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Perseverance

Perseverance

by | Mar 5, 2024 | Blog

I’ve been a little agitated lately; there’s so much I want to do each day, and  too few hours available. Always, I run out of energy before I get to that one thing that I wanted most to accomplish.  I’m still adjusting to the idea that my physical energy is not yet restored to what it was prior to cancer.  I have to remind myself that I’m not yet a year beyond it all.  In so many ways, it already feels like a distant memory. I can hardly imagine it happened at all, but my body reminds me that regaining strength and endurance is an ongoing journey. 

Many of you, I’m sure, can relate to the challenge of rearranging life to suit a new reality.  It’s not easy.  We must override habits and routines, establishing new ones better suited to present circumstances.

My mother was a very disciplined, hard-working person.  Her days had rhythm and purpose. She instilled these values in her children.  Weekdays, while my dad worked to bring home income, mom kept busy doing household chores, gardening, and bookkeeping for dad’s business.  She used to say that if dad was at work, she’d also be working.  That seemed equitable to her. In the evenings she’d knit sweaters or sew clothing for us. She never sat idle.   

 When we were on summer vacation, she had a rule: chores were to be accomplished before noon, and then in the afternoons there was time for friends and play.    My perfect afternoon consisted of riding my bike to the local pool and swimming until closing time with my best friend.  Our skin was tan and our hair bleached silver blond from the chlorine!

On special days, mom took us to a park.  My favorite was the nearby provincial park.  In those days it was still an active farm.   In season, we would go there and pick plums.  Warm, syrupy and sweet, it was impossible to stop eating them.    There was a play barn too; we would climb up into the hay loft, run across swinging hanging bridges and then leap carefree onto huge mats filled with straw. 

Often mom packed a picnic lunch. After eating at a table beneath a shady tree, we’d swim for a bit before heading home.

So, this is ingrained in me: chores first!  It is not a bad thing, but I am now challenged to rethink, redefine, what I consider priorities.  I have a strong tendency to run around doing busy work before allowing myself time to delve into creative projects.  Tasks are quantifiable; I feel satisfied when I can check things off a list. However, we all know that the list constantly regenerates.   I become so frustrated with the cycle but am slowly accepting that growing creatively is not a reward for doing a lot of stuff; it is essential to being fully alive.  It’s ok to put it at the top of the list rather than tack it on as a bonus.

It was with the problem of balancing creativity and duties on my mind that I entered morning meditation. Soon I was drawn into deep stillness and reflection. I prayed for insight into managing my energy in such a way that I would have enough in reserve to fuel my writing ambition. 

Sometimes when I quiet myself, my spirit opens and my whole being leans in, listening more attentively to the wisdom of the daily devotion.

In this Lenten season, I am following a daily devotional practice on the Hallow app called “He Leadeth Me.” It’s a poignant journey of surrender focusing on the life and writing of Walter Ciszek.   The weekly themes have spoken into my heart. Each Saturday the week concludes with a beautiful time of listening and prayer.

I was enthralled Monday morning as the story of Fr. Ciszek continued to unfold. It’s easy to give up, abandon dreams and plans when life throws up seemingly insurmountable obstacles, but this morning I felt strength and determination grow as I listened to all this man of God endured to live his mission.

As the narrator brought the session to its conclusion, I received a word to carry with me into the week.  “Join us tomorrow,” he said, “As we continue with this week’s theme: Perseverance.”

Whatever you encounter in the coming days, I pray you will be inspired to persevere.

But those who wait on the Lord

Shall renew their strength;

They shall mount up with wings like eagles,

They shall run and not be weary,

They shall walk and not faint.

Isaiah 40:31

Pancakes!

