Halloween Tree

Halloween is a North American tradition that has just never won us over. Until we moved to our apartment building last year, out of reach for trick or treaters, Halloween was always a date night for us. We escaped early to a nice meal out followed by shopping - designed to keep us away from our home, long enough, for the princesses and monsters to go by. I know, we are a bit dry. Perhaps one day we will limber up these dry bones, dress up in a costume and join in the fun. If we do, M can go as a tree - a Halloween tree.

In early September we went camping with Ron and Jean in Merritt (see Missing Merrit, September 2009). Ron likes to hunt with a bow and arrow. Happily for Jean, he seldom succeeds in shooting a hapless deer or any other animal minding its own business in the wild. That weekend, Ron suggested that he and M dress in his hunting gear and go shoot wildlife with their digital cameras.

I couldn't resist a picture of my husband camouflaged as a tree. Do wild animals really not notice something odd when they see skinny short trees with two leg trunks skulking in their back yard? I know the idea is not to be seen but animals aren't dumb. Ron admitted that squirrels do give the game away, squealing to alert the other animals of a tree intruder. Yeah for the squirrels!

What do two city girls do once the boys head off to play their game? Well, of course, they enjoy a spa treatment in the country! Jean and I love our camping tradition of indulging in manicures, pedicures and facials.

One of our best spa camping memories was a few years back camping at Loon Lake, quite a bit further north than Merritt. The boys went fishing and we set up our spa at the campsite picnic table to enjoy the open air and warm sun. We soaked our feet in small tubs brimming with bubbles, had masks on our faces doing their deep penetrating work, and sipped ciders while yakking and paying careful attention to our finger nails. The camp site was relatively private as we indulged in our city in the country experience.

The owner of the campground came to the shed next to our camp site to do whatever a campground owner does in his shed. This down-to-earth countryman shut the shed door, looked up at two of his city guests having some fun, stopped, looked again, got a small smile of his face, shook his head slightly, smiled at us more broadly and continued on with his day. I guess he had now seen it all!

Considering that M and I have each had some experience in looking ridiculous, we're probably not too many steps away from feeling comfortable enough to participate in a Halloween costume party. We've learnt that Halloween is not just for the kids, it's also for six foot tall teenagers who are trick and treating their way to a sugar overload. And adults who throw Halloween parties and consume their sugar overload in another form.

No, for now, M and I are happy to save our moments of looking ridiculous for our country camping trips.

I Write

Once a month I meet with my writing group. One of our exercises today was to write a short piece on our perfect scenario, as though it is accomplished, not still a dream for the future. This is my piece:

At last, I don't work to earn money. I write and the writing works for me. It affords me a lifestyle of writing and reading, of words and books, and our little stone cottage in France.

It started with a writing group and my husband agreeing to learn French with me. With each pronunciation of this foreign tongue a blue wooden door creaked open and through that door I glimpsed my writing desk at the window, our kitchen with the slate floor, and the patio doors opened out on to the terrace. I glimpsed my husband bringing me tea, cup after cup, while I write.

I write at my desk, at the kitchen table or on the patio in the shade of the vines. I glance up from my writing and see the countryside unfold to the village steeple. I didn't then consider my deadlines and the moments of drought that would threaten to overwhelm me. But I remember Ernest Hemingway's advice, "Write until you find the first true sentence."

And so I do, I write.

Christmas is Coming!

October 25th - two months today it is Christmas! I feel some panic at the thought, as time slips through my fingers like sea sand, and I also feel excitement for what Christmas means for us.

It may be two months to Christmas, yet we are in the middle of the busyness of our Christmas season. M and I volunteer as co-ordinators for Operation Christmas Child on the North Shore (www.samaritanspurse.ca/occ/). This Christmas program of giving shoe box gifts to underprivileged children across the world captured our hearts twelve years ago. Through our church, we started by each packing a shoe box for a boy aged from ten to fourteen. For twelve years it has been a fun Christmas excursion to do our shoe box shopping.

One year, probably six years ago, the program wasn't co-ordinated at our church. We felt the loss of it as did others. The next year, M was committed to make it happen, so he stepped in and filled the gap. Once again our church participated in this project and we became Mr. and Mrs. Shoe Box.

Mr. Shoe Box is an administrative giant. Although he will tell you that he doesn't care for administration, he has an acute attention to detail. He is phenomenal at co-ordinating a project, making it run smoothly and ensuring that a job is done well. It wasn't too many seasons later that his contribution to this project for our church came to the attention of the regional co-ordinator to whom we delivered the 300 to 400 shoe boxes filled by our church community.

