Author and Inspired Writer

The Mister and I chucked our Christmas tree on Boxing Day. It was our first and only tree, sent to us decades ago by my dear sister Chris and her husband, Terry. Interestingly enough, it was their first tree as well. I asked her how many Christmases it had seen between the two families, and she reckoned 34! They made them to last back then.
But the past few years we couldn’t deny the ancient was showing its age. The twisted metal of the branches was starting to rust and I’d taken to wearing latex gloves when I assembled and disassembled it. And the little splotches of different coloured paint at the tips of the branches that indicated where to place it on the “trunk” were all but illegible leaving me to proceed by guess and by golly year to year.
But what finally decided us was a visit to our friends’ house for a choir party after the Cantata. E. and N. have an absolutely lovely home, and in their living room, there stood a little tabletop tree so beautifully decorated it took my breath away! I leaned over to The Mister and whispered, “This is giving me an idea.” And he leaned over to me and whispered, “I was afraid of that.” And I leaned over to him and whacked his shoulder.
Our tree was not a large one by any means, but our home is small and putting up the tree in the living room meant moving plants and rearranging furniture. Even our best efforts left the room something of an obstacle course we had to negotiate for at least a month. Funny though, it seemed no great inconvenience for all those years. But after seeing our friends’ tree, and how beautifully it fit in their home, pangs of discontent started to rumble.
Then two days before Christmas, the top string of lights burned out. I always test the lights before stringing them, and they were working fine, and in all the years we’ve had the tree we’ve never had a single strand “die on vine.” An unfortunate first. I wasn’t relishing the idea of trying to extricate the burnt out string and replace it amid all the tinsel and decorations, but I needed have worried. The Mister returned from his trip downtown to inform me there were no lights to be had in all the Burg. Everyone was sold out. I looked at our dimmed artificial evergreen and said, “You know what Pa? I think it wants to go.”
Tosha Silver has written some lovely prayers about letting go what wants to go and making space for what wants to come. Our tree with the burnt out lights just seemed to be saying, “It’s time.” So sad and pathetic I couldn’t bear to look at it, so we said goodbye to it and took it down on Boxing Day, a job I usually undertake on New Year’s Day – my apologies to all you Twelfth Nighters out there.
I was stunned at how good it felt! Like we’d opened up a space, not just in our home, but in our hearts, where a peacefulness told us we’d done the right thing. I said to The Mister, “Even if we can’t find a little tree next year, that would be OK. We’ll just set up the creche and leave it at that.”
“Sure,” he said, “and if you like, I could string some lights all around the room, on the mantle and the chest and the piano. How would that be?”
“Oh wow!” I breathed. “It would be like walking into a pixie land!”
He turned slowly to look at me.
“A what?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you just say…”
“No.”
“You just said,’pixie land.'”
“I did not! I said ‘dixieland'”.
“Dixieland.”
“Yes. I want to start having jazz parties in the New Year. Dixieland jazz parties.”
He started to grin. “You said ‘pixie land’. Oh my god! You’re…whimsical!”
“Take that back!”
“Whim-si-cal!”
“Now you listen to me – I am a poet dark and morose. I can make Santa sob, and put the Easter Bunny into a six month spell of melancholia!”
He laughed and gave me a hug.
“What an absolutely whimsical thing to say!”

The Magdalene Poems is all but done. I’m waiting on permissions to use some quotes in my epigraphs, and a beloved artist wanted to know if he could contribute one of his pieces for the back cover, which is ever so nice! I’m looking through different suggestions now.

One of the last things I wrote was the dedication page – “for my Naomi.” Followers of my blog will understand who this is. It felt like a fitting tribute to a dear friend.

But strangely, I’m feeling no inclination to seek publication, at least not now. All the signs are pointing to “Wait.” So I wait. I’m learning to do this better now, without impatience, trusting that “guidance asked for is guidance given.” I’ll know when the time is right to take the next step. And I think my body is grateful I’m not stressing out about it. My mind too. Such a relief to let things unfold as they want, rather than trying to force them or manipulate them. Which is not to say I ain’t been tempted. Oh-HO yeah! But I’ve come to the surprising realization that I just might not be the wisest being in this Universe, so some things can be left safely in the care of the One Who Is.

