A Blessing of Friends

The morning is crisply cool with a hint of the warm sun-filled day to come. The mid-week traffic raises the tempo on the street and the sidewalk. With the rush of life around me and the cool air on my sandaled feet, I'm looking forward to the peaceful serenity of Lucy's living room. I spy the window to her apartment; my feet hurry and stillness settles dropping slow in my chest.

I count my blessings in friends: women who enrich my life, women who laugh with me, who cry with me, who share their lives with me and who drink tea with me. Lucy and I visit once a month to drink vanilla rooibos tea in her delicate blue and white tea mugs. We sit at the window and enjoy the morning rays filtering through warming our conversation.

What I love most about my times with Lucy is hearing her laugh. Her laughter is filled with joy. She laughs at my stories of the antics of Brooks and married life. Her quick, easy and hearty laughter fills my soul. With each outburst that fills the room, Lucy is teaching me to enjoy life. Lucy's hardships are many. Her laughter does not come from a place of ease. And yet, she laughs readily and fully.

I am grateful for the presence of friends in my life. Friends show me that I am not alone. Busy with life, I often focus on tasks and deadlines, and sideline my friends. And for that reason alone I know that they are friends. There are no recriminations at the lapsed time, just pleasure at seeing each other again and catching up where we left off.

I continually strive to simplify my life and make room for friends. I remember what Robert J. Wicks said about friendships in his book 'Riding the Dragon' (see To Mom, With Love May 2010):

'Lost in our own schedules, needs and little problems, we can't respond in a generous, genuine, helpful way. Surprisingly, this is more a sin of the wealthy than the poor; more apt to be a fault of the religious elite than those of a simple faith.'

May I be a woman of simple faith.

Words by Which to Fly

The leaves are falling golden brown. Apples crunch with each bite. Morning mist gathers over the water in the inlet. The air is warm; the first snow on the mountains has yet to arrive. This is autumn in Vancouver at its sunny warm best.

This autumn morning thoughts from summer Cannon Beach came to mind. Surprisingly, it wasn't the beaches, seagulls or jagged mountains reaching to the sea that occupied my thoughts. It was a quote I didn't include in Cannon Beach Over and Out (see September 2010). Namely, 'I fail my own moral judgements'.

How do I call others and myself out to a better and fuller life by making sound choices and also allow others to make mistakes without judgement? And how do I keep the words, 'I told you so' in check? Or better yet, 'Don't look to me now to rescue you.'

In that vein, I hear the words, 'You made your bed; you must lie in it'. There is truth to these words. I've learnt that they are best used in the first person pronoun to acknowledge situations I have created myself, to accept responsibility for them and to find a way forward. They are hard and necessary words others need to hear, but are to be spoken with compassion to encourage the hearers to accept responsibility for their choices.

'By the grace of God, there go I' are sobering words by which to fly. As are ones my friend, forthright Lois, has taught me, 'Did anyone ask your opinion? Mind your own business'. How we long to have the world look as we see fit. How we long to change others so that their lives look as we believe they should.

But really, if I was in control, would it be that much better? The last words to echo in my head are, 'Your kingdom come, your will be done'. Now these are words by which to fly.

Autumn Ride

We're still getting out for our more than occasional bike ride (see Bike Hard August 2010). The leaves have started to change and now scatter themselves like confetti heralding our efforts. I love the brisk air of warm autumn days, the crunch of its dry leaves and the gold and red colours. I don't have a favourite season; each season has its own delights. And this is a great season to be out biking.

I'm proud that the huffs and puffs on my rides are fewer. Another marker in my increasing bike fitness. But I still have a way to go, as M politely illustrated this past weekend. When we bike, we pass walkers and skate boarders. Sometimes even roller bladers on the uphills. We seldom pass other bikers unless, of course, it's a dad out with his child who still uses training wheels.

On our return 10km trip, after our rest break, a woman cyclist breezed past us. Nothing unusual in that, except M says, "That's the second time she's passed us." Nah! I don't believe him. "It's true," he says, "She passed us earlier."

I watch as her firm trim legs pedal hard to increase the distance between us. Her slightly ample butt hugs the seat. "Good for her," I say. Good for her. I have no intention on biking 40kms in one go. There's still got to be some pleasure to all of this. Besides which, it's not doing much for her butt. Note to self: I had better watch that.

Soon she is over the hill and out of sight. "Good for her," I say again to M. And anyhow, when last did she stop to take a picture of the autumn leaves on the road? And, at the speed she's going, she surely doesn't hear the streams gurgling with recent rains. I'm happy with my efforts. Can't you tell?

Champagne Anniversary

"Put the kettle on. Let's have another cup of tea," I suggest to M.
"No, let's drink champagne."

Champagne? Champagne! Is this my husband offering champagne at nine in the morning? Well, if he insists, I guess we could sip some of the celebratory bubbly. M pops the cork and zips the fizz into two wine glasses.

