When Your Back Doc Retires

The first time I walked into the chiropractic office of Dr. Bruce Narvey, I was pregnant with my third baby. That “baby” is now 34 years old. Not only did Dr. Narvey keep me in the best possible shape for a healthy delivery, but he has kept Hubby and me well-adjusted through all the years since then. A glance at the diploma on his wall tells patients Dr. Narvey’s been practicing since 1981. Forty years is a long time to practice something, but now that he’s finally getting the hang of it, he’s giving it up for golf and grandchildren. The nerve!

Through the nineties, when I cleaned houses for a living and took care of a large garden, my spine occasionally became so misaligned it left me nearly immobile, and I’d go hobbling into Dr. Narvey’s office hunched over in pain. He’d give me an attitude adjustment and encourage me to proactively come in regularly instead of waiting until I was in trouble. Once I finally settled into an every-three-weeks schedule, I got along much better. I’ve benefited from his ultrasound therapy, too.

Allowing someone to manipulate your spine every three weeks involves a level of trust, but Dr. Narvey has become a friend, too. He knows, for example, that I’m going to start coughing as soon as I lie on my back. I don’t need to explain over and over that it’s a chronic lung condition and not Covid-19. I’ve listened to his jokes and his stories about the aforementioned golf and grandchildren. He’s purchased my books and read my columns. He teases. I give it right back. We occasionally talk politics, but I think that might be his way of figuring out which way I lean on any given day. I tried to convince him to rename his practice “This Joint’s Poppin’” but he refused to crack. (By the way, don’t ever let a chiropractor tell you a joke while he’s giving you an adjustment. It could really mess up your funny bone.)

When my husband underwent an amputation of his right arm, Dr. Narvey went above and beyond. He came to visit Jon at Health Sciences Centre in Winnipeg and gave him an adjustment right there, helping to alleviate some of the damage done elsewhere by the accident. He and his wife Cheri also blessed us with a care package at that time. Guess you could say they’ve always had our backs.

Photo by Violet Hay

Dr. Narvey deserves a long and happy retirement. Few people return to the town they grew up in and serve it and the surrounding community for 40 years. Although they’ve recently moved to Winnipeg to be closer to grandchildren, I imagine Portage will always feel like “home” to the Narveys. This is where they raised their family and where they donated untold volunteer hours with Rotary Club, Portage Golf Club, coaching, mentoring, fund-raising, and generally behaving like all-around top-notch citizens.

So, to the man who turned heads every time he went to work: I salute you, I thank you, and I wish you God’s richest blessings. Portage will miss the Narveys. You could say it’ll be an adjustment.

 

Strange Place for a Song of Thanks

When my father passed away in 1986, we knew it was coming. Dad had been struggling with the pain of pancreatic cancer far too long. The initial sense of relief, knowing he was finally free from his suffering and home with Jesus, was probably what enabled my sister Shanon and me to sing a duet at his funeral. He and Mom had chosen the song ahead of time, and Sis and I had begun practicing even before Dad left us. We deeply wanted to honor him in this way, and we reached the end of the hymn without tears.

Friends and relatives remarked about the strength we displayed that day. I can’t speak for my sister, but in the weeks that followed, I could not have repeated it for the world. I couldn’t even sing from the congregation on Sunday morning, too deep in grief, anger, and disappointment. I’d sit at my piano and try to sing through the song we’d shared with such confidence, only to choke before the second verse.

One line mocked me every time: “Thanks for what thou dost deny.” 

That’s old English for “thanks for nothing.” Or at least that’s how it felt in my loss. We’d prayed and begged God to heal Dad, but our pleas had been denied. How could I carry on without my daddy? I wanted our children to know him the way I had—healthy and fun. Now another little one was on the way who wouldn’t get to meet him at all.