Pancakes!

by | Feb 12, 2024 | Blog

 Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent on the liturgical calendar. Ash Wednesday offers us a beautiful, solemn moment of pause where we can consider our attitudes and actions, recognize where we are wandering off the path, and turn back to God. Many take this opportunity to fast for 40 days from something that maybe consuming too much of their attention or energy. It’s a season to repent and reset.
I grew up in a very traditional Dutch Catholic home. We always honored Ash Wednesday by attending mass and submitting to the imposition of ashes on our foreheads. An outward sign of inward change. I remember trying to discreetly blow my breath up towards my eyes because it felt like the ashes were drifting into them.
As a child I did like the solemnity and special feel of Ash Wednesday. It felt like a quiet new beginning. But what I loved even more than Ash Wednesday was the preceding day: Shrove Tuesday. As I kids, I don’t think we knew that the day before Ash Wednesday had a special name. For us, it was Pancake Day! A sticky sweet feast day!
Our mom cooked nutritious meals from scratch every day. With a family of seven, living on a very modest income, our meals were practical and economical. We ate lots of potatoes! Every meal was tasty and satisfying, and we always gathered around the table as a family and began with prayer.
On this special day, mom would begin to prepare soup early in the day. Dutch meatball soup was my favorite. A simple broth, a few vegetables, tiny hand rolled meatballs, and fine egg noodles. We always seasoned our soup with Maggi, a condiment we bought at the Dutch grocery store.
About an hour before dinner, mom would begin preparing to make mountains of pancakes. Dutch pancakes are special. They are much larger and thinner than thick fluffy American pancakes, but they not as thin and delicate as a French crepe. As she began, mom would set large plate over a pot of simmering water and invert a saucer on it. The she’d mix up the batter, heat two skillets and begin making the pancakes. As we got older, we were enlisted to help.

A pat of butter is dropped into the sizzling skillet, then a ladle of batter is swirled into the pan. You carefully tilt the skillet in a circular motion to cover the bottom evenly with batter. Then you wait, watching carefully; at just the right moment the pancake is flipped over. There’s a learning curve here: the first couple were imperfect practice pancakes, set aside on a small plate, sprinkle with sugar and sampled. This is where being sous chef paid off!

Making enough of these delicious “pannekoeken” for 5 hungry kids, especially when we were all teens, was quite a process, involving multiple batches of batter. The result was two towering stacks of pancakes, sometimes listing precariously to one side.
When everything was ready, and the table was set, we all sat, and dad led us in praying the Lord’s prayer. Then mom stood at the head of the table and ladled up bowls of soup. I can’t say I had any real desire to eat soup with all the pancakes tempting me, but that was the rule. Nutritious soup before pancakes.

There is an art to eating Dutch pancakes. You carefully lift one edge of it off the stack with the tines of a fork and loosely roll it around the fork. Then unroll it onto your plate. These delights were then topped with syrup, sprinkled with sugar or spread with jam before being rolled up, sliced and eaten. Delicious!!! It was always fun to teach a visiting friend this technique.
Seldom were there any leftovers.

After this favorite feast, the season lent would quietly unfold, everything just a little simpler and more somber until Easter.

With the passing years, these memories become sweeter, more cherished, especially now that mom has passed away, and we can no longer hear her voice, that hint of an accent in her speech, and the occasional Dutch word or phrase for which there was no adequate translation.

I’m feeling nostalgic as I remember Pancake Day, and the many other traditions that enriched my childhood. I smile, holding this treasure in my heart.

Father, thank you for nourishment.
For the warmth of the sun and the refreshment of water.
For the miracle of the seed and the reaping of harvest.
For the wonder of taste and the blessing of food with loved ones.
Thank you, Lord. Amen.

My Hair Changed Me

My Hair Changed Me

by | Jan 28, 2024 | Blog

Recently I ran into an acquaintance I hadn’t seen in a few years. He looked so perplexed when I enthusiastically greeted him. After I reintroduced myself, he noted my hair was different. We talked for a few minutes and parted. A few days later I saw him again, this time in a there were a few others present. He told the group that we’d met years ago but recently he hadn’t recognized me because I’d “changed” my hair.

