Anna's Place

Anna’s Place

She doesn’t know who I am

I’m not sure if she knows that she is - 

Her dad does.

With certainty, he locks the wheels of her chair

A man who has done this a thousand holy times

Still facing her, he slips past and sits on the century-old bench,

With threadbare cushions and

Stain bare patches - worn off by sweaty elbows of saints who sat and prayed,

And listened long before.

Three rows from the front.

This is Anna’s place.

She doesn’t know who they are.

Some smiling, others blissfully unaware.

Still others with no place to look, or glance, or stare -

Her dad does.

Gently, he brushes her hair from her face

With hands moulded by years of steady grace.

He squeezes her small, cupped hand, a sacred shell

From years of learning to love her well. 

His eyes joyfully singing a melody known only to him

Three rows from the front.

This is Anna’s place.

Restless motion… slow erosion…

Her head slips loose from its careful position.

Who will steady what silently tilts -

Her dad does.

With the same hands that locked her wheels into place,

Brushed her hair from her face,

Now moves her head back to the brace

All without a trace.

Three rows from the front.

This is Anna’s place.

I don’t know who they are.

I’m not sure if I know that I am -

My Father does.

He brings me to my seat.

Wipes the sweat from the dust and heat. 

Calms the storm in my restless feet.

My Father smiles, a kindness deep. 

A promise He intends to keep.

I see His face. 

His grace.

In Anna’s face.

Three rows from the front.

Here in Anna's place.

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!

Crawling off the altar with reckless abandonment

I had one of those moments this morning. One of those 'aha' moments. One of those times when you say, "Oh, well, if you would have put it that way I would have understood a long time ago."

It's the first few verses in Romans 12 (NLT), where Paul writes, "And so, dear brothers and sisters, I plead with you to give your bodies to God because of all he has done for you. Let them be a living and holy sacrifice--the kind he will find acceptable. This is truly the way to worship him." I've always understood (except not always) what was meant by the instruction. Because of the mercy God has granted me, my life ought to reflect his perfect holiness, perfect love, and perfect justice. You're with me, right? It's a tall command. It's a command that many of us struggle with. I know I do. I'm reminded daily of how I fall short of loving - intentionally loving - others. It's hard...because quite frankly there are a lot of unlovable people in this world. And, each time I fail to live up to this instruction I feel failure and regret.

But this is where my 'aha' moment comes in. This morning, while not at my usual place of worship, the pastor put it this way - "everyday, we keep crawling off the altar." Then it clicked. It's like falling off the proverbial wagon. I slip up. Lots. As much as I lack love, I'm probably just, if not more, as unlovable at times. I'm well intentioned; I want to make changes in my life, but then I hit a bump and I'm thrown off. So it is with being a living sacrifice - by daily sacrificing our lives to Christ we're climbing up the side of the altar and saying, "Here I am, God. Warts and all. Please help me to love and to be loveable. I know I'm going to slip, but I also know that tomorrow morning I'll look up, and I'll see you're face and your outstretched arm. You'll say, "Let me help you up. Take my hand. It's a new day. It's a new dawn. It's a great day to be a living sacrifice."

I want to. I really do. I want to love, be kind, and reflect God's love. But I know I'll manage to crawl off the other side when I think no one's looking at some point during my day. It's just a matter of time. I'll scale down the side of the altar, indulge in some unlovable behaviour, realize I made a bad choice, beat myself up for a while, then finally look up when I can't bear my own self deprecation, and there'll be that familiar outstretched arm.

"Let me help you up," he'll say.

And just like that. I'm looking for a latch that's come undone and a quick way off this pile of rocks.

For three answered prayers and for four...

My brother Mac from Bangladesh

A month has passed since I started working for International Needs Canada as a Donor Development Officer and the learning curve is no less curved! Have you ever been on a roller coaster that loops several times in a row and then repeats the loops but only in reverse? That's what it feels like having spent 25 or so years in the horticultural field...and when I say 'field' I literally mean 'field'... and then moving to the world of non-profit, no 'jeans allowed', small office environment! To be fair, the staff have been very welcoming, cordial, and patient. Oh, and did I say patient? The more I learn is just an affirmation of how much I really don't know about the world! And the more I learn about my new job, the more I hear God whispering the words from Proverbs 3:5 not "to lean on my own understanding".