I don’t believe time heals all wounds. If it did, we’d see a lot fewer wounded people walking around. I think God heals all wounds…over time…when we take them to him. Countless joys and sorrows have passed through my life in the 35 years my father’s been gone. And certainly, these past two years have left us all reeling, haven’t they? Another Thanksgiving season is upon us. Are you finding it hard to feel grateful?

I’ve matured enough to know it’s possible to give thanks, “even when.” Even when I don’t feel like it, even when I’m afraid or angry or disappointed, even when circumstances look grim.

The old hymn Shanon and I shared that day is called simply, Thanks to God, written by August Ludvig Storm (1862-1914) and translated from Swedish by Carl E. Backstrom. Stricken with a serious back disorder, Storm nevertheless penned these words of thanks. I’m so glad the song has been around long enough to be in public domain because that frees me to share the lyrics with you here. I hope they bless you. Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanks to God for my Redeemer,

Thanks for all Thou dost provide.
Thanks for times now but a memory,
Thanks for Jesus by my side!
Thanks for pleasant, balmy springtime,
Thanks for dark and stormy fall.
Thanks for tears by now forgotten,
Thanks for peace within my soul!

Thanks for prayers that Thou hast answered,
Thanks for what Thou dost deny.
Thanks for storms that I have weathered,
Thanks for all Thou dost supply.
Thanks for pain, and thanks for pleasure,
Thanks for comfort in despair.
Thanks for grace that none can measure,
Thanks for love beyond compare!

Thanks for roses by the wayside,
Thanks for thorns their stems contain.
Thanks for home and thanks for fireside,
Thanks for hope, that sweet refrain.
Thanks for joy and thanks for sorrow,
Thanks for tears that bring release.

Thanks for hope in the tomorrow,
Thanks for everlasting peace.

“Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus. (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18.)

Who Needs Sapphires, Anyway?

Hubby and I reach another wedding anniversary this week, number forty-four. (And could someone kindly explain to me why four has a ‘u’ in it but forty does not?)

I thought it might be fun to look at the list of anniversary gifts and symbols, something we’ve never adhered to although now I almost wish we had. Both traditional and modern lists exist, so if you’re sentimental (and rich) enough to observe both, you could be due a lot of loot.

Anniversary gifts are listed every year for years one through fifteen. After that, it jumps by five years until you reach seventy-five. That means nothing for year forty-four.

Is it just me, or does this system seem a bit backwards? I think all those presents in the first fifteen years ought to be more evenly distributed. If anything, the rewards for staying together should be heavier on the longevity side. After one year, most couples are still enjoying the warm glow of gushy romance. Some haven’t even finished writing thank you cards for their wedding gifts. They haven’t had time to break a dish or wear out a towel. Why would they need more gifts?

Studying this list, I find I’m short a lot of presents—particularly in the jewelry department. Over the last half of our marriage alone, I should have received pearls, rubies, and coral from the traditional side, diamond and jade if following the modern list. Where’s all my silver, china, crystal, bronze, ivory, and silk from previous years? And what else could “steel” imply from year eleven but a brand-new car?

At a wedding shower, I heard someone wistfully say how lovely it would be to have all new household items again. She suggested we throw showers for each other every few years, say on your fifteenth or twentieth anniversary. I nodded in agreement, then calculated how much stuff I’d be buying for others every year. If we could afford that, we could go out and buy our own new stuff.

When my mother remarried after Dad’s passing, friends threw her a “personal shower.” As we admired all the pretty and sweetly scented gifts, a friend I’ll call Lou remarked, “What do I have to do to be showered like this?”

To which someone else pointed out, “Well, first—Billy would have to die.” Billy is Lou’s husband. I’ve changed the names to protect the guilty, but I’m happy to report Lou and Billy are still alive and married. To each other.

We do love presents, don’t we? But for most of us, following the list of symbolic gifts, whether traditional or modern, would add unnecessary strain to the marriage in the form of financial debt. Some of the best marriages in history thrived without the benefits of fine jewelry, while many an overflowing jewelry box has given silent witness to the heartbreaking trauma of a marriage’s demise.