Somehow this statement tickled my sense of humor. The story is so much more than different hair.
“Actually,” I quipped, “I think my hair changed me.”
Prior to chemo I had lovely long hair. I spent the money to enhance the color. I loved my hair, and I wore it like a shield. You can hide behind your hair.
A week into chemotherapy I noticed my hair beginning to fall out. By the end of week two, each time I ran my hands through it they came away full of long strands. I stood over the sink doing this over and over,
simultaneously fascinated and horrified. It amazed me how much hair we actually have; the sink was full of fluffy hair, yet I couldn’t see bald spots. I decided it was time to act. I reached out to my dear friend and stylist, and we set a time to meet at her salon. I sat in the chair I’ve sat in so many times over the years and steeled myself for what would happen next. “Are you ready?” she asked. I nodded. She gathered my hair into a ponytail. “Do you want to donate your hair?”
This last question lifted my spirits, even more so when she told me that it would go to a charity that makes wigs for children. My traumatic moment became a gift.
With that she cut off my ponytail. She asked if I wanted her to turn me away from the mirror. I chose to
watch my transformation. We were both tearful as she grabbed my hands, looked into my eyes and then picked up the clippers. Within minutes, the rest of my hair lay on the salon floor.
I’d brought a soft cap and scarf with me which she helped me put on. A big hug and I stepped back out onto the sidewalk.
How do you feel when suddenly you are bald? I’d wondered about this a lot in anticipation of this day. I’d
expected to feel excruciatingly self-conscious and exposed. Would the whole world stare?
I’d expected to feel awkward and ugly. To my great surprise, nothing changed. I still felt the same, I was still
me. Except… I felt empowered, free.

There was something liberating about this experience. Soon after my head was shaved, my eye brows and

lashes fell out too. I was stripped down to my essence. The true self revealed.

I don’t want to minimize the impact of cancer and treatment. It is an exhausting, life altering ordeal. Recovery is very long, the fatigue and side effects cling long after treatment is over. I chose though to try and have a little fun. I poured my creativity into making hats and scarves to match the seasons. I even crocheted a cowboy hat!

Losing my hair changed how I viewed myself. It opened my eyes to the intense marketing that exploits our insecurities and convinces many of us to spend countless hours and dollars creating a persona to present to the world in the place of our true selves.

I am braver since I went through cancer, a little more willing to step out, a little less worried about image, or what others might think. Maybe I’m a more authentically me.

I’ve always loved Jesus words to his disciples in Matthew 6:28-30

“And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you?”

I now apply these words to my thoughts on hair too. Through my journey, I came to understand that whether bald or with a head full of hair, I am beloved child of the King, beautiful in his eyes, tenderly cared for.

Every summer my husband and I spend most weekends camping in a wonderful lakefront park not far from our home. We gather with treasured friends, sharing laughter and community meals. Sunday brunch is always the highlight of the weekend.

A few years ago my sweet 9 year old friend noticed that we had similar hair colors. “Miss Sandra, you have red hair like me.” “Yes,” I said, “But I pay to have it this color.” He looked so confused as I explained how I
went to the hair salon to have the color changed. I will never forget what he said next: “But why would you do that? You are perfect just the way God made you.”

You are too.

A Kiss Goodbye

A Kiss Goodbye

by | Jan 20, 2024 | Blog

 
I’ve been browsing through photographs and memories this past week, remembering mom.
There’s so much to say, yet I struggle to find words.
It’s her birthday. And the anniversary of her death. Mom was born on January 22, 1933, and given a beautiful name: Angelique. This name is of French origin, meaning angelic. The angels carried her home January 22, 2023, on her 90th birthday. I believe mom would have been pleased that she left this life on the anniversary of her birth.
My parents became engaged on mom’s birthday in 1960. Dad had immigrated to Canada a few years prior and proposed on a visit back to Holland. Soon after their engagement Angelique boarded a plane for the first time, joining John in Canada, where they would build their life together.

Mom’s brothers thought she was brave to board a jet as passenger air travel over the ocean was still awe- inspiring new technology. Some of mom’s Dutch colleagues were frightened for her safety in the wilderness they imagined Canada to be.They warned her that wild animals still roamed the streets. Mom arrived in darkness at the home of friends where she would lodge until she and dad married.