I forgot...did I say patient?

So, aside from all the patience rendered my way, God answered one of my prayers in a very dramatic way, which is making my transition 'slightly' easier. Let me explain. I have shared with my colleagues, friends, and family that one of my concerns starting at International Needs Canada was my inexperience and the sense of detachment I feel as it relates to the needs of the developing world. Frankly, I've never experienced wanton hunger, abject poverty, and religious persecution. Sure, I've been hungry when dinner is late, upset that I can't afford to travel abroad, and slightly irritated that Christmas has become so commercial, but...really? My lifestyle is far from being on the top needs list of the United Nations. Nevertheless, part of my job is to effectively relay the needs of the poorest of the poor to those with monetary means here in Canada, and ultimately secure financial support without having stepped foot into a third world nation. And that's what I prayed - that God would help me genuinely appreciate those needs.

It's funny. But I'm usually the last one to see how God answers prayer! It took me a few weeks to figure out that God gave me just what I needed. I was only two weeks on the job and I was assigned to travel through southwestern Ontario with Mac Adhikary, a colleague from Bangladesh, and visit supporters of his ministry. Unbeknownst to me, having Mac sit beside me for hours at a time was an answer to my prayer. Since he was my 'captive' passenger, I was able to listen to Mac's story - and through his story I've come to know one of the most humble, God fearing, witness for Jesus that I've ever met.

Amid our travels and during visits with supporters, I listened to Mac as he shared stories of hope that he and his staff have brought to the orphans and street children of Dhaka, Bangladesh. Mac's gentle demeanor drew his listeners in closely and together we 'wiped the tears, fed the hungry, clothed the naked, bathed the unclean all in the name Jesus Christ. Unwavering in mission, Mac and his team are quite literally the hands and feet of Jesus...and God provided me a 'captive' passenger so I could experience the same and speak of His grace and love as if I've personally walked the streets of Dhaka.

As a further testament to his passion for the children he serves, when Mac was about to leave for the next leg of his journey, he didn't tell me to keep raising funds for his ministry or give me any other advice on development work. He only had this to say to me, "Brother Henry, keep serving our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ and His work will be accomplished." I smiled. God answers our prayers in ways we can't imagine. That was another answer to prayer...it's not up to me to do it alone.

Thank you Brother Mac. Safe travels.

Until we meet again.

It's Friday. But Sunday's coming.

It's Friday. But Sunday's coming.

These few words have been floating through my mind since I woke up this morning. Good Friday has always felt a little different from all the other days of the year, and this year was no different. Amid all the 'noise' this world offers, we hope for a new beginning...for new life...for the eternal Sunday that will be when Jesus returns.

It's Friday. But Sunday's coming.


While preparing to start my day, I glanced at the news feed on my phone. I was reminded of the brokenness that we all endure on level or another - whether personally, communally, or globally.

Rob Ford.
Brussels.
Jian Ghomeshi.
Ice Storm.
Parkinson's Disease.
Zika Virus.
Refugees.
Food insecurity.
Unemployment.

It's Friday. But Sunday's coming.

This morning's service gave me another opportunity to feel Jesus' presence. I had an opportunity to participate in the Lord's Supper - or Holy Communion - in a way I've never done before. I was a 'cup bearer' - meaning I held the cup containing juice, which participants dipped their piece of bread into before eating. While they dipped their bread, I was to say to each guest, "The blood of Christ shed for you."

The blood of Christ shed for you, Wilfred.
The blood of Christ  shed  for you, Rudy.
The blood of Christ shed for you, Harrison.
The blood of Christ shed  for you, Jane.

I would have liked to have added:

It's Friday. But Sunday's coming.

The blood of Christ shed for you, Sonja.
The blood of Christ shed for you, Darlene.
The blood of Christ shed for you, Elliot.
The blood of Christ shed for you, Allan.

It's Friday. But Sunday's coming.

The blood of Christ shed for me.
The blood of Christ shed for you.

Did you hear that faint rumble? No, it's not the ice falling from tree limbs and roof tops, it's the angels preparing to roll the stone away from Jesus' grave.

