Repeating mistakes, expecting different results

We pleaded using our best 'Robinese' but, they ignored us. We told them that ravenous creatures roamed late at night but, they told us they could handle it. We shared stories of previous squatters who boldly claimed the right to nest only to leave on a wing and a prayer - sans fledglings. Year...after year...after year.

You see, we have a covered porch that wraps around most of our house; and many of God's creatures, (some wanted, but many of them unwanted), share living and breathing space with us rent free. Some of our tenants, like our robin friends, have attempted to start a family in the rafters above a certain light fixture under our porch's roof. I guess the warmth and light create an ambience similar to a fireplace in a log cabin conducive to...oh, where was I? Back to the robins. We've never attempted to remove or discourage nest building activity because it usually happens in the span of what feels like "Hey, where'd that come from?" or so. And, more than that, have you ever studied how intricately built a bird's nest is? However, for all their ingenuity and craftiness, they really don't behave wisely or rationally.

I don't know if they are the same robins year after year, but today we witnessed the calamity all over again. The robins had spent the last few days building a nest, slightly to the left of last year's settlement; Mrs. Robin had laid her eggs and had started her 12 - 14 day staring competition with our straw filled scarecrow. Day 1 hadn't even concluded and her progeny fell to the paws of a ruthless, but I can only assume, hungry raccoon. Although, skunks are known to prey on bird eggs, too. Judging by the sort of 'nature' left behind, I'm going with a raccoon!

It's puzzling. Each year, the same scene happens over and over...like Groundhog Day with Bill Murray...but, this one never ends well - save for one mating season a few springs ago. Wouldn't it make sense if the local robin community banded together and taught each other about the perils of starting a family under the Vanderlaan porch - cozy and inviting as it might seem? If only last year's unsuccessful pairing could fly by and chirp, "Hey, we've flown a mile in your talons. We have a much better spot than that poor excuse for a bird house." Nope. Instead, this year's lovebirds thought, (and I use the term 'thought' loosely), this is the year that will be different only to fly away as empty nesters for all the wrong reasons yet again.

And, really, what am I thinking? They're birds!! I mean, if they were rational, and understood predator behavior, they wouldn't make the same mistake, ignore sage advice, or loving help from those who've been there, done that, and got the T-shirt.

So, for the purpose of this blog and really not for the benefit of robins who may or may not be able to read: to all those whose 'nest' is built on vulnerable perches, know that you're not alone. You're not the first person to build a nest where predators prowl. There is hope. More than that, there is help to rebuild.

When you're ready to fly, you won't be alone. Soar like an eagle, my friend, soar!

"He giveth, and giveth, and giveth again." Happy Mother's Day!

My mom gave me this card for my birthday in 2004.
It has been on our fridge ever since.

It was like a 'take' from the old sitcom "Three's Company" except that my Mom had the role of Jack Tripper, (which was played by John Ritter, a physical comedy genius). Imagine: a class of 21 grade school kids and a few chaperones, including my Mom, at Tigchelaar's Berry Farm for a class trip sometime in the '70's. (Remember those field trips? Go to a farmer's field, run through a berry patch, and if there was a horse available, go for a ride!) Well, that was the case at Tigchelaar's and we each got to take a ride on their horse. So, when it was my Mom's turn she put one foot into the stirrup, and with youthful exuberance and the agility of a young teenager she swung the other leg over the horse's back and her momentum catapulted her over the horse and she landed 'gracefully' on her butt beside the horse!! And, in her characteristic 'nothing's going to stop me' unflappable fashion, she promptly stood up, dusted herself off, and climbed back on - only this time with success.

That is my Mom. Resilient. Fun loving. Adventuresome. Encourager. Faithful. Mom (x6). Grandmother (x17). Great Grandmother (x2).

I've never known my Mom to complain about the litany of physical ailments she's endured that already started when she was a young girl in her native Holland. Multiple doctors' visits, seemingly endless medications (which makes one thankful for drug benefit programs!), therapy sessions, and good ole' fashioned 'what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger' willpower have all been hallmarks of her nearly 8 decades of life.

Mom's note in the card to me.