Before long M was asked to head up this program, not just for our church, but for the North Shore area which includes liaising with other churches, schools and businesses interested in participating. We deflected the request for one year, but the regional co-ordinator didn't let up and now, for three years, we have been the North Shore area co-ordinators for this project. Or to be perfectly honest, M is the co-ordinator and I'm his trusty assistant.

For us, Christmas happens in October and November as we distribute shoe boxes, get them back filled with gifts, box them in cartons and deliver 2,000 shoe boxes to the regional collection centre. One day we hope to distribute these shoe boxes to the orphans and children who have so little and to see the joy on their faces and the light in their eyes. Unfortunately, we don't see that happening for a while yet, but this December we will be heading to Calgary to be part of the next step of the process - sorting and checking the shoe boxes at the Samaritan's Purse warehouse. We're looking forward to it, even if it means two days of being Calgary cold.

Operation Christmas Child is named not only for the mammoth operation it is to get Christmas shoe box gifts to children across the globe but, more importantly, for the child who came to give each of us the greatest gift of all. And in two months we celebrate the coming of this child.

Indeed, it is a great blessing to give. And how wonderful it is too, when we receive a gift of love which fills us with hope and joy.

Dinner Alone

It doesn't happen often and when it does I relish it. Morrie invited M to join him at a hockey game. I arranged an evening with a girlfriend which, at the last minute, didn't work out. This meant an evening alone at home - pure enjoyment.

I pottered in the kitchen. I rearranged a few things to give the kitchen a fresh look. I polished a few things to make them sparkle. The romance of Il Divo filled the airwaves as I prepared my salad and cooked salmon. Cooking alone in my kitchen is music to my soul. M learnt early on to find something else to do when I'm in the kitchen.

I set the table for one; lit the candle and poured a glass of chilled Californian white - a date with myself. The maple syrup drizzled salmon served with an arugula, pear and feta salad with lemon poppy seed dressing was a feast for my eyes. This is a typical quick and easy dinner that I like to make. It takes no time and it's so easy to do.

With Il Divo for company, I sipped the wine, savoured the meal and enjoyed the time alone with my thoughts. A week ago we had guests at our table enjoying the beef chili I tried for the first time. Despite my tension-filled run up to the evening (see Beef Chili with Cornbread Topping, October 2009), it had been a success. I smiled to myself when I remembered Morrie and Em's humorous interactions.

Em explained that she no longer buys expensive dinnerware or dishes as Morrie has a way of wrecking them, "like my irreplaceable Ming bowl."
"Which one was that?" Morrie asked. "The one I used for painting?"
"But don't touch his breakfast bowl," Em explained. "The one with sheep and the word, 'baa' printed all around it." Em packed it up in preparation for their kitchen renovations and Morrie was distressed that it wasn't available as part of his morning routine.
"I got over it," Morrie defended himself. "It took a week but I got over it."

I smiled to myself. Small things in life can unsettle us. For me, it's cooking for guests, for Morrie, it's upsetting his routine. I need to practise entertaining. It doesn't have to be perfect. Em is a fabulous hostess and I remember her advice to me, "Don't aim for perfection." Time together with others is what it is all about.

Em calls after 7pm. She's going to be home shortly and do I want to come over to watch a movie while the hubbies are out. After a time of soul replenishment, I'm game for a visit, to catch up with Em and their kitchen renos and to watch a movie. After all, time together with others is what it is all about.

Margharita

What does 105 look like for you? You'd still live by yourself, wouldn't you? And wouldn't you grow award winning clevias, cook five course meals for your guests, clean your kitchen yourself, crochet tablecloths for charity and give Italian cooking lessons? Well, perhaps at 105, you might ease up a bit, but surely this would be your life at 104?

I enjoy the company of older people. I enjoy hearing their stories and being transported to another era, another lifetime, another season. There is so much to know and learn from those who are further along the journey of life than we are. Our society values youth and youthfulness. Yet what does that mean for any of us at all? God-willing, we will turn thirty and then forty, followed by fifty and beyond. If being twenty-something, without a crease on your face, is what we aspire to then we are setting our sights too low.

I must've been about sixteen when Margharita Blaser first impacted my life. I remember her conversation with my mother as she described her busy life at eighty. Being a professional seamstress she still sewed extensively. She gardened, grew her own vegetables, entered flower competitions, entertained visitors, made her own pasta and just enjoyed life enormously. I remember thinking that I wanted to grow old like that.