If gifts aren’t the answer to a successful marriage, what is?

I stumbled upon a thought recently that might be worth consideration. You’ve heard the old saying, “Live every day as though it were your last.” What do you suppose your marriage might look like if you lived every day as though it were your spouse’s last?

Something to ponder as we move into year forty-five. (That’s sapphire, by the way.)

Photo from Canva

 

Blind Date

The Sunday of Labor Day weekend, hubby and I took a little day trip. I could not recall the last time I’d been out of town, and we hadn’t done anything even remotely resembling “summer vacation.” The weather was perfect. We grabbed sandwiches at Subway and headed down the highway to Spruce Woods Provincial Park, which we hadn’t visited in over a decade.

Before starting out on what turned into a lovely hike, we stopped to use the washrooms. I’d never given much thought to how, when you pull open the door of a washroom—or any room you’ve never entered—you must “get your bearings” before doing anything else. Before I had a chance to do so, however, the door slammed shut behind me and I found myself in utter darkness. Had the bulbs burned out? Did someone blow a breaker? Why was there no window?

I thought I heard something. “Is anyone else in here?” I called.

No response.

I groped around, finding nothing but air. I managed to turn myself around, and when I finally felt the cool metal of the door, I realized how unobservant I am. Had the handle been on the right or left? Was it the kind you turn? Had I pulled or pushed? I hadn’t taken note of any of those things.

For the life of me, I could not find the handle! Maybe they’d installed one of those doors with a handle only on the outside and from the inside, you merely pushed. But then why didn’t it budge when I pushed? Had I dropped into some weird science fiction story where the door handle disappears and locks you in? I started banging on the door, knowing hubby had opted to wait on the bench outside with our water bottles. I called his name. I haven’t felt such a persistent “get me outta here” feeling since high school Algebra class.

About the same time hubby reached the door (wondering what on earth was wrong with me), I found the handle, turned it, and pulled. I should have pushed. Good grief.

When the door finally opened, sunlight flooded the room and a light switch appeared on the wall beside me—right where one might expect to find a light switch if one was expecting to need a light switch.

When I completed what I’d come for and turned to leave, I noticed a sign on the inside of the door: “To save energy, please turn off lights when you leave.” Wouldn’t a warning on the outside be a good idea? Frustrated and humiliated, I left the light on to spare the next person. While taking my turn on the bench with the water bottles, some other women came along. I suddenly wished I’d obeyed the sign, so I could determine whether I was the only one dopey enough to panic. Not until the next day did it dawn on me that my cell phone was in my backpack and would have provided a perfect flashlight. Duh.

The whole ordeal, though it took mere seconds, helped me realize how much I take my sight for granted. Last year I interviewed Gene McKenzie for a three-part series you may remember. He told me blindness can be exhausting because you must engage your brain in so many extra ways, not only utilizing your other senses but your observation skills and your memory, since your eyes can no longer tell you what’s what. Nothing like a teensy dose of personal experience to help me “see” what he meant.

That series about Gene, Lessons from a Blind Man, is in the running for a Word Guild Award. The winner will be announced tomorrow, September 25th, in a virtual ceremony from Toronto. If it wins, I’ll owe Gene even more gratitude.

For my vision, I owe my Creator gratitude every day of my life.

 

Something I Almost Never Do (and how it made me a little more street-smart)

I did something I almost never do.

Hubby was away overnight. Shortly before bedtime, I noticed through my living room window something glowing on the city’s sidewalk in front of our house. Had someone dropped a flashlight? Seemed unlikely.

Curiosity got the best of me. I stepped outside into the dark—something I almost never do. I discovered our lawn littered with garbage. Leaving the trash for morning, I picked up the glowing object. It turned out to be one of those solar lights, no doubt stolen from a neighbor's yard and broken from its peg. I carried it inside, still lit.

