Of auto correct and the smaller things in life

There are moments when you can't help but just laugh. Take the time when my wife, Wendi, texted me and asked where I was. Apparently, the software writer didn't like my answer... so instead of replying the way I had intended, which was "On my tractor", autocorrect corrected me and said, "On my Tracy". So you can imagine Wendi's surprise and immediate response... "You're where? And on who?" Ah, good laughs!

But, it's this tractor that had me thinking this past week. If you know me, you know that I've never placed a lot of value in 'things'. As far as 'toys' are concerned, I would qualify my 1992 Kubota L2950 as one of my few, and maybe my only, treasured toys. There's nothing fancy or shiny about it, but it has served me well. And, I'll confess that when the day arrives that I have to let go of 'Tracy' I'm sure I'll shed a quiet tear or two.

I've had the pleasure of sitting in my Kubota's seat for hours. Truthfully, these have probably been the most peaceful and tranquil times of the ten plus years we've been at our current address.

From its seat, I have seen the spectrum of God's creation - life's joys and miseries:

The sunrise and the sunset...

The frost roll in and the dew dry up,
The barn swallow chasing bugs in the stirred up grass,
Frogs hopping out of the way of the approaching tires,
A killdeer puffing up its chest and pretending to be lame to protect its nest,
Deers on the horizon chewing leaves in contentment,
Fresh tire tracks in the recently cultivated soil,
My children and wife working side by side on the family farm,
Rainstorms approaching rapidly from the west,
Seagulls gulping back a fresh meal visible in the new furrows,
Small bunnies seeking safety in the comfort of their nest
An employee comedically slipping in the mud,
My daughter falling to her knees in anguish and despair,
Ice precariously hanging on a dahlia stem,
A new dawn and a new day rising,

The sunset and the sunrise.

Most of these things I count as gain. Some I count as loss.

As for autocorrect... and my Tracy... uh, my tractor... until we meet again.

To me... it's always been a morning dove... not a mourning dove.

A 'morning' dove on our porch rail

There's an eerie sound I hear almost every day (oddly enough, it's one of my favourite outdoor sounds) during the summer months. It's that of a mourning dove - that I think has its nest in the spruce trees next door. As this dove sits on our roof peak he sings his "distinctive, plaintive cooOOoo-woo-woo-woooo" (thanks Wikipedia!), I listen intently, and I invariably drift into a mental sort of paradise regained. This bird, that calls our home his home, is one of my favourites of all God's animals.

I can picture the Holy Trinity with just the perfect amount of creative juices flowing designing this unique bird. After putting the black spots on its wings, giving it contrasting black and white tail feathers, colouring it with a light grey-brown plumage, their finishing touch was the dove's song - what 'we' call a mournful cry. Here's the irony though: when God created there was no mourning, or crying, or such a thing as a sad song, there was only a new morning and God called it good. My heart says that Adam called it a 'morning' dove... to which we've added a single letter to change the meaning from bright and new to brooding and mournful.

It's a stretch, I know. Even maybe a little simplistic and naive. But I wonder how many of God's creations we've changed or modified ever so slightly and completely twisted God's perfect artwork into our own warped design. My brief encounter with our roof's living ornament, i.e. this 'morning' dove, a few days ago reminded me of the peacefulness and gentleness of our good Creator. Normally, skittish and quick to fly away, this bird allowed me to come within inches; almost inviting me into its space. It was a peaceful and gentle encounter that I can only describe as heavenly providence. God granted me peace that morning, in a season that has laid plenty of uncertainty in my family's life, and at that moment I felt the air lighter, the sun brighter, and the breeze gentler.

Kind of reminds me of the song "All things bright and beautiful"; especially the refrain and first verse:

All things bright and beautiful,

All creatures great and small,

All things wise and wonderful:

The Lord God made them all.

Each little flow’r that opens,

Each little bird that sings,

He made their glowing colors,

He made their tiny wings.

Here's the best part though - when Jesus returns the 'u' in mourning will be dropped forever and our earthly mourning shall be turned into an eternal new morning... and it will be good once again. As for my friend, the dove that eventually flew away when I came too close, he'll return with an olive leaf in its beak and we'll know all has been renewed.