I only met Mrs. Blaser that once. Yet over the years I wondered what her secret was to growing old well. Earlier last year, the thought crossed my mind again and my brother, Mark, confirmed that Mrs. Blaser was still feistly independent at 103. I gave her a call, we struck up a friendship and last year September I met her for the second time when M and I visited her in Cape Town with my brother, Mark.

Today, I called to wish her for her 105th birthday. I didn't call on the day, Wednesday, October 14th, as I knew that she would be busy with calls. "Yes, I must've had 40," she responds. I believe it. No doubt every available space is filled with flowers unless she has succeeded in convincing her friends and family rather to donate the money to her favourite charity, Radio Veritas. Even today, her house was busy with visitors when I called.

I have learnt so much from Margharita (she doesn't want me to call her Mrs. Blaser). To record it all would take a booklet which I may just do. I envy her gift of hospitality and flair for cooking. Last year she prepared a five course lunch for us, including her own hand-made ravioli and wouldn't let us help her clean up. "Oh, I'll do it. I have all evening," was her reply.

When I look for common threads running through the lives of those who grow old well, it's not so much what they eat, where they live or how comfortable their lifestyle is. Rather it is in their attitude to life and how they stay engaged with life. If I was to describe growing old well with one word it would be 'simplicity'. From Margharita and others I have observed a simple approach to life.

Live simply, eat healthily, love greatly, laugh easily, stay busy, give of yourself, pray for others, be content with what you have, stay out of debt, and look for the small pleasures in life. I could write on how Margharita has embraced each of these qualities in her life. Her attitude of gratefulness and positive perspective underscores who she is and how she responds to the difficulties of life. The most negative thing I've heard her say is, "I can't understand people who don't believe in God and don't go to church." She has a simple faith. And her simple approach to life is, "I've never wished for anything that wasn't within my reach."

We may not all live to be 105 and make the news, but we do all have the opportunity to live well, to grow old well and to finish well. Margharita, thank you for showing me.

Beef Chili with Cornbread Topping

I took a deep breath; rolled my shoulders back a few times, loosened my neck and took a couple more deep breaths. I can do this; I can do this; I can do this; and it will all turn out just fine. I envy women who entertain with ease. Who throw an appetizer, main course and dessert together - all made from scratch - set the table with flair and greet you at the door looking refreshed. Entertaining is not one of my strengths. I love the thought of it but my perfectionist streak can paralyse me when I dare to invite guests over for dinner.

I felt the anxiety on Friday night scouring the store for ingredients I don't usually have in my kitchen. Although this beef chili was supposedly easy to make, it called for a lot of ingredients. So there I was, with mounting anxiety, squished in with the after work Friday crowd at Superstore trying to make sure I didn't forget anything the recipe called for.

Already I could hear M's voice - don't try a new recipe, make something you know. Where's the fun and stress in that? All our guests have already tasted my trusted bobotie recipe more than once. I like to cook. I just don't consider myself particularly good at it. After a busy day at work, I like to unwind in the kitchen making supper. But that's just for the two of us and M will eat almost anything I put in front of him. Cooking for two, I often make quick and easy meals, having company over affords me the opportunity to try something new.

Now here I was in the kitchen, Saturday morning, with all the ingredients out in front of me on the counter doing some deep breathing and shoulder stretches. Already I had run five blocks down to the IGA store to buy cornmeal. Over breakfast my mind was whirring through the recipe. I was becoming surer and surer that cornstarch and cornmeal is not the same thing. Having had this dish at Jackey's I knew that the topping was yellow but cornstarch is white, so how does it become yellow? M googled it for me. Goodbye cornstarch, hello cornmeal, which I don't have in my kitchen; hello morning run down Lonsdale.

Remove the four guests coming for dinner from the equation and I would've had a ball in the kitchen, but with every spice I added to the softened onions, I worried if this was going to turn out. I brought the sauce to the boil and added it to the browned ground beef in the slow cooker. The corn and black beans followed. It was looking and smelling good. I did a quick taste test. Ouch, that's hot! This chili was going to make a statement tonight - my poor guests. I let out a deep sigh. You can add more chili but you can't take out too much chili. Well, all I could do was let it cook on low for the next six hours.

I started to clean up the kitchen, pack away the bottles and spices and do some washing up. I picked up the can of condensed beef broth. It was unopened. Where was this supposed to go? I frantically scoured the recipe for the step I had missed. I was supposed to add it with the Worcestershire sauce, tomato paste and tomato sauce just before I brought it all to a boil. Well, it's just going to have to go in now, rather late than never!

