Manana

     As a result of what is going on in my life as well as what is going on in the world around us, I started a gratitude journal. Around bedtime I make note of one thing that I am thankful for that day. It has become an end of day routine that I am finding beneficial. And although my mood is typically less positive during these darkening days, I feel a little more upbeat, a little less stressed, a little more able to get a restful sleep as a result of this new practice.
     This week I learned how to say thank you in Pashto. It was taught to me as a result of meeting some folks new to this country and a donation of some family furniture. I know next to nothing about the people receiving the couch and some other pieces but I do know that I was the one who received the larger, more profound gift. The reality that these families had escaped an oppressive regime half a world away with almost none of their own possessions affected me deeply. Their simple expression of thanks was one that I will never forget. And today, that is what I am grateful for. As divided and hate-filled as this world can be, there are instances of love. "Love thy neighbour as thyself" Jesus said. Helen, you helped show me what that looks like. Thank you! Manana!

Moon

     We have been packing up our parents' belongings to move them to a new home. It has been an experience fraught with a plethora of feelings; there are so many memories wrapped up in almost everything we put in a box or a bag. It makes the process a lengthy one, one that keeps getting bogged down in remembrances of times past with photos and correspondence, bits and pieces of years and years of life fully lived. 

     Change is hard; grief catches me off guard. Deeply felt emotions surface at sometimes inopportune moments and I can either experience them or stuff them away, to be dealt with at a hopefully more convenient time, whenever that will be.... Whenever I consider my own parents' end of life arrangements, I can’t help but ponder my own. Thinking about my own mortality is never easy, particularly with a special needs daughter to consider. There are always those things left undone (at least in my case there are) which can keep me awake at night. 

     One thing that I enjoyed finding as I packed was The Montreal Star from July 30, 1969, printed one day before my twelfth birthday. My father had kept a few noteworthy headlines and used them to line a dresser drawer. That was the day the paper published photos of earth that were captured by the Apollo 11 space flight. What amazing images! On July 20, 1969, Apollo 11 Lunar Module Eagle had landed on the moon. As all of us kids crowded on my parents' bed to watch the moon landing on our small television, my father declared that as a young boy in school in England, he had been told that what we were witnessing was an impossibility and could never be done. We knew then that the impossible can become possible. At this moment, in a world seemingly full of violence and division, I pray that that might still be true.

Peace

     Recently I attended a Peace Vigil for the Peoples of the Middle East which was presented by the Surrey Interfaith Council. I was delivering a message from our rector who is a Palestinian Christian and not able to attend as he was away. We learned from a handout that the "The Golden Rule" is the same no matter what religion you practice: "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." or: "Do not do to others what would cause pain if done to you." and multiple other versions of the same admonition from all over the world, from every religion. It was a simple yet profound reminder that we are all one.

     After the welcome, a Muslim boy gave the call to prayer, a Muslim prayer was translated, I shared Father Joe's message and prayer and a Hebrew prayer was offered up by our facilitator. We were encouraged to breathe deeply, to feel our feelings, to take responsibility for them and if we wanted to, to share them. We then heard stories of intense sadness, anger, wisdom, worry and faith. One person left, there were tears shed. We also heard many prayers from different faith groups. Our names were used, our faiths or our country of origin were named but not in a way to make us seem different from each other but to reaffirm our unity, our one-ness in the room. We didn't have a lot of time together but there was an opportunity for us to eat and talk amongst ourselves. The food was delicious and so graciously provided by various participants. We closed with a song. 

     I was happy to have attended, privileged even, to have been asked. The evening was expertly facilitated, perfect in length and all stories were heard and honoured. Many faith traditions offered words of comfort, words of peace. To witness the pain of others but also to hear intentions of goodness and unity was a gift to me at this time of immense strife and upheaval. It reminded me that kindness is always necessary; we truly have no idea what others have to deal with in their lives. It put a human face to the ever present media coverage of war but also gave me a glimpse of what could be. Even in the face of human suffering, it's there: hope.

Parent

     Our eldest’s twenty-fourth birthday just passed which means I have been a mother for about twenty-five years. Twenty-five years of the most fun, the most rewarding, the most heart-stopping time of my life. (My husband first became a dad almost fifty years ago but that’s a different story for another day.)

     I never wanted children when I was younger. I had enough trouble looking after myself and so I thought that I would leave the child rearing to someone better equipped for that adventure. This changed for me in my late thirties, thank goodness! I wouldn’t have missed this for anything, literally anything. That’s not to say that there have not been challenges---- there have been terrible, unforeseeable hard times. But all in all I would not trade the experience of being a parent for any amount of money or anything else. For me, being a mother trumps it all, hands down. The chance to bear my girls, to feed them and know them and love them is something that I would never want to miss.