But, the cornerstone - the anchor - that I've witnessed giving her the strength to continue is her faith in Jesus, her Saviour, and healer. I've often wondered and have been troubled why some of God's children are given what seems to be greater burdens to bear than others - as is true, I think, with my Mom. A possible answer that provides some peace is in the poetry of Annie Johnson Flint. Flint, whose degree of suffering makes one contemplate the mystery of pain and suffering, often captured the essence of God's grace during times of suffering through her prolific hymn-writing and poetry. One of Flint's more well-known poems is "He Giveth More Grace".

He Giveth More Grace

He giveth more grace as our burdens grow greater,
He sendeth more strength as our labors increase;
To added afflictions He addeth His mercy,
To multiplied trials He multiplies peace.

 

When we have exhausted our store of endurance,
When our strength has failed ere the day is half done,
When we reach the end of our hoarded resources
Our Father’s full giving is only begun.

Fear not that thy need shall exceed His provision,
Our God ever yearns His resources to share;
Lean hard on the arm everlasting, availing;
The Father both thee and thy load will upbear.

His love has no limits, His grace has no measure,
His power no boundary known unto men;
For out of His infinite riches in Jesus
He giveth, and giveth, and giveth again.

One day, it will all be made clear. Thanks Mom. Happy Mother's Day. Henry

What's a flower grower to do on a warm, sunny Sunday in May?

Ah...Sunday. A fine May day - the sun's out, 24C, slight breeze, fields are dry, no chance of rain, my neighbor's on his tractor planting his field with a mystery crop, and, oh - did I mention it is Sunday? For some people Sunday is the bookend to a two day party; for others it's a day no different than, say, a Wednesday. For the self-declared, 'chosen' few Sunday is when you practice abstinence from a plethora of activity lest you provoke clergical (and/or parental) wrath; for others Sunday is a day reserved for 'going to church' to worship and rest. For me I like the 'worship' part to a Sunday..it's the 'rest' part I'm still learning to do! And, by rest, I don't mean napping because, according to my family, I don't have any issue with that!

Let's just say I wasn't a huge fan of Sunday when I was growing up. I'm not saying that I had as many restrictions as others I knew had, but we had our fair share. There were lots of things we couldn't do and a few things we could. Fortunately, riding our bikes, swimming, wearing shorts, and reading were on the list of acceptable activities. Going to stores (although few were open), buying gas, cutting the grass, playing league sports were all frowned upon. As a kid, it was all explained under the massive "Keep the Sabbath holy" umbrella. And, as I recall, that umbrella was shaped like a big stick!

I'm thankful that what I didn't see as a hassled teenager I see now. The umbrella that looked like a big stick when I was a teenager looks more like the shape of the cross now. In response to God's love for us and out of thankfulness to him we strive to live our lives in accordance to God's will.

Two things came home to me this morning about living in obedience and in response to God. The first thing was I mentioned to a friend that it was hard for me to 'sit on my hands' and not plant my fields on such a beautiful spring day. She said she understood, but told me that her father's (who was farmer) testimony was "even if his neighbor was planting his crop on Sunday, and he waited until Monday the crops were ready at the same time". That's a testimony to believing in God's faithfulness!

And the second was the song "When it's all said and done" by Robin Mark:

When it's all been said and done
There is just one thing that matters
Did I do my best to live for truth?
Did I live my life for you?

When it's all been said and done
All my treasures will mean nothing
Only what I have done
For love's rewards
Will stand the test of time

Lord, your mercy is so great
That you look beyond our weakness
That you found purest gold in miry clay
Turning sinners into saints

I will always sing your praise
Here on earth and in heaven after
For you've joined me at my true home
When it's all been said and done
You're my life when life is gone.

I don't know my friend's dad. But, from a few stories I've heard I get the sense that he lived his life in complete response to Jesus' sacrifice for him. He lived his life for Jesus...and that meant his tractor would have to wait until Monday. And, so will mine.           

The joy and comfort of spring and baby birds

It's like clockwork. It's my simple joy and comfort. By the end of April, they've all returned. And, by the last week of August, they leave. I've seen it year after year. No - not university students...I'm referring to barn swallows! The return of barn swallows is a simple joy I've been able to witness for the past few years. It's one of the sure signs that spring is here.