Funny thing, though. I’d hardly tapped out the last period on the manuscript when the idea for another one slipped into my head. Really? That quick? No rest for the weary? I guess not. It’s actually a manuscript I began, oh, years ago! I pulled out my notes on a whim and found myself getting caught up in the story again. I kept saying things like, “Oh that’s good! Oh yeah, that there? That’s really good! Wow! I’d forgotten about that! That’s really REALLY good!” And that’s all it took.

See, there’s this thing that happens when a story is trying to come through. I start zoning out. I lose track of where I am and what I’m doing. I’ve been known to shave only one leg in the shower, or forget to rinse the conditioner from my hair. I have a fitness program for my treadmill that requires me to make manual adjustments in speed and incline and I’ll find I’ve missed the moment when I’m supposed to do that. I’ll call myself back to attention only to miss another moment later on. Riding in the car, sitting in church, listening to a reading, eating lunch, the few moments before I close my eyes in sleep. It can happen almost anywhere.

And then there’s times when I’m pulled so deep into the story it’s like I’m there watching it unfold, hearing the dialogue, feeling the emotions of the characters. It’s so real! And when I return, I’m left with an awful challenge – “How am I ever going to write that?” I think all writers must have this experience – the blessed moment of revelation, and the terrible self-doubt that follows.

So, that’s where I’m at right now. It’s a wondrous and humbling time. I’m not ready to reveal the subject of this newest manuscript; I want to have more on paper before I do that, but I will say it’s another biblical woman, and her story is coming out as prose, not poetry.

Oh mercy!

For better or worse, I’m writing a novel.

As I write this, two rather fine specimens of manhood are working away taking down a couple of trees on our property. One, a mulberry tree, has become a hazard to our neighbours, and the other, a venerable maple, here long before I moved in, has been dying by inches for several years now. They had to be taken down, but it hurts me. The fruit from the mulberry tree fed the birds (and us!) for many seasons, and the maple gave shade and privacy to our front room window. It will be so strange to have them gone.

It’s started to rain and we thought the guys would fold up shop, but no. The rain has made it too dangerous for the crews to continue working to clear the power lines in town, so our guys got on the phone and called two more to come help with our job. Twice the work in half the time. Nice. Even the rain can work to one’s advantage.

I’ve been meaning to write about Paris for a while, but I didn’t know what I could say that hadn’t been said, what words of consolation I could offer. Another massacre. Another. Massacre. The world in mourning once again. The fatigue and burnout added to the guilt that catastrophes and atrocities in other parts of the world have not been given as much attention or compassion, and I think who could be blamed for wanting to pull the covers over their head and never leave their bed.

How is this ever going to end? What can we possibly do?

A dear FaceBook friend, Valerie Hess, posted a suggestion for an alternative to bombing the Middle East on her page – “Right now,” she said, “I am willing to give Jesus’s message of turning the other cheek, loving your enemies, praying for those who persecute you a fair chance.”

And a shudder passed through me.

In my opinion, these are the most frightening words in the Bible, Christ’s clear and unambiguous command to not resist the evildoer (Matthew 5:39) – do not repay evil for evil, give freely what would be taken from you, serve your enemy with generosity. If I am correct in my interpretation, when a Christian sees the enemy coming, their response should be immediate and open disarmament, standing in total vulnerability, hands wide open.

The idea terrifies me.

A victim of violence myself, I detest the weakness, the passivity of this image. I’ve stood defenceless and let the blows rain down and suffered humiliation without a word, and at age 60 I’m only now coming to grips with it. How could I let myself endure it all over again?

But if by some supernatural infusion of grace, I could fulfill Christ’s command for myself, how could I live with myself if my loved ones were attacked and I stood by and did nothing to stop it? No. Every instinct would impel me to make a weapon of whatever came to hand and stop the attacker, stop them, stop them, even if it meant their death. I don’t know if I could keep myself from doing this.