Kitchen clean, I ran my eyes over the ingredients for the cornbread topping. Somehow, I now had a sneaky suspicion that I didn't have baking powder. I ransacked my pantry shelf. Yip, no baking powder. I slowly remembered that I had thrown it out the year before when we had moved. It's one of those ingredients you buy for one recipe and, unless you bake a lot, it hangs around forever in your pantry until you decide to throw it out when you move homes.

Another trip to another store for baking powder. "Are you sure you have everything now", M asks. Yes, Yes. Back home I double check the cornbread recipe. Who added an egg to the recipe while I was out? How did I miss that? We had eaten the last two eggs for breakfast and I needed just one. I couldn't believe this, neither could my anxiety level nor one, up-to-now, very patient husband. Another trip to another store for free-range eggs.

The beef chili with cornbread topping served with sour cream, salsa and green onions, accompanied by a salad and a robust Chilean red was a hit with our friends. I'll tackle it again. I am less daunted by the recipe and, besides which, I now have most of the ingredients in the house. And those I don't have, I know just where to buy them - even in a pinch.

Ride, Sally, Ride

Granny James fondly called me Sally when I was a little girl. I never did ask her why. And I'll never know for sure as she died when I was twenty. Those weren't questions I pondered in my youth but I do now. Whatever the reason, I'm glad that she did. It makes the words, 'Ride, Sally, Ride' more personal for me. Whenever I hear the song 'Mustang Sally', I am reminded to be a bit of a dare devil, to let go of my inhibitions (just a little at least) and to seize the moment.

M's company hosts a year-end extravaganza gala. We pay $25 a head for the opportunity to put on our glad rags, enjoy a four course meal, be entertained by a band, and dance the night away. It's a popular annual occasion with 1,500 guests when we attended our first one in 2006. M and I enjoy dancing far more than we are actually any good at it. But give us a half decent beat and we'll happily grace the dance floor, provided there are enough other patrons to offer us some degree of camouflage.

During one of the songs that evening, the band announced that someone would go around the dance floor to get some people up on the stage to help with the next song. I didn't exit the dance floor quickly as I am prone to do. The floor was packed and I anticipated that the odds were slim that they would pick on me. What I didn't notice, while we danced, was M catch the eye of the recruiter, put his hands high in the air and point at me. I caught his devious plan just seconds before I felt hands on my shoulders to haul me off up on to the stage.

I knew that there were two, well probably three, things I could do. Get in a huff and leave the stage; go through with it as best as I could and then let my husband have it when I was done or just live the moment and love it. Approaching forty at the time, I thought it better to embrace adventure and wisely chose the third option.

Just as well, as I was positioned front and centre accompanying the lead singer! I told him I couldn't sing. Don't worry; just fake it was the response. The song was 'Mustang Sally'. I belted out each 'ride, Sally, ride' of the chorus with the lead singer or at least appeared to. While he sang the other components of the song, I danced.

M and a handful of his colleagues gathered at the bottom of the stage pretending to be wild fans. I was embarrassed and loving it. For one song I was a rock star. When I got off the stage one of M's colleagues ran up and asked for my autograph. All I wanted was to ride around in the fun of the moment. At some stage I was going to have to slow my mustang down and get my feet back on the ground. But it wasn't going to happen that evening, it was all far too liberating.

Now I can't hear the song without releasing my inhibitions a touch and embracing the moment (see The Run of the Pinks, October 2009). In my forties, I am discovering and determining for myself what signifies being a woman. It's a great ride.

The Run of the Pinks

In August when I shared the news of my mother's breast cancer with two of my girlfriends, their almost immediate response was - we should do the 5km 'Run for the Cure' in honour of your mother. The run on October 4th would give us a number of weeks to train and get a little running fit for the modest 5kms.

Or so I thought. I did not get out to do my Lonsdale run (see Running Lonsdale, September 2009) nearly as often I would've liked to. With much vying for my attention, it is easy to put the run on the backburner. In two turns it was October and the three of us were making our arrangements for the day. There was some relief for me when Starr mentioned that she wouldn't be able to run the 5kms but would happily walk it.

On the day, we lined up with men, girls, women, breast cancer survivors and breast cancer fighters to run or walk the 5kms. Breast cancer survivors were noticeable in their pink T-shirts. Those fresh in battle displayed the beautiful contours of their heads no longer shrouded by hair. Before the race, we heard the testimony of a young woman in her thirties who battled breast cancer, endured a double mastectomy and the ensuing seven surgeries to finally regain her life with her husband and young son.