     Your heart cannot be broken if it has not loved; when we love others, we become vulnerable. I am thinking about my girls whether they are sailing halfway around the world or driving down a local highway. It is the price you pay for being a parent. The deaths and resulting grief we experience over the course of our lives only magnify our concern. They teach us that life is not fair; there are no guarantees of longevity for ourselves or our loved ones. All I know is that I am profoundly grateful for all of these twenty-five years, every day, every hour, every minute. I maybe didn't know it at the time but I do now.

    

Bill

     A long time ago when our youngest was still in elementary school, the girls started to go to a martial arts class along with their dad. It was held in a nearby school and they all really enjoyed it. They didn’t stick with it as it turns out, kids being kids and my husband’s work schedule being what it was. But a few lasting friendships were made and one in particular has lasted, until this very day. 

     Bill is a lovely man: soft-spoken, gentle, smart, with a marvelous sense of humour and a quiet and wise way about him. He was great with everyone at the karate class but I especially like how he was with our girls. Bill liked to make them laugh but it is the way he spoke and still speaks to everyone that so impresses me: respectfully, kindly and with natural empathy. When you speak to Bill you know that he is listening; his genuine interest is thoughtful and profound. He has always regularly called us and even brought lunch for all of us to our new home. He is a gentleman, in every sense of the word.

     Bill showed us the true depth of our friendship when he helped us move. It was a hellishly long and mucky experience; days and days, no weeks and weeks of slogging through ridiculously endless piles of building materials, farm equipment and whatnot. He showed up every day (along with a few other amazing relatives and friends) with his own dolly, gloves, weight belt and even his own lunch: cheerful, smiling and loyal to the end. He never complained or said a negative word. We didn't deserve him. He was my hero.

     Now we are losing Bill to cancer, an insidious, excruciating and odious end to a life that should have lasted at least twenty more years, contentedly and with a peaceful finish. I am angry and sad and bereft. I am not naive enough to believe that life is fair— it isn’t, but the wrongness of this looming death, too soon and too terrible, leaves me teary-eyed and breathless. We all love Bill. It is our privilege to know him and count him as a friend. 'Til we meet again old friend! 

Anxiety

     Our younger daughter finally got her driver's license after four years of trying. Her anxiety in the past was such that she couldn’t get through a driving test without vomiting, certainly all the way there and sometimes even all the way home. It made taking a test very difficult. Today she was amazing, keeping a perspective on the day and preparing for it in every way that she could. And although it was nerve wracking, she found a way to get through the experience in a positive way. She was willing to see the day as a victory, whether she got her license or not, simply because she was able to keep her nausea at bay. Her diligence paid off and she is now a new driver; independent, responsible and hopefully still managing her anxiety.

     I walked my stress away by prayerfully walking laps around the ICBC licensing building, much to the amusement of some of the people standing in line. These folks were trying to keep cool by staying in the shade and moving around as little as possible while I was doing something completely opposite: tromping around on the sidewalk and in the sun-drenched dust, around and around and around. I got about six thousand steps in the process and found it a rewarding way to spend the half hour or so of waiting. 

     Anyway the afternoon was a triumph for our daughter; her anxiety was managed and the end result was a long overdue ticket to independence. As we made our way home, making plans for a celebratory meal, I couldn't help but notice once again, what a difference a day makes....Thanks Ashu!

Challenger

     Nothing is more edifying and at the same time more sobering than attending a Challenger Baseball Jamboree. Of course there are moments of joy as well.  As a parent I am incredibly grateful for our daughter's experience; an event where teams have congregated from all over the Lower Mainland, Vancouver Island and elsewhere in the province. So many kids, young adults and their parents, coaches and volunteers braved traffic, ferries and other logistical challenges to represent their team, their region and their sport. The energy and enthusiasm of all the teams was wonderful and although the weather was completely different than what was forecast, the day went smoothly. 

     Any day that includes bagpipers, the singing of O Canada and Bob Brown Bear, the Vancouver Canadians baseball mascot is a great day in my book and one liable to move me to tears. While I watched our almost twenty-four year old sing the national anthem with her hand over her heart I considered the bumpy road that led us here. The diagnosis of an intellectual disability in tandem with epilepsy has been a struggle. And it could have been so much more difficult. My only complaint is that we did not know about programs like Challenger Baseball and Special Olympics before she was a teenager. It would have been amazing to build her confidence and expand her social circle when she was a little girl. Now we are so thankful that these programs exist at all and that our daughter can participate in them. As I look around and witness friends pushing others in wheelchairs, parent coaches encouraging players from the pitching mound and high fives that are generously given, COVID or not, I am reminded once again that life is good. The smile on our daughter's face says it all.