We're certainly dressed for the occasion as all couples should be when they celebrate fifteen years of togetherness, fifteen years of give and take and fifteen years of 'honey, please put the roll of toilet paper on facing this way not that way.' We've swopped the wedding dress and tuxedo for pyjamas, bed-heads and yawns. But, hey, we still know how to drink champagne.

We clink glasses, have our first sip and put our feet on the ottoman. M presses play. And there we are - fifteen years younger, with more hair. The year, 1995, wasn't quite the heyday of big hair but my hairstyle was more voluminous than it is today. And M, well, I couldn't help myself, "Look at all your hair."

The romantic occasion of watching our wedding video takes a turn into wide-eyed wonder at the dearly recognisable aliens at our wedding. We're hooting and hollering at the younger versions of our mid-life selves and our loved ones. Boy, how we have changed.

We're sobered at the obvious passing of time. The two toddler nephews are now strapping teenagers. The two pretty nieces handing out the order of service are, today, young women in their twenties embarking on adventures of their own. Ouch!

We count three marriages that didn't make it - six people living separate lives in different places fifteen years on. And, of course, the number of friends with whom we have lost contact since emigrating to Canada.

Good heavens! We were younger! I start to see myself the way others see me, middle-aged. The blush of youth is over, gone ta-ta and not coming back. I moved our wedding photographs out of the living room a few years back, after our friends, Jopie and Edel, who were in their eighties then, commented on how young we looked in the photographs.

Sobered, I take another sip of champagne. After this, I think those photographs are moving from obscurity in the study to retirement in the dark recesses of our bedroom. But, hey, extra lines, crow's feet, bald spots and all, at least we still know how to drink champagne!

A Dream on Pages

Sunday afternoon, I curl up on the couch, a cup of tea and a book for company. M's doing handyman bits and bops around the apartment, so I start a new book while I wait for him to finish.

I'm eager to read the book because it's the completion of a dream, on pages. Leta, the author, had a dream to write her life story and to publish it. How many of us have ever said, "I'll write a book someday" or "That's a story I'm going to put in my book when I write it"? Well, Leta's done just that. Put down all those stories in a book and gone ahead and published it herself.

I'm inspired by one woman's dogged determination to see her dream come true. When mutual friends and acquaintances heard that I was dabbling in writing they told me time and again, "You must speak to Leta". And speak to Leta I did. We got together a year ago to talk about writing and the correspondence writing course Leta did and highly recommended.

It took me a while to think it through, get serious about it, and sign up for the course. And now in the same week in which I have submitted my first assignment, I have Leta's book of memoirs in my hand, "There's No Rehearsal - This is it!". That's no co-incidence. It's an encouragement to continue to put one word down after the next and see where it will go.

I don't have a writing goal or a dream like Leta had. I'm not sure where my writing may take me. But as the title of Leta's book so aptly says, there are no practice runs at life. Lost opportunities are just that - lost. And I don't want to lose the opportunity to hone a craft that may still unearth a dream - a dream that may just show up on some white pages one day.

Dried Oregano and a Clay Pot

It's a small thing, I know. Just bit of dried oregano stored in a small clay pot on my kitchen counter. Yet, it lifts my focus from the privilege and wealth of the Western life to the suffering of others.

Visiting Jean on Wednesday night, I enviously eyed the herbs drying on a cloth on her counter, "Oh, look at all your herbs!"
"It's oregano out of the garden. Do you want some?"
Do I ever - fresh organic oregano - what's to say no to?

In the last light of the day, Jean and I picked oregano from the small plants hugging the soil in her garden. I was surprised that these little plants could supply such a bounty. Back in the kitchen, I rinsed the herbs multiple times. "Get rid of all those critters," Jean counselled.

Back home, after an evening of tea and talk, I lay the oregano out to dry for two days. When the time came to pull the dried oregano off the stalks I found just the right bowl for it - my small clay pot. A pot I got at MissionsFest to remember to pray for the Dalit people.

The Dalits, the lowest caste in India, are called the 'Untouchables'. They are so untouchable, they are below animals in status. Cows are treated better in India than Dalits. According to the caste system, they are relegated to live a life of abject poverty and dehumanization as the slumdogs of their society.

Quite a life for some 250 million people, nearly a quarter of Indian society, who have been relegated to doing untouchable work: butchering, removal of rubbish, animal carcasses, and waste, cleaning streets, latrines, and sewers. Fifty years of apartheid seem inconsequential in human right travesties once measured against the centuries of discrimination and enslavement the Dalits have endured.

This modest little pot, looking at home as a herb pot, represents so much more and is a reminder to me that our Western lifestyle is not how most of the world lives. It reminds me to pray for those suffering in this world. When I see it on my counter the words of Alfred, Lord Tennyson echo in my kitchen:

'More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice,
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?'

Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

Sorry you haven't heard from me in a while. M and I returned from Cannon Beach inspired and motivated; just as well as life has been busy these first two weeks of September.