It's Friday.

Sunday's coming.

Jeremy Scott Vanderlaan - a YES to Life, a YES to Love.

Jeremy Scott Vanderlaan

She sat across from us at the kitchen table - bewildered, scared, and terrified. I still remember how the tears flowed down her face, staining her cheeks. Carrying the weight of an unknown future, my sister in law, Teresa, relayed news from the doctors, all of which we hoped we'd never hear.

First, she was told he'd never walk. Then, she was told her baby boy would never hear or see. There was nothing the doctors could do.

We cried with her...but in an almost unimaginable way she was alone in her tears that day. While her son, Jeremy, laid in the ICU of McMaster Hospital's neo-natal ward clinging to life, her husband and Jeremy's father, Scott, laid on the 4th floor of the same hospital fighting Non-Hodgkin's lymphoma.

Swimming with Dad (Scott Vanderlaan)

So, surrounded by a few family members, Len, my brother-in-law, in a moment of uncertainty and unfamiliarity, asked if he could pray. He prayed for Scott, Teresa, and Jeremy. He prayed for mercy, healing, strength and courage. God heard his prayer that day. Maybe his prayer wasn't answered the way we wanted it, but God answered. He answered with a mighty 'Yes'. He said 'yes' to Scott and 'yes' to Jeremy.

It was more than that, though - it was a 'Yes to Life'... a 'Yes to Love'.

On March 13, my nephew, Jeremy Scott Vanderlaan, will celebrate his 16th birthday! On a day when most teenagers race out of the house to get their driver's license, Jeremy will sit in his chair with his family at his side. Teresa will spoon feed him is cake. Scott will watch with deep compassion and love. And his brothers - I can't forget his devoted brothers: Isaiah and Mason. They will sing 'Happy Birthday' to their big brother, Jeremy.

Jeremy was born very premature on March 13, 2000 and weighed only 2 lbs at birth. Doctors and nurses fought valiantly to save this little life. His survival was a miracle. But Jeremy suffered from oxygen deprivation at birth and lives with a severe form of Cerebral Palsy as a result of injury to his brain. Jeremy's Cerebral Palsy is classified as a Level Five - meaning that he has severe head and body control limitations. He requires extensive use of assisted technology and physical assistance; and is transported in a manual wheelchair. He cannot achieve self-mobility by learning to operate a powered wheelchair.

Hanging out with Mom (Teresa Camera Vanderlaan)

Thankfully, the doctors' prognosis was wrong! Jeremy can see, he can hear, and he can laugh! While Jeremy is fully dependant on others for everything, we have become dependant on him. In his observant silence, and in his infectious laughter, Jeremy blesses our family get-togethers in ways unimagined. His Aunt Denise has developed a unique bond with him that lights up the room when they are together. Singing "Row, row, row your boat" is a favourite activity of his and he laughs with delight as Denise sings the last line "throw your teacher overboard and listen to her scream. AAAAHHHHH." No sooner does he stop laughing and he's asking for more "Row, Row, Row". I have heard Denise sing this song many times, and with each rendition, it seems it's the first time Jeremy has heard it. I have also watched with admiration as Teresa's family cares for him as if he was one of their own children.

Several weeks ago, while celebrating family birthdays together, I asked Teresa if Jeremy would want an ice-cream bar. I never anticipated her response - "I don't know. Try it", she said. Although, I wasn't planning to feed Jeremy myself, I was challenged by her reply. I've spoon fed my own children when they were very young, but have never fed a teenager. So, pretending I knew what I was doing, I started to feed Jeremy some of the ice cream. He loved it, and with his mouth open, he wanted more! Before I knew it, he had finished the dessert. I don't know if he ate more than what landed on my clothes and the floor, but it was a moment I'll never forget. My soon to be sixteen year old nephew allowed me to do something reserved mostly for his mom and dad. He allowed me to participate in his enjoyment of that chocolate covered ice-cream bar!

