The Number of our Days

There was a lot going on in town today. It was the annual Bluey Day. It’s a day, when in sympathy for those who undergo chemotherapy, and, as a result, lose their hair, people young and old voluntarily shave their heads. In preparation for today, my grandson's 11-year-old friend dyed his hair bright pink a month ago. Both of his grandmas had breast cancer and one died from it.

A couple of weeks ago, he sent me an e-mail, asking if I would like to sponsor him, and I said yes, of course I would. Today when we arrived at the shearing station to cheer him on, he was $1.70 short of having raised $2010. The significance of the amount did not escape us, and I hunted through my change for the $1.70. When his turn came, we watched as the volunteer from the hair salon ploughed a path from his forehead to the nape of his neck with her electric cutter. After his head was shaved, we took pictures of the kids with him. Well done!

Another event today was the annual Relay for Life, a fundraiser that takes place in towns and cities large and small all across the nation. The junior high school track is the site for this 10-hour walk, with teams sporting names such as the Chemo Queens, Gunning for Cancer, and the Rootin’, Tootin’, Shootin’ for Pink Mountain Mamas. On the Memory Board, participants can post photos of those who have died from cancer. The closing ceremony, with more than a thousand luminaries (a white paper bag decorated with the name of someone who has survived or died from cancer; a tea light candle is placed inside the bag) lining the edge of the track is quite moving. The word HOPE is spelled out with luminaries. We walk a silent lap and remember.

How much time and money will it take before cancer is beaten? I don’t know . . . but these events remind me that we are not God . . . and neither is cancer.

It is God who gives us our breath. When we leave this earth, it is not some random accident. Our life is in God’s hands. He knows the number of our days.

Our hope is not in research funding, as needful as that is. It is not in earlier detection, better care, or chemical miracles.

Our hope is our God and our Saviour. Psalm 71:5 says: For you, O Lord, are my hope, my trust, O Lord, from my youth.

On days like today, this comforts me.

The End of An Era

I lost a great friend today.

A long-time friend who loved me with all his heart. I believe there is nothing he would not have done for me.

He was my spiritual father. He preached the gospel to me, the good news of forgiveness and salvation through the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. He prayed with me as I confessed my sins and received new life in Christ.

I first met this man when I was 16. Although he was just over four years older than I was, I always thought he was a lot older. He was already mature in God. He was a leader in Montreal Youth for Christ. This Christian outreach youth group operated in many high schools in Montreal, but, for some reason, was not allowed in to Macdonald High School, where I was in Grade 10. An alternative arrangement was made, and a group began in the home of a member of the local Presbyterian Church. I attended this group because it was in the home of a friend (my boyfriend’s sister’s boyfriend!)

It was there that I first heard the gospel. It was there that I prayed the sinner’s prayer. It was there that I turned my life over to Christ. It was there I received forgiveness.

That was more than forty years ago. In the forty years since that time, I saw that this friend was a man who loved God. He loved the Word of God. He used to joke that he’d forgotten more scripture than most people ever knew. I saw a man who was fervent in his search for the things of God.

I saw a man who, when his first wife was killed in a plane accident, gave glory to a sovereign God and did not falter in his faith. Many eyes were on him at that time, and the faith of many was strengthened.

Through the providence of God, I was blessed with the friendship of his second wife, who became my dear, dear friend. I drew close to their family, and their family and my family spent countless hours together. Talking, playing, planning, studying. Always returning to the history we had together, to the bond of love in Christ that bound us to each other.

This great friend was a man who dreamed big. He had grand ideas, even if he didn’t always have the ways and means to bring them to fruition. He was never downcast. It was always “onward and upward” with him. Today, he went onward and upward. Today, he went home to be with the Lord.

He was a dynamic and charismatic person, and I loved him. I loved his love of the Word. I loved his love of God. I loved his laughter, his voice, his smile. I loved him for who he was. I loved him for the man he was in God. But mostly, I just loved him.