Hoping for a sunflower stand in Heaven

Our last stand of sunflowers - 2018

Walking back to my house, I spotted a football under a tree. It was probably the last place my son dropped it after tossing a few passes to me or to some other lucky shmo he could convince to play a round of catch with him. As I picked up the football to put it away, suddenly, without warning, it hit me. Hard. I cried. My eyes just didn't get a bit moist. No. I sobbed with short gasps of breath. It was an emotional moment similar to when I first received news of my Dad's death in 1999. As loud of a cry as when I left my friends in Grand Rapids to move home because I had graduated from Calvin College but they had one year of school left.

But this time, it tore my heart even more. Weeks before our two oldest children left home for university, my wife began to prepare mentally and emotionally. Me... not so much. I thought I could drop them off and I'd handle it with ease. Wrong again. When I picked up that football to put it away, a new reality hit me hard in the face. My kids were taking their first steps toward moving out. Oh, they would come back on weekends, holidays, and summer breaks but it wouldn't be the same. They would always leave again. That's how it works.

I had one of those moments a few weeks ago. Again, I hadn't really prepared for it but knew somewhere in the back of my mind that it would happen eventually. Wendi and I have grown sunflowers for our roadside stand for the last number of years. It was a way to earn extra money and gave Wendi 'something to do' during the months of summer vacation. For those who know our story, Wendi's health has changed drastically and we don't know what next summer holds. What seems sure right now, is that we won't be filling our roadside stand next July. Which brings me to my moment - as I was pushing the empty flower stand back down our winding driveway to our shed, it hit me. Hard. I cried. This time it was more like last September when I said for the last time: "Lock the door" to my mom's cooling, lifeless body as it lay on her deathbed. I'd tell her to "Lock the door" with a Dutch accent almost everytime I left her apartment whether it was at her condo, her retirement home and even during her stay at the seniors' care centre where she spent the last months of her life.

Everything comes to an end. It has to... "nothing lasts forever". What we don't realize during the most generic moments of life is that a story is being written, and that story will say "The end" on the last page. We don't like to think about anything pleasant coming to an end because... well... that's unpleasant. We're reminded that everything has its own time, as Solomon wrote in the book of Ecclesiastes 3:

A Time for Everything

3 For everything there is a season,

    a time for every activity under heaven.

2 A time to be born and a time to die.

    A time to plant and a time to harvest.

3 A time to kill and a time to heal.

    A time to tear down and a time to build up.

4 A time to cry and a time to laugh.

    A time to grieve and a time to dance.

5 A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones.

    A time to embrace and a time to turn away.

6 A time to search and a time to quit searching.

    A time to keep and a time to throw away.

7 A time to tear and a time to mend.

    A time to be quiet and a time to speak.

8 A time to love and a time to hate.

    A time for war and a time for peace.

We may not be selling sunflowers next summer, our kids will move back home only to move out again, I won't see my parents in this life again, and reuniting with my old college buddies seems like a day far, far away, if ever. There's only one thing that I know will last and will never end and that's the promise of a new heaven and a new earth given to us in Revelation 21:

The New Jerusalem

21 Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the old heaven and the old earth had disappeared. And the sea was also gone. 2 And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven like a bride beautifully dressed for her husband.

3 I heard a loud shout from the throne, saying, “Look, God’s home is now among his people! He will live with them, and they will be his people. God himself will be with them.[a] 4 He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever.”

I wonder if there will be room for our sunflower stand in this new city? Just asking. :)

Why I quit writing and said 'No' to God's gift... until now.

Here's why I quit writing and said no to the gift God gave me...

Ever since I was 16 or so, I've realized that putting pen to paper was 'easy'. Rarely did I struggle with an opening sentence or a closing thought. I even freelanced as a writer for a season when my children were small. For a time, I thought my writing ability was going to catapult me into preaching full time!