Fishing with brothers, Mason (left) and Isaiah (right)

Teresa and Scott, Isaiah and Mason, are some of the most blessed people I know. Life and times have been, and can be, difficult for them. Raising two young boys with a teenage son, who requires 'round the clock care, is challenging at the best of times. However, they are blessed with a son who loves them unconditionally, and their love for him knows no bounds. Their family has been given a special gift. Through Jeremy's life, they are able to see beyond the frills and empty promises that our world offers. Jeremy's dependency reflects our own dependency for love, affection, and acceptance from and by those we call family.

Thank you Scott and Teresa. Thank you for being model parents as you care and provide for your family.

On March 13th, it's not about his mom and dad or his brothers. It's about Jeremy. I know when the time comes for the candles to be lit, the birthday song to be sung, I'll look over and see something in his parents' eyes that I've seen a thousand times. It'll be a look of admiration mixed with overflowing love and I'll hear the hear the unspoken words, "Yup, that's my boy."

Happy 16th Birthday, Jeremy!

Now, shove over and save some cake for the rest of us!

(Photo credits: Denise VanderLugt.)

Home at last

It's neither the drive-to, the walk-in, nor the sit-down that makes it familiar. It isn't the artwork on the wall, the colour of the carpet, or the smell of coffee that reminds me. It's the man up front; and he doesn't have to speak long before I know I'm home again.  It's with these words: "Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ" (Philippians 1:2) that I can breathe easier and silently acknowledge ... ah .... 'Home Sweet Home.' It's awesome! Every Sunday, I have the privilege of  hearing God's greeting! The words are always the same (well mostly), but it's my queue to bow my head in humility - just like I observed my own Dad bowing his head to receive the greeting. To me, bowing my head allows me to silently pray, "God, my father, thank you for your invitation. I'm not worthy to be here...I've sinned against you...but you love me...and have invited me in." It's a "Welcome home. I'm happy you're here" hug ... every week!

There's something very welcoming about coming home. Familiar sights, sounds, and smells gently remind us of the place where we belong. (You can almost hear John Denver's 'Country Roads!') Think about how many songs in all music genres refer to going home as a highlight of Christmas and Thanksgiving celebrations. The mental picture of a home where music softly plays, a fire crackling in the wood stove, the smell of home-made apple pie filling the air, and children running freely throughout the house is very familiar...and comforting. These images create a certain homesickness that most can identify with. And we crave for that void to be filled.

I think that God has placed something else in each of us - something that only he can fill. Some people try to satisfy their itch with 'stuff'; thinking that toys will bring contentment. Others, will try to find satisfaction in 'snuff' i.e. drugs and booze to fill the void. Yet, a third group will try 'smut' - consume pornography - to escape reality. Still, others will overeat, shop, or exercise to excess. I've thought about this often in my own context as I've struggled to find lasting contentment. And, sometimes, I wonder if this constant drive within me is an ache that can only be filled by Jesus. Because, there's a place when that itch vanishes... and it seems to vanish every Sunday morning when I hear God's greeting at 'home'.

Returning home from FLA!

You know what's better than God's greeting? Nothing, actually. But, there's something special about God's blessing that is spoken over us at the end of each service. As the minister speaks, I'll close my eyes, extend my open hands, and symbolically receive God's blessing. And, here's the best part - when the words: "The Lord bless you and keep you; The Lord make His face shine upon you, And be gracious to you; The Lord lift up His countenance upon you, And give you peace" (Numbers 6:24-26) are spoken, I've occasionally caught a glimpse of one of my kids extending their hands, too. And, I know they've come home. Home at last. Thank God, they're home at last.

Like a bird with a lion's heart we let them go

We have been preparing for this moment for years...we just didn't know it. Every time we dropped them off at a friend's house, a movie, or at the mall, we were setting the stage for the big one. Today, we watched our children pull their suitcases toward an airport's security clearance - together, but apart. Together as brother and sisters; but apart from us, their parents. This is a moment that will be etched in our memory just like the first day we brought our children home from the hospital. Sure, parents of all times have watched their children take flight, but until it's experienced it's a foreign concept.

 

As parents, we live in tension. We bemoan the fact that time goes so fast. "I can't believe how time flies" is the expression heard around the world, millions of times per day, as each birthday is celebrated. We look at old pictures and home videos and wish we could turn back the hands of time and recapture the days when our children crawled along the floor. But at the same time, we look forward to milestones in our children's lives such as graduations, weddings, and new births. Inwardly, we long for the hugs and kisses our children used to give us. Outwardly, we're training them for life on their own - knowing that their full independence is our goal.