As we walked under the pink balloons of the starting line I gave thanks for my mother and all that she has meant to me in my life.

Starr set the pace and so we ran and walked - my favourite running style - get the heart rate up and then slow it down a tad. The weather was superb: sunny, warm and autumn crisp. We walked, we talked, we ran. We walked some more, we talked some more and we ran again. Jackey, the third member of our trio, has feathers for feet, having trained with Zola Budd in Bloemfontein. Yet she politely and encouragingly jogged at our pace.

With the finish line not far ahead, Starr and I were deciding when we would start our final run for the line. We were still getting our breath back. A band was playing, encouraging the participants across the line. My ears caught the tune and the words of the song, 'Mustang Sally' (see Ride, Sally, Ride, October 2009). This is my song, courtesy of my husband putting me front and centre at a company party - and I took off. I relished the feeling of having feathers for feet. This must be what it feels like for Jackey when she runs. I felt light, I felt fatigue-free, I felt alive, I was so happy. In that moment I was 'Run, Sally, Run'.

I was doing the run of the pinks - a run for my mother, a run for myself with my girlfriends and a run in honour of women and the indomitable female spirit.

BC Wildlife Weekend

Have you ever heard the sounds of Africa at her most natural - when the hyena barks, the lion roars and the hippopotamus snorts? M and I love the bush. Whenever we visit family in South Africa, we try to slip in a few days away with his parents to the Kruger National Park.

This weekend, we experienced a touch of BC urban bush. Perhaps harbour seals, hawks and deer don't compare with hyena, lion and hippo but they are still a delight to behold. And did you know that we have wild dogs in Canada too?

Friday early evening saw us enjoying our staid ritual of a Macca's (Ozzie word) muffin and tea sitting in the car at the Foreshore like two old fogeys (folks). It's a bit like a roadhouse with a view. The patrons bring their takeout dinner or coffee, like us, and sit snugly in their cars to watch the dog walkers and the activity in the inlet.

We had just arrived at the Foreshore when M commented on a black medium sized dog that was standing on the bow of a small boat. "That dog better be careful, he's going to fall in," he warned. I looked down to tuck into my muffin and heard, "There he goes. He jumped in!" He did indeed. He was swimming in the frigid water to a group of harbour seals. As he approached, the seals ducked into the water and disappeared. Not snubbed in the least, the dog switched direction and headed for another group of seals. This group was further off and entailed a longer swim. I looked at the occupants of the boat. They seemed oblivious as their boat drifted and they talked. Did they even know where their dog was?

The dog got close up and personal with the next group of seals. So close that he appeared to get nose to nose with a seal. There was a big splash and then the seal and its mates disappeared. "Wow, do you think the seal snapped at the dog?" I asked. "They don't usually make a splash when they go under the water." Snapped at or not, the wild and wet dog headed off for the next group of seals. How long could this dog swim? Were we going to see him do a seal imitation and duck under the water too, only to not reappear? Thankfully, the owners decided that he had had enough sport and headed off to haul him in. I take it that this is a common activity for the sole wild dog of the Burrard Inlet.

On Saturday a hawk circled just outside our livingroom window with seven squawking attendants. He flew seemingly oblivious to the crows dive-bombing him. I couldn't understand what the crows' problem was. They're not North Vancouverites. I don't believe that they roost on the North Shore so there would be no young to protect. If they were seagulls I'd understand having once seen an eagle swoop by our apartment with what looked like a young seagull in his talons and three seagulls in hot, squawking pursuit.

Sunday afternoon M and I mellowed out at the bird sanctuary on the North Shore. We were in the area and stopped in for a walk, a time of quiet to enjoy the sun, and hopefully spy a few birds. I spotted the deer along the path. It was a young one. Now happily resident in the bird sanctuary it allowed us to get relatively close. Deer are peaceful and serene. Their presence alone is one of stillness.

We gleaned life lessons from the wild antics of a dog and his seal mates, an unfettered hawk and the serenity of a deer. The wild dog was the epitome of having fun, reaching out to others and doing what you love. The hawk modelled staying focused, remaining calm under pressure and ignoring the cacophony of crows in your life. And, appropriately, on the Sabbath, the deer instilled the value of taking time to rest, to find quiet places in your life and to live at peace with God, yourself and those around you.