I don’t know if I’d even want to.

So. What kind of Christian does that make me? A Christian with anger issues, I guess.

And a little confused. Because deep down in my heart I know Valerie is right. If the world is ever to come to peace, it will be through the Christian way, a way found in other religions and humanist ideologies too. Hilaire Belloc said the problem isn’t that Christianity has failed. It’s that we haven’t tried it yet.

Friends, especially those of you involved in peacemaking and justice seeking, I am deeply interested in your views on this. If anyone has any suggestions to help clear a frightened and angry mind, please feel free to comment.

In the Spring, I received a friend request from someone named Megan…something. I only glanced at the last name but I do remember thinking this would be the first Megan among my FB buddies. I checked out her FB page, as I am wont to do for all friend requests from people I don’t know, and there was something awfully familiar about her picture. I scrolled back up to check the name again…and nearly swallowed my teeth!

“Pa! Come a-runnin’!”

He came a-walkin’.

“What’s the problem, Missus?”

“You remember this face?” I said, pointing to the monitor.

“Yeah, kinda. But I can’t come up with the name.”

“It’s Megan.”

He looked again.

“Well, I’ll be! Megan Oemke!”

“Megan Oemke Lum, now. She sent me a friend request from…wow! Norway!”

“Norway! What’s she doin’ there?”

“Vacation, I think. Oh, and something about a Lego Tour.”

“A what now?”

“Lego tour.”

“Lego, as in leggo my eggo?”

“No, honey. Lego, as in the little plastic blocks that snap together.”

“Uh-huh. Well, that’s…”

“Unusual?”

“That would be the word, yes.”

Megan was unusual from the start. She was studying to be a chemical engineer when I met her, which was unusual enough, but she was also possessed of no small talent as a flautist. I thought, now there’s a woman who’s got her yin and yang nicely balanced. She graced our wedding with her music, and we often went out after church to eat at a restaurant where she would put me in stitches with her wonderfully dry sense of humour. I’m sure the management wanted to toss us out more than once, but, hey, we were good customers.

At the time Megan sent me her request, she was enjoying breakfast with her husband Roy, at a rather nice Norwegian hotel, whilst the harpist played through her classical repertoire in the background. Because, after all, what’s breakfast without a little live harp music?

But at one point, when she thought she detected a deviation in the program, she leaned over to her husband and asked, “Isn’t that the theme from Shrek?”

Sure enough.

She told Roy it put her in mind of a friend who once played “Strangers In The Night” as her prelude before Mass. (Guilty as charged, gentle readers. See, I had this theory that I could play anything as my prelude, and as long as I played it slowly and reverently enough, no one would notice. I was, how shall I say, mistaken in this assumption. Ahem. And in a grand karmic payback, our new choir director delights in sneaking in “spooning” songs from the 1920’s and 30’s during the service, and even treated his last congregation to the dulcet tones of “Buffalo Girls Won’t You Come Out Tonight” during Offertory. A few weeks ago, he played “Salve Regina” as a postlude, probably the first time that venerable Catholic hymn was ever heard in the hallowed halls of our little Presbyterian church. I hiked an eyebrow and shook my head at him, but he just smiled back brightly. It didn’t help my case that all the former Catholics in the congregation were humming along.)

On a whim, Megan checked right then to see if I was on FaceBook, and finding that I was, sent me a request, and just like that, two friends who had been apart for years, connected again.

FaceBook at its best.

A short time later, I learned that Megan’s grandmother had passed away. Megan was raised by her grandparents, and never were three people more devoted to each other. She and Roy were flying to Windsor from Northern California for the memorial and I told The Mister we simply had to go. I was fond of Fran (Megan’s grandmother) and I didn’t know when I would get the chance to see Megan again. PLUS, I was anxious to meet the man who had captured her heart.

“All compelling arguments, Missus,” he said. “We’ll be there with bells on.”

“Um, no, I don’t think bells are really appropriate for a funeral home…”

“Figure of speech, Missus.”

“Oh. Right.”

