but I never thought I’d see the day.

Good old Tim Horton’s. Good old CANADIAN Tim Horton’s. Good old, plain cup of affordable coffee Tim Horton’s. Has caved. Caved to the pressure of those fancy shmancy coffee stores with their macho-grande-latte-whipper-snapper-giganto-humungo-maximus-gluteus names for their cup sizes. The old small is now medium; no wait, it’s the other way around. Oh, who can remember? I ordered a medium and got a large. Now I have to remember to ask for a small. It’s insane, I tell you.

     But we all go along with it, like sheep to the slaughter.

Vacation Bible School

     My fondest summertime childhood memory, at least before I was old enough to go to camp, was the week of Vacation Bible School. Anybody besides me remember happily going off with Klik sandwiches in your lunchbox to hear Bible stories like Abraham and Isaac?  Doing the lessons in your own little book and singing songs like Deep and Wide? Playing games like Red Rover and Prisoner’s Base? Earning points for memorizing scripture verses, bringing a friend, or winning at Sword Drill? Crafting wonderments from plaster of Paris, old Christmas cards, and sparkle? And the highlight of the day, just before home time: listening wide-eyed to the continuing flannel graph missionary story that ended on a cliff hanger every day?

     I consider it God’s outrageous grace that brought people like Don and Donna Lee to my little hometown of Amaranth to bring VBS and so much more to my childhood. If you are, or ever have been, a VBS leader, you are my hero. Thank you for valuing the spiritual nurture of children. You made a difference.

     At least to this kid.

Confessions of a Reluctant Herbivore

     I never wanted to be one of those health food nuts. Still don’t. But Naturopathic medicine was something I just had to try before jumping into 18 months of the serious drugs they told me I’d need to fight Mycobacterium Avium Complex (MAC Lung disease). It was either that or spend the rest of my life wondering what might have happened if I had. So, with my lung specialist’s blessing, I began treatments with Dr. Lisa.

     The first couple of weeks were a day at the spa. This remarkable young woman is so brilliant and so joy-filled, you’d walk out of there feeling better even if they did nothing. Her prayers, hugs, and wealth of knowledge earned my trust before the hard work began.

     The hard work I refer to was, for me, three days of fasting. Nothing but water. I naively suggested I should do this during the workweek so I’d be more distracted from my hunger. She laughed. Apparently, while there are a few fortunates who breeze through this type of fast, most do not.

     I was one of the do nots. The first day, Friday, I was merely hungry all day. Saturday I was hungry and weak all day. By Sunday, I wondered if I’d somehow coincidentally contracted the flu. Dr. Lisa assured me I had not. This was supposed to be as much a spiritual journey as a physical one, so I read most of the Psalms even while fantasies of pizza floated through my head. My prayers diminished into pathetic repetitions of “God help me.”

     Guess I’m just a rebel. After all, the Bible tells us to “fast in secret” and here I am blabbing about it to the world. But how could I allow such scrumptious blog material to slip by?

     I suppose it’s possible I’ve had worse weekends in my life. Actual flu. Labour and delivery. A houseful of in-laws. However, with God’s help I hung in there and when I could finally eat on Monday, the things I was allowed (ie, salad) held no appeal. Thankfully, we changed the game plan and for the rest of the week, here is what I ate:

Breakfast: Butternut squash sprinkled with walnuts, raisins, and cinnamon.

    

Mid-morning snack. OK, who could eat all this? You run it through the juicer and drink it.

Here's the juice. Yum, right?

Lunch: Spinach, Banana, and 2 dates

The finished smoothie. Surprisingly filling.

Afternoon snack: papaya and ginger root tea.

Supper: Steamed carrots, zucchini, asparagus, peas, onion & garlic

   

     The idea, if I understand it, is that after a fast one’s body becomes super absorbent to nutrients. So you pack in as many of the power-charged kind you can, leaving no room for meat, dairy, or bread. Of course sugar and caffeine are out, too. All to build up the immune system and teach your body to fight its own battles. And guess what? Already I am coughing much less, which gives me determination to keep going.

            The fast gave me a new way of looking at food. I thought a lot about the many on this planet for whom hunger is normal. I appreciated anew the fragility of my own body, my utter dependence on my daily bread and the One who provides it.

            But with all this greenery, I also have to say this: if you see me chewing my cud, just shoot me.

Honouring Adult Learners

     I felt privileged to witness the graduation ceremony of the Portage Learning and Literacy Centre last week as 25 earned their grade twelve diplomas. Another 41 students received Literacy completions.

     Graduation of any kind is cause for celebration. Finishing high school the regular way is tough enough. But to go back as an adult, resharpen your pencils, and tackle it takes a special brand of courage. Adult responsibilities multiply the challenge – earning a living, keeping house, in many cases caring for children. One grad had her one-month-old baby in attendance! The class’s married couple, Tim Peters and Janine Fagnan, posed for pictures with their three little girls—mom and dad in caps and gowns.

     Chantal Simard, Dean of Continuous Learning and Corporate Programs at the Winnipeg Technical College, was on hand to congratulate the grads. “Remember,” she said, “no one can ever take away your education.”

     Councillor Liz Driedger brought congratulations on behalf of the City. She reminded us of the story of the two wolves that live inside us. An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life. "A fight is going on inside me," he said to the boy.

     "It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil - he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego." He continued, "The other is good - he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you - and inside every other person, too."

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, "Which wolf will win?"

     The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you feed."

     “You have fed the good wolf,” Councillor Driedger told the grads.