The wild life of British Columbia may be tame in comparison with Africa yet we do have bears that walk our North Shore streets and rummage our backyards, eagles and coyotes that make off with our cats and other wildlife that impart lessons to eager observers.

La Leçon Française

A new sound is murmuring in our apartment: a sound that speaks of country courtyards and blue shutters, red geraniums in terracotta pots, ancient stone walls, olive groves and lavender fields. Bonjour! Bonjour! Je suis très contente. I am particularly happy because M is doing the conversational French class with me.

I have done intermittent French classes since high school French but, sadly, I have never been able to sustain my fragile command of this language. Now for eight weeks every Thursday night we have a group of eight in our home to practise 'comment ça va', s'il vous plaît, une tasse' and so much more.

After one lesson, M and I greet each other, enquire after each other's health and offer tea in French. M's brain is pounding with the convolution required to understand and think in a language in which, at best, he knew how to say yes, thank you and please. He is soldiering on as a gesture of affection to sa femme (his wife). I know that he will find it all worthwhile when next we visit France. A smattering of the language will help with reading signs, asking for directions, and just conversing with locals at a basic level.

Doing our ironing takes on a French flair as we exchange greetings, pose questions, reply, practise pronunciations, count to ten and memorise les jours de la semaine (the days of the week). I hold up various combinations of my fingers and M responds, "huit, six, quatre, neuf". I keep a beady eye on the shirt he is ironing to ensure it isn't scorched with each delay he has in retrieving the relevant number in French. Considering that this is only day two of acquiring new French vocab, he is doing très bien.

As the dark evenings arrive earlier and earlier, get colder and wetter, we can transport ourselves to sun-drenched hill-top villages, ancient arenas, cobbled streets, terracotta rooftops, sidewalk cafés and the sound of cicadas with every 'bonjour, enchanté, j'ai faim, j'ai soif, une baguette et deux pression s'il vous plaît'. Bon Voyage!

Telephone Conversations

The sound emitting from M's bedside table on Wednesday night was a little foreign. M didn't stir. I nudged him. "Your pager went off. Are you getting up?" He grunted. I raised myself to look at the clock on his bedside table - 10:35. It wasn't late. We'd got into bed at 10 but neither of us was sound asleep yet. I rolled over to try to sleep.

"It's your mother." My mother? I rolled back. M stood next to the bed with one of his two electronic gadgets in his hand. He read, "I'm up and about doing things at half pace. Thanks for all the prayers." Mom had sent us a text message. We seldom get text messages which is why I didn't recognise the sound.

It was good to hear from my mother herself. We had received news from my brother in Johannesburg on how my mother was doing. We knew that she had been in pain directly after her mastectomy on September 28th. A second email informed us that she was discharged 24 hours after the operation, was at home sleeping and to give her a day before calling. The next one said that Mom was in good spirits and feeling much better after a good sleep. And now the fourth update was from the lady of the moment herself. It was welcome news. I had been concerned and eager to know how my mother was. Yet I didn't want to call too soon. It was important that she recuperate.

Our telephone conversations have been more frequent since August 8th. We've discussed heartfelt issues, the C-words (cancer and chemo) and the reality that one day each of us will die. The question is 'will it be a thief, or will I have a chance to say goodbye' ? (Brian Doerksen - Your Faithfulness). These sincere conversations have not been sad or depressing. My mother's calm acceptance of her cancer journey, having processed her emotions for a time alone with my father before bringing others into the news (See Balneotherapy, August 2009), has had a calming effect on our interactions.

So I called her this morning, four days after the surgery. I anticipated more of my mother's calmness even expected some sadness and angst at the assault on her femininity. What I didn't expect was my mother's elation. Yes, she has lost a breast but she is alive! Not to say that she doesn't have six months of chemo to get through, but the prognosis for her type of cancer is good and, in this moment, she is the happiest she has been in a long time. I was blown away at Mom's speedy recovery and her positive outlook.

"You've been shrouded in prayers," I said "and it is showing."
"Please don't stop," she replied. "I've still got a long race ahead of me." My mother has run eleven Comrades Marathons (89km marathon in South Africa). She sees this as her twelfth. She knows what it is to do a gruelling race and cross the finish line. She's preparing herself mentally for the long haul. We also spoke about faith and God's faithfulness. Trusting that our life and times are in His hands gives us a different perspective to our hardships.

Mom, my prayer for you is that you will run the race set before you, that you will fight the good fight (you know the rules) and that you will receive a crown of health when you cross the finish line of chemo and, more importantly, that you will receive the crown of glory when, one day, you do cross the finish line of life.