The expression on Megan’s face when we walked in was heartwarming and priceless. She introduced us to her husband Roy, who was clearly besotted with his bride. (That’s exactly the word I used in a later email to her – besotted. Roy demurred, but I know the look.) We were a little early, so we had time for reminiscing, catching up, jokes and stories. When the priest arrived to begin the service, it became apparent that we would be the only guests.

“Well then, why don’t you all go up and sit on the sofa together at the front – like family,” he said.

That made me smile.

There were prayers, and Scriptures, and more prayers. And then the priest invited Megan to share some stories about her grandmother. (I was surprised and delighted at this departure from the usual order of service for a Catholic memorial. It is such a kindly, compassion thing to do.) And oh! the stories! What a woman Fran was!

Fran and Gord, her husband, lived through the war with all of it’s hardships and deprivations. One time, Fran, in spite of food rationing, had managed to put together a stew for their supper. Gord quipped he didn’t know whether it was a thick soup or a thin stew, which might not have been the most supportive thing he could have said right then, and Fran made her feelings known by dumping his bowlful over his head.

He said it tasted very good.

During the blitz, as they were huddled in a bomb shelter, Fran suddenly couldn’t remember if she had left the kettle on, and asked Gord if he would go back and check. It is a measure of his devotion to his wife that he did as she asked. The kettle had not been left on, but once there Gord was confronted with a dilemma – whether to risk returning to the shelter in the middle of an air raid, or remain where he was…in the middle of an air raid. He returned (safely) to the shelter figuring if a bomb found its mark he wanted to be somewhere reinforced.

Often those who have had to manage with very little learn the value of things. Fran and Gord were living in Canada by this time and young Megan was in their care, when Fran found an aquarium at a garage sale which was priced with all its accoutrements at $5. Fran offered the sellers $3 for the aquarium alone, but they wouldn’t accept. Undeterred, Fran sent Megan in her place, but told her not to take her hat even though it was raining. However, she was to take two dollar bills with her, (this was before we switched to loonies and twonies), and get them good and wet and crumpled. She was to approach the owners and state sadly that she only had two dollars and would that be enough for just the aquarium? and then hold out her hand and show them the soggy, mashed up bills. Oh, how those big, sad eyes must have melted their hearts! The owners let her have the aquarium for two bucks, plus all the fixings, and I have no doubt they would have thrown in the garage too if she had said she wanted it. Then Fran sent Gord in the car to pick Megan up with her loot!

My personal favourite? Once Fran had moved to the nursing home, whenever the staff wanted her to do something she was not particularly inclined to do, she would fake a heart attack. Apparently this caused considerable consternation among the newer staff who would summon the paramedics only to discover her vitals were fine. Whereupon she would smile impishly at them.

After the service, I asked Megan when she was returning home.

“This afternoon,” she replied, then nodded to the urn on the table. “Fran is my carry-on.”

Oh, I laughed at that! But her words were to come back to me in the days ahead.

Eleven days after Fran’s memorial, we lost Jill. For weeks afterward I could feel nothing but rage. A visiting minister to our church lately described how he lived through his grief over the death of his wife. He said when we suffer a great loss, we need to build “a scaffolding” around our heart to protect it while it heals. For him this meant being vigilant about what music he listened to (a tender memory so easily evoked by familiar music can devastate the bereaved) and withdrawing for a time from social situations. My scaffolding was a brick wall of anger. Anger was good. Anger kept me strong, kept me going, got me through Jill’s memorial, helped me keep it all together for a while, which was a comfort to others who were looking to me for strength.

But now, ever so slowly and quietly, the bricks are coming down.

I can let myself feel what I was trying so hard not to feel for all those weeks – her presence, Jill’s loving, abiding presence which I know will companion me until I too cross over. Her hand, gentle and warm on my shoulder, her eyes brimming with encouragement and confidence in me, and her voice, still coloured with the Welsh accent she never lost even after having lived most of her life in Canada, a voice that says, “Carry on, my darling, carry on!”

I think I’m ready to do that now.

At least, I’m ready to try.