Only then did I realize what a perfect home invasion setup that could provide. Plant a glowing object within a homeowner’s view and wait. When said homeowner slips out to investigate, you slip inside and hide somewhere until they’ve gone to sleep.

The thought kept nagging me as I climbed into bed. It didn’t help that I’d recently heard of a home invasion only blocks away. I told myself to stop being paranoid and settled in with my book.

Then I began to hear weird noises. Thump. Clink.

That’s when it occurred to me. I’m not afraid of being alone in the dark. I’m afraid of NOT being alone in the dark!

What was going on? I rose to investigate. With a cordless phone in one hand (whether to call 911 or to throw at an intruder, I’m not sure), I went from room to room, turning on the lights and checking behind every door and curtain.

As I approached the kitchen, I heard the source of the ominous noises. I’d started the dishwasher before going to bed—something I almost never do.

Whew.

As I continued to explore each room, I heard my cell phone ping from atop my office desk. Which is odd, because leaving the volume up is something I almost never do. By now it was eleven o’clock. Staying up that late, let alone checking my phone at that hour, is something I almost never do. Curiosity won again.

The notification alerted me to the start of a publicity campaign for my new book release, a “blog tour,” sort of the equivalent of the old-fashioned book tours authors used to do in person. Of course, I simply had to see how the campaign looked, and clicked on the link. Oh no! My “giveaway” had been set by default for entrants in the USA only. My Canadian friends and readers would not be impressed.

I sat at my laptop and emailed the tour organizer to ask whether they could change the giveaway to include Canada. I returned to bed and slept great. In the morning, an email from the tour organizer assured me she could expand the geography of the giveaway.

Whew.

Do I believe the glowing solar light was left on my sidewalk so that I could more quickly circumvent a potential problem in my book world? Not for a minute. But I’m glad it worked out that way. Hopefully, I’ve learned a lesson in caution. 

As you know by now, sparing you my life lessons is something I almost never do. Whether you need them or not. Plus, if this writing gig doesn’t pan out, maybe with my new street smarts, I can take up home invasion to help make ends meet.

Better yet, I’ll work this trick into my next novel.

“I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety.” (Psalm 4:8)

Twenty years, ancient history?

Does it shock you to realize some of the voters in this month’s election weren’t even born when the events of September 11, 2001, took place? In the twenty years since, many books about that day have been written and read, documentaries made and watched. The ramifications continue—everything from heightened security at airports to which we’ve all grown accustomed, to the ongoing horrifying news out of the middle east—to which I hope we never grow accustomed.

Everyone over thirty remembers where they were. I was driving to my job at Portage (now Prairie) Alliance Church, my 14-year-old son—in grade nine at Westpark School—beside me.

The radio reported an airplane had crashed into a skyscraper in New York City. I envisioned a small private plane with engine trouble. How unfortunate.

Then they said a second plane had hit the same place and I thought, “What? That can’t be right. The odds are impossible. They must be mistaken.”

I forgot all about it.

Until an hour or two later when one of our pastors interrupted the meeting I was in. “Have you guys been hearing what’s going on?”

We spent the remainder of the day glued to the television. As more stories emerged, we wondered when it would stop. I had a son in the United States and a daughter in Switzerland. Would I ever see them again? Was this how the world would end?

I can’t help thinking people asked the same question during World War II, especially when the atomic bombs dropped.

They probably asked it during the Spanish Flu pandemic, too.

And during the “war to end all wars” before that.

And in March of 2020 when news reports made it seem we’d all be wiped out by a virus.

It’s a question asked repeatedly throughout history. Yet here we still are. Fighting the same battles. Wondering how bad things will get. How long can we hold out? How will it all end?

I recently finished a great book by Canadian novelist Genevieve Graham called Letters Over the Sea. Set in Toronto from 1933-46, the main character is a girl whose four brothers and a romantic interest are all fighting in the war. By the end, one brother has died, one has lost a leg, one suffers severe facial disfigurement and nervous ticks, and one exhibits what we’d now call severe PTSD. The romantic interest is missing, presumed dead.