I think self-acknowledged gifts can be a huge blessing. However, if you're not careful with those gifts, they can be a self-imposed curse. In my case, I got sucked into the online vortex of seemingly endless online checks and rechecks of my blog's hit counter. I became a slave to thinking about how many Facebook 'likes' I received, how many times my blog was shared, how many people commented and... and... and. The more public acclaim and acknowledgement I received, the more I felt affirmed. If I didn't hear about peoples' tears, or if fewer people read my blog than a previous post, the more I felt I had to hit the next blog out of the park. So, I quit. I quit writing because I felt unnecessarily tied to my blog's popularity and that's what I told myself. The focus of my writing became internal, and not external as God intended.

Here's the truth as I see it now. Since Wendi's diagnosis of Stage IV Glioblastoma Multiforme a.k.a. a brain tumor, I have become more aware of the hidden powers of darkness and light battling each other. For when we feel confident in Wendi's healing, there often follows a distraction that turns our attention away from God and his healing to unrelated sources of family stresses and outside tension. It's like when the phone rings when you are about to pray. That's not a coincidence by the way! There is another world that we can't see, and if you stick your head in the dirt long enough, you'll stop discerning between good and evil. You'll stop sensing that there are outside forces that seek only to destroy what is good, and you'll merely accept those disruptions as 'one of those things'. 1 Peter 5:8 states clearly: "Stay alert! Watch out for your great enemy, the devil. He prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour." The wolf can wear all sorts of deceptive clothing!

That was me. I was outwitted. My gift of writing - that is meant to be for God's kingdom - became self-idolatry and I told myself to stop writing.  I was tricked into thinking that I should stop writing because it was being a hindrance to my relationship with Jesus. I hope that makes sense! What I didn't realize is that people who read my blog were being blessed by it and were receiving something of God's joy from it. Maybe not all the time, but sometimes! And, that's okay. God's word never returns to him empty or void no matter what we may think.

If this has happened to you - if you have a gift or special talent that you know has blessed others, don't deprive them of that gift. Don't make it about yourself. Don't get tricked into thinking that your gifts are a burden and that you should avoid engaging in them. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Identify the truth. Ask others how they can support you. Go ahead, sing, dance, play music, write a poem, carve stone, mold clay, repair a car, paint a room, visit a stranger, cook a meal, pick lice out of hair if that's your gift... and bless others with arms spread out.

I'm going to write again. I don't know for how long but I already have some ideas that I can't wait to share! This time, I'm going to try really hard to ignore 'the stats', the comments, the likes and only focus on what matters. Maybe, in 50 years, this blog will still be online and someone may blow the dust off of it and be blessed. Only God knows.

It's not about me or you. Or my wife's battle with brain cancer. It never has been, never is, and never will be.

It's about Jesus... always has been, always is, and always will be.

God's cradle - our hammock

Just one more pull, one more time...

Recently, I had an image come to mind of when my children were small. They would want to get onto a chair, couch, or their bed, and they would run and pull themselves up on their stomachs. Their tiny legs would kick and their little arms would wrestle their way onto the cushion or mattress. And having passed the hurdle, they would lay on their backs and be the most content in all the world. I miss those days. Days when I would give them a little push so they'd make it onto the chair, hold their hands as we cross a street, say a bedtime prayer, or cut their sandwiches into squares... just like so. Truthfully, though, God's design for our children is that they grow up, move out, and repeat the whole 'life thing' as independent adults. And, I wouldn't have it any other way.

There's another image that caught my attention this week. That of a cradle, of God's cupped hands, and my wife, figuratively on her stomach, kicking her legs and wrestling to get into his 'hands'. Finally, after achieving her goal, she would lay on her back and be the most content in all the world.

God's hands, his cradle, has been our hammock this week. During one of Wendi's low points, while lying in the hammock, she told me that she was worried. Worried about the future, about the cancer treatments, about her own longevity; and I really didn't know what to say anymore. And then I saw God's hands, in the shape of our hammock, and I had peace. For just as the hammock is shaped to every contour of our body for our optimal comfort, I picture God's hands shaped in such a way that Wendi's every ache, soreness, and worry are soothed by his special grip.

It has been this hammock that has given Wendi the most comfort and contentment this week as she heals from surgery and awaits the next stages of treatment.