 

It's an old and often used image of a mother bird pushing her young out of the nest, but it models our lives so closely. During the early days and weeks of  new life, in all types of weather, the mother works night and day, evades predators, protects her nest, and scavenges for morsels of worm and weed to feed her young. And then the day comes - and only she knows - when the time is right for her fledglings to leave home. It must be a bird with a lion's heart that can push her baby out forcing it to fly. If it fails to fly, it will die. So, she has to be sure it's ready for the first flight.

 

We didn't push our kids out of the house this morning. They were eager to leave! As parents, we've tried to give them the tools for survival and life skills to flourish. Are they fully ready to live alone without us? Probably not. Hopefully, not yet! But they're close. Close enough that we didn't include special notes in their luggage the way we did when they went off to summer camp or a friend's cottage.

 

God has been good to us. He has graciously given us three beautiful children that are now testing their own wings and are flying solo. For a few days, we'll be empty-nesters. But by God's grace, they'll fly back to us...on a wing and a prayer.

 

Here's hoping time flies!

 

 

2015 - The Year of "Barb and the Italian Chef"

The year was 2015...well...it was just three days ago...and it goes something like this...loosely.

On August something, in their not-so-collective wisdom, my family renamed our family pet. (Actually, I'd like to see the official stats on the success of renaming pets. But I digress.) You see -  our cat, Smartie, began to sneeze in uncontrollable fits. These fits lasted so long that she could not finish her food or even sleep, and she became lethargic and 'un-catlike'. In fact, things like running up the stairs and leaping on to the top of our fridge - a.k.a. her lair lookout - became impossible feats for the four-footed, flea-less feline. Smartie, in her dopey state, wasn't so smart...and one of my kids, whom I will mercifully leave unnamed, decided Smartie was having a mid life crisis and needed a new name! And on one summer day, this child announced unceremoniously, I might add, that Smartie shall be called 'BARB' for she shall come, go, and sneeze as she pleezes! So, in the summer of 2015, Smartie became Barb. Frankly, I haven't heard any complaints from 'Barb' on this matter...except for the occasional litter box 'miss', which is probably more about her than us!

And what about the Italian Chef? Well, didn't you hear? He pasta-way! Yup. That's it. I've got nothing more on this mysterious, mustachioed, Mediterranean maschio. But for a week or so this summer, the same, previously mentioned, unnamed child spoke kindly of this fictional character, and at every opportunity reminded those who would listen of his unfortunate fate! The answer never changed - he always pasta-way!

And then came along Apple, iPhones, and group chats! Just around the same time as Smartie became Barb, and when we would hear of the Italian's demise, a group family chat was formed.  We couldn't just go with 'The Vanderlaan's', or 'HWKAJ', or anything normal. Nope - the same child (who will still go unnamed) decided that our group name shall be 'Barb and The Italian Chef'! And as life has a way of adding humour along the way, the name stuck!

For me - this family chat name is more than an ice breaker or funny story. It's more than that - it's about family. It's what connects me to my wife and children. I'm forever grateful that God has blessed my life with these remarkable, intelligent, beautiful, and funny people...and cat. In 2015, amid some major life changes and trials, God has also awarded me with irreplaceable moments of humour and laughter!

As for Barb - after a few trips to Dr. Albert, she's back to lurking us - enjoying her lavish, lazy lifestyle atop her lair lookout whilst uttering the occasional lewd and lascivious laugh...uh...meow.

Oh, what was that noise?

"I'm coming, Barb!...And what would you like, m'lady?"

A Very, Merry Easter!

I remember standing a few steps away from where all the excitement was and I was smiling. I couldn't get the most ridiculous and silly grin off my face. She - my wife - got most of the attention, and I was the 'coat rack'...and that was just fine with me. Guests would come into our room, shake our hands, (I mean...mostly her hands), maybe leave a gift, balloons, or flowers, and then leave. Smiles. Hugs. Tears. Pictures. Stories. And more stories. I've had the utmost pleasure of experiencing these moments twice...at the births of our three children. These brief encounters with joy and happiness usually went on for several days and then life would go back 'to normal'. Or not.