The author describes in detail Prime Minister Mackenzie King’s announcement on VE day and the celebrations in the streets, pubs, and homes. People banging pots and pans. Church bells ringing. As I read the scene, tears ran down my cheeks, imagining what emotions would surface after five years of constant strain. Knowing that, though the war was over, its fallout would continue.

My tears had less to do with the book’s characters or even the real-life people they represented, and more to do with my own future. Imagine every worry, heartache, pain, and conflict gone for good on the day God makes that happen. Oh, the utter relief.

Author Sarah Young says, “The truth is, the world has been at war ever since Adam and Eve first sinned. With the threat of terrorism…people are feeling that no place is really safe. In one sense, this is true. However, for Christian believers, there is no place that is actually unsafe.”

Nothing can happen to you except what God allows. In Christ, we are always safe.

So much more than a ticker-tape parade is coming. No terrorist, no disease, no vaccine, no accident, no war holds the power to rob you of your glorious inheritance. “…he has given us new birth…into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade—kept in heaven for you…” (I Peter 1:3-4)

Lazy Farmers Don't Grow Sugar Beets

Ask almost anyone where sugar comes from and they’ll probably tell you the sugar cane. Obviously, they are not wrong. In fact, not until the 19th century did alternate sources of sugar become known.

One of these was the humble sugar beet, or Beta vulgaris. If you’ve ever worked a physically taxing job, multiply that effort by fifty and you’ll begin to grasp the difficulty of getting a sugar beet from seed to processing plant.

If you were a child of a migrant worker during the first half of the 20th century, you might be all too familiar with the whole process as you were forced to work alongside the adults in your family. Though it got you out of school by the end of April, you’d feel giddy to return in October after harvest. Long days in a hot field, bending over the entire time whether planting, thinning, weeding, or harvesting, would make a day in the classroom feel like a piece of cake.

Cake for which the world needed its sugar.

Each multi-germ seed was a tiny pod containing five or six separate beet plants. Once planting by hand was complete, it was time to thin the plants. Workers, on hands and knees, had to carefully pull out all but one tiny seedling without damaging the one left to grow. Monogerm seeds were not developed for use until 1967 and became the biggest breakthrough for this challenging industry.

Harvesting proved no easier. Many a finger was lost to the sinister-looking sugar beet knife, which came to North America with German and Russian immigrants. Here in Manitoba, farmers from across the southern half of the province manually unloaded their sugar beets into train cars which transported them to the Manitoba Sugar refinery in Winnipeg.

During World War II when cane sugar became difficult to import and rationing went into effect, the sugar beet industry thrived despite the intensive labor required. Among the laborers were many Japanese Canadians, relocated from their homes along the west coast to farms on the prairies to fill the gap left by young men off fighting the war. The industry would not have survived without the help of First Nations laborers, German prisoners of war, and the interned Japanese.

Though sugar beet farming eventually grew easier with the advancement of machinery, seeds, and irrigation systems, demand diminished as more economic and efficient sources of sugar took over.

The characters in my new novel, Rose Among Thornes, are subjected to the rigors of sugar beet farming during WWII. Much of my research came from a book called Sugar Farmers of Manitoba by Heather Robertson, loaned to me by Kelly and Cheryl Ronald who farm east of Portage la Prairie. Kelly used to raise sugar beets like his father before him. Bill Ronald served as president of the Manitoba Beet Growers’ Association.

One aspect I love about being a writer of historical fiction is how, every time I learn more about life in the 1940’s, I’m more grateful for modern-day conveniences. These hot summer days, I feel privileged to sit on a comfy chair in my air-conditioned home, describing for you the challenges of backbreaking work—as though I’d experienced it myself. While I hope we’re all learning to consume less sugar, I hope we’re also learning to appreciate the effort and history behind all the many, easy treats we enjoy.

Happy Labor Day!