And while she lies in contentment and rests on the hammock, in God's cradle... I get to sit next to her...holding her hands... and pray.

Kind of reminds me of when we'd sit on the edge of our children's bed after they had just kicked and squirmed their way onto their mattress. And lying comfortably on their backs we'd say a bedtime prayer.

"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
Guide me safely through the night,
Wake me with your morning light.
Amen."

A stumble, a tear and a rainbow

Greeted by a surprise rainbow
on Mom's birthday!

It was at a dressed up gravesite that 40 or 50 people gathered around last Tuesday, October 3. Complete with all the trappings: artificial turf to camouflage the freshly dug grave, and a spray of fresh flowers to 'dress up' the wooden box, add a pinch of reality - a truckload of city workers waiting to backfill the hole, and a few too many commuters rushing down the 7th Concession to nowhere; it was death that grabbed centre stage. A scripture reading, a sung blessing, a spoken Apostle's Creed, and a hushed rendition of 'Amazing Grace' seemingly flowed without pause. The fine-tuned orchestration by the funeral home and minister to conduct a graveside memorial was going as planned.

We each took a flower from the arrangement that draped the coffin and either knelt, stooped, bent or did whatever it took, to get nearer to Mom for the last time. While setting the flower down in her remembrance, some placed their hand on the coffin and felt the warmth of the sun's glow on the wooden chest, while others, with muted whispers, closed their eyes and mouthed a final farewell. My nephews' sobs were muffled into the sleeve of brother Scott's jacket as he attempted to remain composed. However, he, too, eventually wept aloud. Death confronted us that Tuesday and was directing its 'billionth' performance.

From where I stood, I observed my four uncles and one aunt, - Mom's brothers and sister - who had flown in from Nova Scotia, each cautiously approach what remained of their sister. First Uncle Bill, bum knees and all, placed a flower on the grave. Then my aunt, Tante Tini, with all the grace and composition of a younger sister, she, too, placed a flower in tribute. Uncle Joe was next. And, you know that artificial turf meant to hide the mounds of soil and the wooden frame which held the coffin temporarily in place, well, Uncle Joe stumbled over it. As he fell headlong into the grave's opening, thankfully his reflexes did not fail him and he put out his hands to prevent a more disastrous tumble. Uncle Joe's hands landed on the coffin, shifting it slightly, and we who witnessed this event unfold gasped in unison. As quickly as it happened Bill and Tini were there to help their older brother up. Death's 'billionth' performance was becoming unhinged.

Perhaps, from embarrassment or shock, Uncle Joe did not want to try again. But, with a little encouragement and assistance, he finally did place a flower successfully. After navigating his way off the platform, the five-some siblings, Bill, Tini, Joe, Gerry and John moved into a row and stood to face the grave. Their backs were to me, sun glistened off their mostly silver hair, and I heard a short cry.

"Siny, you were a good sister. We will miss you. We love you." was all my aunt said. It was a simple and moving tribute - uninhibited, unscripted, and unrehearsed.

Slowly people headed toward their cars. But, as with gravesite exits, there was an unremarkable hesitation to leave by some of the mourners. Just one more look, one more touch, one more reflection...just one more...one...last...time. Time marched on and death was eager to search for its next performance. Next act. Same as the first.

The following morning, October 4, would have been Mom's 80th birthday. I didn't want to miss it. I had never missed that day without saying, "Happy Birthday, Mom." So, as I headed down my driveway I spotted a rainbow. Odd, I thought, it hadn't been raining. Quickly, I jumped out of my car and snapped a picture. As I drove toward the cemetery, which is just a few kilometres from my home, I noticed I was driving in the direction of the rainbow.

A left onto the 6th Concession, a right onto Garden Lane, a left onto the 7th and I was at the cemetery. There in front of me was Mom and Dad's marker, shaped like a teardrop or a flame depending on your perspective, the fresh soil raked neatly and the spray of flowers - now visibly missing many blooms - served as reminders of the previous day's events.