     Indeed, the Learning Centre assists its students to feed their good wolf every day through its wide variety of programs, its committed board, dedicated staff, and priceless volunteers. But it’s the students who, in the end, must do the hard work to reach their goals. Many are the first in their family to graduate. Folks with that kind of chutzpah inspire me. I like to call them “cycle-breakers.”

     The tears of some as they received congratulatory hugs from staff members were a beautiful testimony to lives invested in others. “We’re here to honour people who have struggled a lot to get where they are,” said Computer Instructor Jon Todd when he presented the Strength of Character award to Timothy Peters. “Tomorrow will bring fresh battles, but today we say ‘yahoo, bravo, well-done!’”

     To all graduates of 2012, whatever the school and whatever the diploma, I add my heartfelt congratulations. May God bless you as you face the fresh battles of tomorrow, better armed and more fully equipped.

The Little Red Dress

      Having two older sisters who sometimes wore matching outfits, I would grow first into the smaller and then into the larger, identical outfit of the eldest—essentially wearing the same ensemble for as long as that process took. This may explain why, with my sixth birthday approaching, I had my heart set on a little red dress. My dad, the eternal tease, kept asking if I was sure.

     “Wouldn’t you like a green dress instead?” he said, a twinkle in his eye.

     “Nope. Red.”

     “A nice green dress would look really pretty, don’t you think?”

     “Nope. Red.”

     His persistence convinced me a green dress had already been purchased. I prepared to look pleased when I saw the hideous green that would surely be this dress.

     Finally, the day arrived. I sat on the living room floor, its green carpet mocking me, my birthday gift unopened while the family sang Happy Birthday. Mentally, I practiced to conceal my disappointment when I opened the package. I was about to put my acting skills to the ultimate test.

     I should have known better. After all, this was the same character who, four years earlier, had smeared peanut butter on my dolly’s bottom while I wasn’t looking and then stood back to watch my reaction. Maybe I was a slow learner or maybe I was just born to a rascally joker bent on messing with a gullible little kid’s head.

     I peeled back the first bit of paper and released a gasp. Opening the package all the way, I feasted my eyes on the cutest little red dress in the history of the world, complete with lacy white detailing on the pockets. For years, Dad would retell the story of how I got so excited I went head over heels on the spot, and the delight in his eyes is as vivid to me today as the color of that little dress.

     Twenty years later, I lost my father to pancreatic cancer and the memory of his gift vaulted to the top of my list of things most cherished.

     Dad wasn’t a perfect father, but he sure was one of the best. Although six-year-old me couldn’t have articulated it, my father sent me an important message with that little red dress. His gift communicated what every girl’s heart longs to hear from her daddy: “You are beautiful. Your femininity is a treasure. I delight in you. You are loved.”

     Dads, you are important in your child’s life, at any age, whatever the circumstances. Find ways to speak your child’s language, to touch his or her heart in a way that only you can. If this is a new thought to you or if you have already blown it, you can start today.

     If you are a father who takes this privilege seriously, I salute you. Thank you for often laying aside your own comfort to fight for your family. Thank you for never giving up. For whether they’re in diapers or little red dresses or tailored business suits, your kids need you. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. I can think of no greater legacy than being able to say, beyond the shadow of a doubt, “My daddy loves me.”

Fleeting and Precious

Beautiful Crescent Lake at 8:00 a.m. in June

     In the winter months, I constantly ask “why do we live here?” But in June, I wonder why anyone would want to live anywhere else. Sunshine glistens on beautiful Crescent Lake. Goslings and ducklings fluff along after mommy and daddy. The fragrances of tree blossoms, freshly cut grass, and grilled burgers fill the air. A refreshing breeze keeps any mosquitoes at bay. The promise of long summer days ahead feels like a blank cheque. An evening stroll makes me wish June could last forever.

     But if June were not so fleeting, it would not be so precious.

     Like life.

     I always figured I could admirably handle being told I had three months to live. I could get my house in order, write wonderful revelations along my courageous journey, and share my faith boldly to a captive audience — all while enjoying the attention like any good drama queen. A few weeks of misery, and off I go—home to my Creator.

     Since doctors aren’t telling me any such thing, my theory remains untested. But I am still convinced I would do well in that scenario.

     Living with a chronic condition however, is something I always knew I’d stink at. I was right. Wonderful revelations prove scarce. Bravado scurries in the opposite direction and hides under the bed when it sees me coming. The compassion of friends wears thin, for good reason.

     You learn to do less, sleep more, and try not to whine when it hurts.

     After feeling like I’ve lugged two sandbags around in my chest for an entire year, it was a relief to learn I wasn’t entirely out of my mind. My doctors finally found an a-typical bacterial lung infection they can treat.

     Relief evolved into distress, however, when I learned the so-called treatment consists of a serious cocktail of medications for at least 18 months, and that they’d need to monitor my liver, kidneys, and eyes during that time. I came home and told my husband “I’m so happy I could cry and so scared I could cry.”

     With typical manly sympathy, he drawled “I guess the upshot is, you better cry.”

     So I did. And completed a pile of research. And learned how to pronounce and spell more big words like Mycobacterium Avium Complex. Seems the cure might prove more beastly than the disease and would do nothing to increase my resistance in the future.

     I’ve decided to seek help from a naturopath to boost my immune system with hopes that it will, at best, help my body fight this off on its own; or, at least, shore things up before I jump into an onslaught of powerful drugs. I’ll let you know how that goes. Meanwhile, I will try to remember . . .

     If good health were not so fleeting, it would not be so precious.