I must tell you that we did get out to bike a couple of times in the forest: ten kilometres of hard pedalling out and ten kilometres back (see Bike Hard August 2010). Our breathing is better and the saddle soreness a lot less. Funny how it is - I don't enjoy biking this trail for a Saturday afternoon recreation ride but knowing I'm doing it for a good work out makes me more game. We hope to get out a couple more times, schedules and weather permitting! I ain't doing this in the rain.

My first writing assignment was due September 15th and I made the deadline. I had hoped to make a head start on it while we were in Cannon Beach but that was a no go. So with just a week to go before its due date, M and I got up an hour earlier every morning so I could write. The first part of the assignment wasn't difficult, just time consuming: write an introductory letter of two to three pages. What do you say about yourself to someone who doesn't know you? What do you include, what do you leave out and what is the most informative stuff to say now? I worked through that and got it done.

The second part of the assignment was to write a character description in 500 words. And this was the part I wasn't looking forward to. In fact, I dreaded it. But this past Sunday afternoon free time opened up like a break in the clouds of busyness to let the sun shine through. I sat down with my course binder, started through the steps, sketched my character in words on a page and then moved to the computer to start the dreaded deed. It flowed better than I anticipated. I got the bare bones on the computer and liked it. The word count was 170 words short. So Sunday evening, while M was at a meeting, I added more detail and liked the outcome even more. I couldn't believe that before bed it was all done. Yahoo!

Today it is scheduled writing time for my monthly newspaper article. I usually find that to be a bit of slog, so with a cup of tea for company this Saturday morning, I thought I'd first drop you a quick line to say I'm still here, dear diary. There is so much still to tell you.

Last Sunday morning I baptised a woman I have started to mentor. It is so exciting to see how God redeems our broken lives if we let Him! Baptising Mel is undoubtedly one of the best experiences of my life, but more about my 'Brenda the Baptist' (coined by Morrie or was it Em?) experience later.

I must go, the washing machine has already buzzed. It is time to hang the laundry and then knock the next deadline off my list. Thanks for listening, I'll write again soon!

Cannon Beach Over and Out

Our second annual trip to Cannon Beach is over. We didn't expect to make it to any of the summer conferences this year (see Summer Longing June 2010). But then we heard of the great half price deal for the last week of summer. We called but the conference was already fully booked. We went on the waiting list and thought that was the end of it.

It wasn't and, once offered, we snapped up the half-price opportunity to be spiritually enriched. Our speaker for the 6 days was Bill Farrel. We had not heard of him before the trip but all the speakers at the conference centre come highly recommended. Apparently, you can't get a poor one. And so far, that has proven to be correct.

Bill Farrel worked through 1 Peter as a GPS to find God's way in a wandering world. I enjoyed all ten sessions (morning and evening) and found something of value in each one. There is always a lot to take in at sessions like these. And so, rather than do it all, I aim to take away a few inspirations that will impact how I live life better today than yesterday.

Here are some of my Cannon Beach jewels:

'A common denominator of humanity is pain. We can't erase it but it doesn't need to define us. Which leads to another thought - does the stuff in your life have purpose and is it leading somewhere? It doesn't matter who has it hard or harder - is it leading somewhere or just to destruction?'

'Each life counts. The things we say and do, count.'

'Is the unfairness in life going to ruin you or launch you?'

This encourages me to live a life which has purpose, to weigh my words and actions carefully and to accept that life is unfair. For me, some of the most meaningful words in the Bible are those spoken by Jesus when he says to Peter, "... what is that to you?" What is it to me, or you, what God chooses to do for someone else? Jesus' next words are equally powerful, "You must follow me." (John 21:22)

The Beach Run

I reach for my hat. The wind whips it three steps out of my reach and then four. I trot to catch it. I lunge - once, twice and then on the third time I get it. Relief - I would hate to lose this hat. I look over my shoulder. M strolls along watching my antics.

"Thanks for helping me get my hat."
"You looked like you had it under control."
"The wind kept blowing it out of my reach."
"Well, at first it looked like it was going to be easy."
"It still would've been nice to know you're my hero. And that you'd help me catch my hat."

M smiles and quits the conversation. We're walking the beach at Manzanita on our take two trip to Tillamook. This time in the sun and, without the rain, we can stop and explore.

Walking back, now into the wind, I keep my hat securely in my hand. Without mine to tease, the wind lifts off M's. He turns to chase it. What to do? Do I leave him to it or help to catch it?

I decide: "Let me help you." And I run to get in front of the hat so that, with the next gust of wind, it will blow against my legs. In a jiffy M snaps up his hat.

"See, that's how it's supposed to be done."
"I can tell you aren't happy I didn't help you get your hat."
I give him The Look. Say no more.

A fair number of sandy steps later, M pats my bum.
"Sorry, dear, next time I'll help you catch your hat."
That's more like it.