As I stooped down to say "Happy Birthday, Mom", the rainbow I had observed was now perfectly aligned with the gravestone. It was God's promise sketched into the heavenly realms and it was though I heard him whisper, "I'll never leave you, nor forsake you." This wasn't in death's script. It was outside the 'norm'. It was as if God grabbed the sickle holding, hooded playwright's pen, scratched out the next line of the all too familiar play, and in celestial penmanship with a panoramic font, wrote: "Death exits stage left."

“Where, O death, is your victory? 
Where, O death, is your sting?” 

1 Corinthians 15:55

Beyond my wildest expectations

Late night fun in Douglas, MA

They say God doesn't give you more than you can handle. Every time I felt maxed out, he piled it on even more. Stretching me beyond my wildest dreams and expectations.
I can do it, I thought. Six days, plus or minus 50 teens, volunteer work. No problem. It will be over before I know it. SERVE. Douglas, Massachusetts. I was ready. Bring it on. I had something to prove.

Last Saturday, I rolled out of Burlington with 15 young people and 2 parent leaders. I had 8 hours of driving ahead of me to Douglas, MA, so I had plenty of time to mentally prepare. I had spent several evenings studying the devotional material that I would have to lead my small group with, and even downloaded the suggested study guide. I was prepared. Or, at least, I was prepared to fake it really well if I had to. I was going to a week long event with 50 random teenagers from Southern Ontario and approximately 15 youth from the greater Boston area. I had this. Game on.

Sure. I had some expectations. I wanted to know what it meant to have a relationship with Jesus. The prelude to the study guide told me we were going to discover that very thing. Don't get me wrong - I have known Jesus as my Lord and Saviour for some time now. But, truthfully, I really didn't know what it was to have Jesus in my heart. I didn't know what it felt like to have an ache in my heart for Jesus. We were going to study the book of Mark. You know...Mark...the guy who didn't include the birth of Jesus, but jumps right to his hairy and locust-eating cousin John the Baptist. Yeah. That Mark.

What I didn't realize is the first verse of Genesis and the first verse of Mark are very similar - they are both about new beginnings. Genesis 1:1 describes the beginning of creation. Mark 1:1 describes the beginning of God's redemption of creation through Jesus. Mark dramatically describes Jesus' break through into humanity and his simultaneous assault on manmade laws and godless institutions, while at the same time, offering love and hope to a motley crew of twelve and massive crowds eager to listen to him. Through Mark's account of Jesus' teaching and ministry of healing, we came to learn how Jesus' life was an example of how we should live and what we should strive for. It was about our new beginning when we surrender all to him.

We were challenged to think of those things that occupy our thoughts for a majority of time. We wrestled with what it means to follow Jesus, to take down our false walls of refuge, and welcome the stranger, the homeless, the poor, the anxious, the wealthy, the visible minority, the drug addict, the sex worker, the teen who tries to remain invisible, everyone...every shape, size, colour, social status...as one of Christ's own. And, if we don't, we're no better than the Pharisee shaking his head when Jesus healed a man on the Sabbath. That's right. Hard to hear. But I'm often more Pharisee than Christian. More hypocrite than authentic.



Joel and the Canucks - my team!

I'm seeing Jesus more clearly. I saw him around the camp fire as we sang. He was present in the surprising peacefulness of Boston. He was in the laughter as two cultures learned to love and accept each other. He was in our van when we were singing at the top of our lungs. He held the hands of anxious teens. He was in Noah, Joel, and Ben - guys I may never see again but I know I'll spend eternity with. He was with my three children as I watched them from afar. He kept my wife safe while she stayed home alone. He was our traffic guide, our night watchman, and our storm shelter. He was in the hospitality of our hosts. He was in the smiles of custodians and principals. He was present in our small group - Joel and the Canucks - as we shared our personal stories and trials and triumphs. He was in the friendly 'hellos' of welcoming teens. He was in the 'good byes' and hugs of new friends. And he was in Andrew. My good friend, and brother, Andrew.

Minutes before we left to return home, I walked back to the row of cars, and sat down on a bumper. I cried. Not in sorrowful sobs, but with joyful tears. I thought I came to find Jesus.

I had it all wrong...he found me!