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!

Waiting for the sun to rise - #comequicklylordjesus

Just a short time ago when cutting flowers this fall, I frequently found myself looking eastward for the rising of the sun - especially on days when the morning dew had fallen more heavily on the plants, and when temperatures hovered a few degrees above freezing. Slowly, and with predictable precision, the sun would rise above the row of pine trees along my field's perimeter; and finally I would feel its promised warmth on my back...and on my hands. Aching hands that from the cold and dew resembled more like claws frozen in time (think of an eagle's talons on the wall of a taxidermist) than that of dexterous and flexible appendages they were made to be! It never took too long - once the sun rose above the trees and its warmth penetrated my gloves - for my hands to return once again to full usefulness. And, it could never happen soon enough.

 

I was reminded of these cold mornings spent in the flower field during a recent meeting. The facilitator read aloud Psalm 130 as a prelude to our round-table discussion. And, when he read verse 6, "I wait for the Lord, more than watchmen wait for the morning, more than watchmen wait for the morning", it made me wonder if my longing for the autumn sun to rise in my field was similar to the author's 'waiting' for the morning. Did his body ache from 'waiting' as my hands ached to be relieved from the cold? Much like the sun being the only salve to my discomfort, was he racked with an internal longing like a homesickness that only a mother's touch can relieve?

I wonder. I wonder, too, if my childhood minister's prayerful plea, "Come quickly, Lord Jesus", had a tinge of homesickness and bodily ache like that I imagine of the psalmist. It was the prayer that I recall causing me - a pre-ten year old boy - to recoil with fear. Each time he prayed it, I had the same thoughts - Jesus, don't come yet, because I have so much to do. (With all the singing I heard they do in heaven it didn't sound to appealing to a pre-teenaged boy!) But Sunday after Sunday, no matter how much internal pleading went on inside my head for him not to, Reverend Zantingh would say those words in his prayer, "Come quickly, Lord Jesus". It was a plea, and, sometimes to my horror, he even said it twice.

Strange though, how almost 40 years later, my pastor's plea for Jesus to return quickly has become my plea. It feels like a yearning - like frozen hands aching for the sun to rise. It feels like the separation anxiety that a young boy experienced during his first days of kindergarten. It feels like the homesickness of an 11 year old boy that longed to be in the comfort of his own home. I know...I was that boy.

If you're waiting for the sun to rise,
for floods to recede,
for hearts to thaw,
for heartaches to heal,
for loneliness to dispel, 
for forgiveness to fall,
for peace to endure,
for laughter to ensue,
for tears to dry,
then wait, wait for the Jesus' return.

Like God's promise found in the presence of a rainbow, I know of no greater hope and promise for the future of humankind than Jesus' return.

#comequicklylordjesus #comequicklylordjesus

Hanging up my boots

Today is the day.

Much like Pierre Elliot Trudeau's "long walk in the snow" on February 29, 1984 during which time he decided to retire after 15 years of being Prime Minister of Canada - I, too, after hours of driving to Quebec City and home again this past weekend, have decided to officially announce...to the world, "I'm hanging up my boots". Okay...it's not quite the same as PET's dramatic and stunning announcement, but it's up there! No? Just humour me, ok!

But, how do I announce to the world (the world that I'm a part of) I'm selling the cut flower business, which my wife and I spent the last 9 years toiling to build by tooth and claw? How do I tell my loyal customers that I won't be calling on them next summer? How do I say thank you to Glenna W., Mona S., Dan L., Mike T., Terry M., Justin W., and Michelle S., to name a few? How do I say good-bye to the soil? How do I say farewell to working shoulder-to-shoulder with my wife and three children? Since it will take a small book to tell my full story and convey my gratitude to all of my supporters I've opted for a few paragraphs to start.

When I first started nine years ago the mantra I repeated often to myself was: "Failure is not an option." To me, selling or losing my business never entered my mind. Come hell or high water I was determined to make this a go. I didn't own a tractor, any equipment, a storage facility, or a delivery vehicle. The only things I had were some very, very perishable dahlia tubers, a small customer list, some very wise advice from my mentor, Mr. John VanWissen, a dream, and what I like to call 'raw courage'. Some might have called it insanity, if not borderline! As a good friend of mine told me frequently I was "living the dream"!

However, God has other plans and it's apparent that Horizon Flower Farm won't be my final stop. In his marvellous way he has caused me to rely on him more fully. I thought through my hard work and sheer will power Horizon Flower Farm was going to succeed and go on 'forever'. Although I knew God's presence I never fully accepted or acknowledged his provisional hand. God is persistent, though. A flood here, a drought there, a windstorm, a hailstorm, a crop failure - have all caused me to know where my help comes from.

Last week, while harvesting my tubers for the last time with my son, I asked him if he knew what I was really going to miss. He took a few 'stabs' at it. "Your customers? The flowers? Being your own boss?" Squeezing the soil with my hand and letting the clump fall to the ground I said, "Yeah - all those. But not as much as this soil. I'm going to miss the soil." It's the soil that provides the necessity of life for my flowers. It's the soil that provides the stability and a place for roots to anchor. It's the soil that draws the worms inside for shelter, nutrition and life.

But more than the soil - I'm going to miss working with my family. Smiles and laughter were not always present - but hard work and dedication were never in short supply. From the bottom of my heart I say, "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you for allowing me to 'live the dream' even for a short while."

Above all this, I give thanks to God for being my rock...and my soil.

 

¹⁷ Though the fig tree does not bud
    and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails
    and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pen
    and no cattle in the stalls,
¹⁸ yet I will rejoice in the Lord,
    I will be joyful in God my Savior.

 

Habakkuk 3:17-18 (NIV)