I'm amazed by the predictability of these birds. I'm never sure of the exact day, but I know that one day at the end of April, I'll open the barn's door and be greeted by a family of swallows. This year...it was last Friday, April 24 (my Dad's birthday). So, for the next four months I'll have to walk strategically to avoid any falling treats from the sky! In another month or so, I'll get to listen to a cacophony of tiny bird tweets and have to dodge even more sky poop. It's awesome because I see God's faithfulness in the change of the seasons and the patterns of life.

We might complain and worry about the changing climate. As an outdoor flower grower, I'm all too familiar with 120km winds, flash flooding, drought, early frosts, and other 'acts of God' that make farming difficult, but a simple barn swallow returning from the south reminds me not to worry. In the midst of life's uncertainties we can be confident that our world is not on auto-pilot.

The predictability of robins returning, the smell of freshly cut grass, pink crab apple blossoms, a cardinal's morning song, yellow daffodils debuting, cows grazing in the meadow (not until May 10 I'm told) are some of the signs - simple joys - that affirm we're not here simply because of time, chance, and matter. There's too much intelligence in nature to ignore our Creator and his simple comforts.

I don't know how he did it. But, I believe he did. Six days? A billion years? Dinosaurs? Adam's belly button - was there one? I don't know. But, I do know that my swallow friends will leave at the end of August.

And, by God's design, they'll be back in April 2016! D.V.

Do not buy!

(p.s. Don't waste your money on these flying fake owls...they only make good landing pads!)

It takes a village to raise a greenhouse

photo credit: Jon Vos

It was truly an amazing sight. Wind gusts of up to 60km per hour weren't enough to deter 20 - 25 area men from coming to help a 'brother' repair the roof of one of his greenhouses. With spring flower sales literally around the corner, a band of loosely connected friends came out to lend a hand in resealing a portion of a greenhouse roof that blew off its arches early this morning. Hundreds of hanging baskets and large planters were threatened due to the impending cold front blowing in from the east.

On his regular morning walk-through, Mike Zwiers, owner of Garden Source Greenhouses, located on Centre Road, in Flamborough Centre, came across a sight that no greenhouse operator ever wants to witness. The roof vent which extends the full length of the greenhouse was standing straight up and taking the full force of the wind's fury. To minimize further structural damage and a greater crop loss, a quick thinking Zwiers quickly unhinged the plastic and secured any moving parts with ropes, straps - even anchoring the roof's ridge to his 30ft trailer parked on the ground.

While doing his best to "batten down the hatches", a small army of men had assembled on his property to help wherever needed. Methodically, in unison, and well orchestrated by several experienced men, the roof was repositioned with ropes and heavy equipment and the plastic was 'wire-locked' into place.

For some, Sunday afternoons are sacrosanct...a time to relax, to nap, play golf, read, or just 'chill'. But, not for those men today - they came to help a man and his family in the most critical time of their business cycle. A community of volunteers comprised of university and high school students, a veterinarian, salesmen, a financial advisor, a city manager, other local greenhouse operators, transportation specialists, an electrician, to name a few - all responded to the call for help.

It was a miracle on Centre Road. It was a convergence of volunteers helping a man and his family at a time of need. It was a moment in time when personal interests were laid aside.

There's a time for everything under the sun. Today, it was a time to build.

Thankful for 'Smelly' People

One of the things that keeps me awake at night is the mystery of why the phrase "Smell you later" has never caught on. While my wife anxiously awaits a text from one of our newly minted teenage drivers saying they've arrived safely; I'm thinking of odour. (And, if I really want to engage in a mental pursuit, I'll consider whether railway tracks are bent on site, or if they bend them at the steel mill before they're installed. Ah, but I digress...)

Of our five senses, why have our greetings gravitated toward sight - as in "Nice to see you", or "See you later"? Substitute any of the other four senses for the word 'see' and you're in for a societal lesson on appropriateness! I couldn't (nor wouldn't) say to my wife's sister...for example..."Nice to taste you" or "Nice to touch you". You get the idea. I hope. Clearly, I'm not a trained psychologist, but I think that sight is less invasive of personal space...and probably the most hygienic and the least threatening!