Actually, as I recall, life never returned to 'normal'. Unannounced visitors stopped coming by. The phone was quiet. Cards and flowers stopped arriving. It was a stark contrast to the rush of excitement that was so palpable just days before. As new parents, we were vacillating between joyful anticipation and terrifying fear. When the last of the visitors left, I recall looking at my wife, who then was gently rocking two babies in unison, and saying, "Now what are we supposed to do?" The lives of our son and daughter that were hidden 'skin-deep' for nine months were now an actuality, and our lives have never resembled anything close to that of pre-parenthood. Life again would change dramatically, although with more predictability, with the birth of our third child, a daughter, just three short years later.

With all these changes came a few constants - smiles and tears, laughing and crying, controlled chaos and serene calm. We learned quickly enough that the crying will stop - eventually. Temper tantrums will become hugs and cuddles - eventually. And the occasional "I wish you were more like..." will become "I'm so thankful you are..." - eventually. Parenthood is like a roller coaster with near vertical drops without any warning, and twists and turns so sudden and unexpected. But I know that in a few minutes I'll be getting off the ride, walking down the steps toward the exit, and I'll look back at the ride and say, "Let's do it again!" And, like a kid, I'll run back to be first in line.

This Christmas, I wondered if God smiled proudly when the shepherds and wise men visited Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Was he taking in all that he could? Was he listening to Mary recount the story of not being able to find a place to sleep? I know Joseph must have...but did God? We know the angels rejoiced, but what did God do? With my finite i.e. human understanding of God's majesty and omnipotence I wondered if God wept when Jesus was born? Did he cry knowing that his son would endure the slings and arrows of humankind? Did he mourn knowing that his only son would endure hell and agony for three days? Was he anxious to get the whole crucifixion and resurrection thing over and done with knowing that the day would be here before 'he knew it'? I don't know.

I know one thing...Jesus' heavenly father never said, "Lets do it again."

About thirty-three years later, somewhere on a hill outside of Jerusalem, the Father, through his Son, declared, "It is finished."

 

Merry Easter to all, and to all a good night!

 

One of my favourite words

Before you start guessing all sorts of possibilities of what my favourite word is, let me just say that...no...it's not 'hamburgers', 'fries', or even 'chocolate' - contrary to what you think you may know about me! It has nothing to do with the savoury delights that tease the tongue for brief moments at a time. Ask me around my usual 'feeding-time' and I might change my mind. Might. #Might.

For me, this favourite four-letter word packs a punch; and I was reminded of its power again during a Christmas open house, which was held at my Mom's retirement home last week. Every year, the staff at the Village Manor of Waterdown, hold a special evening where residents can share memories of Christmas' past, sing a favourite Christmas carol, or read an amusing story. One of this year's contributors was a 90 year old resident who sang "Have Yourself a Very, Merry Christmas" followed by "Silent Night". It wasn't this lady's singing that caused my throat to tighten, and my eyes to moisten, it was because my Mom was singing quietly along. She wasn't struggling to say the words. She sang them with ease. I understood her fully...and it brought me HOPE.

It brought me HOPE of the things to come because my Mom hasn't been able to speak clearly for almost 20 years due to a debilitating stroke she suffered in 1996. For some reason, that I don't pretend to understand, my Mom can sing more clearly than she can speak. Mom's inability to speak clearly has had such a profound impact on her life that, unfortunately, none of us can truly appreciate - except those who suffer from the same restriction. Nevertheless, on that evening, I strained to tune out the singer on the stage so I could focus on my Mom's words. On that night, my hope was renewed - my hope for a new world, when Jesus will make all things new, and when my Mom can carry on a conversation without any struggle or frustration.

You see - it's not like a wish. I wish for snow on Christmas Day, I wish that the Leafs would make the playoffs (you have to start somewhere!), or I wish that a new career might come sooner than later. All these things happening would be nice and very welcomed. No, this was hope. This was the kind of hope we read about in Hebrews 11:1 - where faith is described as “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen”. When I hear Mom singing with ease, I have a confident expectation that Mom's speech will return one day because these glimpses into the future give me the assurance and conviction that Jesus' return WILL happen.