That very first night in this foreign country, mom was awaken by the sound of a lion roaring. She hadn’t taken seriously the warnings of her friends. Had they been right after all? She was terrified! In the morning, mom confessed her fears to her new friend who kindly explained that the circus was in town, housed in the arena behind their home.

I love this story! I can picture it all. Her beautiful blue eyes wide and watchful, her face set in determination to be brave.
Daylight revealed to her the quaint town that would become our hometown. With that first scary night behind her, mom settled in and began learning the new language and culture.

John and Angelique married on July 29, 1961, Dad’s birthday. I’ve always thought that it was quite clever to get engaged on one partner’s birthday and married on the others.

Last July 29th, our family gathered at a picturesque cemetery in our hometown of Oakville, to inter the ashes of our parents. It was a sad sweet gathering of brothers, sisters, children, grandchildren, cousins, mom’s youngest sister, and dear family friends. It rained that day. We huddled under umbrellas at the vault, shared favorite memories, a few tears, and prayers before saying a final farewell.

When I sat down this week to write in honor of my mother’s birthday and passing, memories of the last 15 years overwhelmed me. It was tragic to watch Alzheimer’s rob this brave, bright woman of her life.

I thought about how childlike trust replaced the fear in her pale blue eyes when I held her hand and reassured her after she’d fallen.

I smiled as I pictured again a mischievous grin lighting her face when a bit a chocolate stuck to her lip while she ate an ice cream bar. Remembering tender moments of connection as the disease drew her further and further into its web is a gift to treasure always.
There is one memory I cherish with special reverence:

All our lives, the Dutch custom of a kiss-or two, or three- on the cheek was how we greeted our parents, and how we said goodbye. As mom vanished behind the veil of confusion, this tradition was forgotten, she no longer made affectionate gestures like this one.

One sweet November afternoon, as I prepared to leave, I leaned down to kiss mom’s cheeks. There was an instant of connection; her eyes flickered a little, she turned her face, and I felt her softly kiss me.

Mom lived for a few more years after that treasured moment, but I’ll always remember it as the last kiss goodbye.

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:

time to be born,and a time to die;

a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

Ecclesiastes 3: 1-2,4

 

 

The Sound of Silence

by | Jan 14, 2024 | Blog

The Sound of Silence

I am being drawn into silence.

On a typical morning when I sit in my study, I begin the day by listening to a guided mediation. I tend to be a bit restless, even in a contemplative posture my mind is busy. Frequently, I have to pause the daily meditation and back it up a bit because mentally I’ve wandered off. Afterwards, music plays in the background as I pray and journal.
Lately though, my thoughts have been quieter, I’m less distracted. When the mediation ends, I sit in this beautiful silence. There’s no traffic on this country road, and the house lies sleeping. A deep quiet envelops me. Realization dawns that I don’t want to fill this moment with sound. This silence is gentle and welcoming; a sweet time of treasuring a journey inward.
I wonder if this comfort with silence is signaling inner change.

My mind and spirit have found stillness. Is this what peace feels like? As I ponder this new thing, a favorite verse comes mind:

Be still and know that I am God (Psalm 47:10)

It amazes me how words we’ve always known one day spring from the page and take on richer meaning. A connection is made between this beautiful silence, and the divine.
Eventually, I notice the sound of the wind breaking through the quiet, nature is breathing, the world waking up.

With the new year, I’ve reestablished my yoga practice. My awareness of my breath is heightened as I move through the sequence of poses. How lovely it is to connect to your breathing! It causes me to notice how often during the day, when the pace gets hectic, that I hold my breath. I remind myself then to pause for a deep cleansing breath.

Hearing the gentle passage of air as it leaves my body, I think about how good it is to be alive.
Gratitude fills me as I consider the challenges of the last two years. I am well now! Strengthened and energetic. A soft smile blooms deep within me as I remember all the gifts of the journey. The greatest treasure is the love that was poured over me, nourishing and sustaining me. I will carry it with me always.

Indeed, silence is an inspiring place to begin a new day.
Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth! (Psalm 46:10)

This week, may you find some beautiful silent moments tucked in between the sounds of a busy life.

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