But smell - more than sight - is one of those senses that you associate with places you've been or things you've experienced. All I have to say is "fish market" and not only will you picture the scene, but its 'fish stink' will invade your imagination as well. Or, a smell may remind you of a time when you became violently ill after eating some pork back ribs. Conversely, a real estate agent will tell you that the smell of freshly baked bread or cookies will invoke happy memories and may expedite an offer to buy a house. Or, the smell of coffee brewing might bring you back to grandma's house.

People smell; and their smell will either create positive or negative impressions. I'm not talking about body odor I'm referring to our actions, both verbal and non-verbal. I'm especially conscious of my smell - my Christian smell. Do my actions and words give off an aroma that is inviting or a stench that is revolting?  When I'm speaking to other Christians in the presence of non-Christians, is my conversational odor inviting or nauseating? These are important questions if I'm to take my witness for Christ seriously.

However, I'm thankful that Jesus can smell through it all. The smell of Lazurus' 4 day-old dead body didn't deter Jesus from raising Lazurus from the dead (John 11:39); and I'm grateful that Jesus wasn't repelled by my smell. He didn't mind that the places I've been, the thoughts I've had, or my actions emitted a certain repugnancy. No, instead he called me in spite of my 'eau de barnyard' and has made me clean.

I'm thankful for others who 'smell' like Jesus, whose cologne or perfume is heaven scent. I'm thankful for smelly Christians and their smelly witness! But don't worry I won't be invading your personal space anytime soon.

Smell ya later! Or, if you prefer, catch you on the flip side!

A red tulip, an Easter song, and an innocence found

1974. Huddled together in the shade of an overgrown juniper hedge; protected by the close proximity of their home, a boy and his older sister slowly and methodically scraped away the soil to excavate a crude grave. Not too deep - just deep enough to lay down the now deceased. After covering it so nothing of its temporal body was exposed, the boy's sister gently etched a picture of a cross in the dirt of the newly formed mound with the tip of her finger. Following a moment of silence, his sister began to somberly sing the mournful words of a famous hymn.

When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.

A sniffle from the boy, then a tear, then crying - a crying that only a mother's trained ear could detect above the sound of vacuum cleaner nearing its own last day.
"Denise!" "Stop it! You're making him cry!", yelled my Mom from an open window.
And there it was - my first encounter with death and sadness and tears.
No - our beloved pet cat, George, hadn't died. He had been blessed with 10 lives.

I. Cried. Over. A. Dead. Red. Tulip.

That's all it was - a dead, red tulip! But, Denise captured the moment perfectly and she unknowingly preyed on my innocent understanding of life, death, and everything in between.

Nearing the grand age of 8, she was more worldly than my 5 plus years of life had afforded me. She knew 'the dust to dust' speech, the 'til we meet again' song, the reverent moment of silence, the imagery of the cross, the way around a songbook...she knew lots about life. And she knew how to make me cry.

Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
Save in the death of Christ my God!
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to His blood.

It all came together that day. My Oma Gerrits had died earlier that year; Easter had been celebrated a few weeks before; Denise just learned the words to an Easter hymn, and tulips were dying all around. It was providential perfection! Time for a funeral. All that was needed was a little weeping...and it didn't take long for the tear ducts to take their queue!

See from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and love flow mingled down!
Did e’er such love and sorrow meet,
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?

I'm often reminded of that May day of '74 and our innocent play whenever I hear that song. Sometimes my eyes fill with tears as I think of those close to me who have died. But it's only momentary sadness, because I'm quickly reminded of the joy that awaits when we will be reunited. Our separation is only for a short time. We have the rest of eternity to spend our time together. (And, if you're of Dutch descent, 'tip-toeing through the tulips' might be on God's eternal itinerary.)

Were the whole realm of nature mine,
That were a present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.

Maybe, if my Mom would have allowed Denise to sing a resurrection song, the tears would have given way to laughter. Who knows? Or, maybe, we might have found something else to bury and commemorate its life. Like a daffodil, a crocus, or even the remains of a mosquito that had just met its untimely, unfortunate, and unseemly death between my hand and my knee.