 

Two days later, we lit the second purple candle of Advent called the Candle of Hope, which represents the hope of Christ coming. As the candle was lit, I could hear again my Mom softly singing,

 

"Silent Night, Holy Night,

all is calm, all is bright

Round yon virgin, mother, and child

Holy infant, tender and mild

Sleep in heavenly peace,

Sleep in heavenly peace."

 

And I prayed for Mom. I prayed that one day I  would hear her speak without frustration and without pain. On that day of Christ's return, I will hear her speak as she did when I was younger. It's my firm hope...not a wish.

Canada didn't flinch then and it shouldn't now

I only had to re-read a few stories written by family members about the first few days in Canada to be reminded of the sacrifices made by their sponsors. A name here, a reference there - all but a mere mention of the men and women who laid down their self interests to sponsor immigrants 'fleeing' from a country. My grandparents, like many of the 100,000 or so Dutch immigrants who made their way to Canada in the early 1950's, in a sense, fled a country where opportunity and hope for a better future were practically non-existent in post WWII Europe. Theirs wasn't a flight from death and despair like today's Syrian refugees, theirs was a flight toward a brighter future - they were in a broader sense: economic refugees. Their home had suffered the ravages of war and oppression; brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, aunts and uncles had died at the hands of the Nazi regime; they experienced starvation and deprivation; and their cities and villages were erased from the face of this world by a madman who believed in a Third Reich. After the dust had settled and victory won, the survivors needed sponsors to make a fresh start in strange home on a new continent.

On board 'The Veendam' (1952) -
 my Dad is on the far right.

We don't think of the sponsors as heroes. Unfortunately, they are the forgotten. The memories of sponsors continue to evaporate with every immigrant's death. Yet - it was the sponsorship of immigrants that made it possible for new beginnings to take root. Without sponsors, my grandfather's dream of owning his own farm would not have been fulfilled. Without sponsors, hundreds of thousands of immigrants in generations past could not have made a new start. Like it or not, I'm willing to suggest many of my readers have benefitted one way or another from the sponsorship of strangers.

So, why are many Canadians raising red flags about refugee settlement? Have we learned nothing from history? Are we embracing protectionism and fanning the flames of xenophobia? The likelihood of bringing a terrorist among the refugees is similar to the risk of bringing in Nazi sympathizers, and those guilty of committing atrocities against the Jewish people. It did happen - ex-Nazi soldiers and those who denied the Holocaust were among the boatloads of economic refugees. But, Canada didn't flinch. While it's true that not all sponsorship stories are lined with butterfly kisses many stories do reflect the unselfishness that most of the sponsors possessed.

If we choose to ignore the political or economic refugee, we choose to hoard our wealth. We are hoarding the wealth of Canada that the sponsors of our immigrant families chose to share, if we deny the same to the Syrian, Iraqi, Palestinian, or Sudanese refugee. Look back in history, and to more recent times, to the refugees from Hungary, Vietnam, Serbia, Croatia, Kosovo, and Somalia. Have all these people committed atrocities or perpetrated violence in their new homes? I'm willing to go out on a limb and say no more so than the 'natural-born' Canadian.

If the children of immigrants who made Canada their home deny entry to political refugees by choosing not to sponsor, we forsake those who welcomed our 'parents'. We forsake the sponsors who lined up along the ports of Halifax, who met the 'refugees' at the end of Pier 21, and who waited for the immigrants to clear customs and security.

But, it's much more than forsaking the memory of our sponsors. If you believe that you were rescued from slavery into a land flowing with milk and honey i.e. slavery from death and sin into eternal life, then welcoming the foreigner, stranger, and alien within our collective walls isn't an option. It's a command. In fact, if your truly believe that you were rescued from sin and are now alive in Christ, love for the foreigner, alien, and refugee will be a natural outpouring of your gratitude for God's free gift of salvation in Jesus Christ. Remember - God's love didn't end with simply sponsorship. He met us at the cross, picked us up, and paid the ultimate price so we could live.

Ours is a nation flowing with milk and honey...wine and cheese...beer and wings. Share the wealth and don't flinch now, Canada!