Ross Walter Bracewell. February 20, 1947-May 28, 2010.

Dancing with the Stars

There were many things I could have done tonight. There’s always lots of housecleaning to do—and spring is coming. Alternatively, I could have gone to a Film Society showing of “Cooking with Stella” at the cinema. In addition, a local café was hosting an event for International Women’s Day. Finally, there is always lots of reading piled up on my bedside table.

None of those things drew me. Instead, I bundled up and headed out to the back deck with my binoculars and telescope and gazed at the stars. The temperature was -4 but with the wind, felt like -10. The sky was wonderfully clear as it has been for the past couple of weeks.

I saw many friends there; as well, I met some new ones. Every time I go out to look, I try to find something new, something I haven’t identified before. Last night, by chance, I found Coma Berenices, a beautiful cluster in the eastern sky. The trick of course is being able to find the same thing the next time . . . and yes, I did! Same place. Although some people might be able to see it unaided by binoculars or telescope, I am not one of them. First, I scope it out with the binoculars. Then, I look at it with the telescope.

“The heavens declare the glory of God” the Psalmist announces to us. He got it right! The brilliance, the flashing scintillation, and the diamond-dust of the stars takes my breath away! I never tire of looking.

From Coma Berenices, I moved on to the Beehive Cluster (M44). Right now, it’s easy to spot, “southeast” of Mars, which is high in the sky, next to Pollux of Castor and Pollux fame (that’s right, the Gemini twins). I had seen the Beehive before with the binoculars but it was even more stunning through the telescope. I have a Meade EXT-125, which was a gift from one of my children several years ago. Between Procyon and Sirius, I spotted M46 and M47, two more dazzling star clusters. A trip to the sky isn’t complete without stopping by to greet the Pleiades and the Hyades. Oh, and the nebula (M42) in Orion’s sword.

On a night like tonight, I want never to come inside. When I do, it takes me an hour to warm up!

I dream of retiring to dark-sky country somewhere, where I can have a clear view of the sky 360 days a year! Some place warmer, maybe! I dream of filling my eyes with the wonders of the sky. I dream of dancing with the stars.

I May Never Have to Buy Another Birthday Card!

I'm on a cleaning up and throwing out binge. This urge comes over me every once in a while--not often enough, some would say--and I get great energy and start going through drawers and closets and chucking stuff out--not quite at random, but something pretty close--and by "out," I of course mean to the proper recycling container in my garage.

Tonight I hit my desk drawer and my stationery drawer. The desk drawer had become of late a shambles of pens, pencils, rulers, staples, paper clips, bookmarks, sticky notes, felt pens, dry erase markers, ear phones, business cards, rolls of Scotch tape, and other miscellany generally useful in a home-office setting. My tactic was to take everything out of the drawer and put it all in a large pile on the floor. I wiped out the drawer. Ah . . . a clean start! Then I sorted. Like items with like items. Finally, I returned the useful things to the drawer in containers of various sizes and shapes, and threw the rest out. One down, many to go.

The second drawer was my stationery drawer. It's the bottom drawer of the tall dresser in my bedroom. There were many boxes of cards--male birthday, female birthday, kid birthday, cheering up, and blank. Unfortunately, in my hurry at various times in the past, I would open several boxes to choose an appropriate card, flip through them, and then hastily shut the drawer, thinking I'd get back to rearrange it when I had more time. Well, tonight was that time.

Being the multitasker that I am, I pulled the drawer out, set myself up on the living room couch, and turned on an episode of Bones. Meanwhile, I took all the cards, writing paper, and envelopes out of the drawer, made little piles around me on the couch and used the hour of watching Bones to rearrange the drawer.

Here's where the title of tonight's thoughts comes in. If I lived to be 150, I don't think I could use up all the cards and writing paper. Maybe you're wondering how it is that I have so much choice right at my fingertips. I think it's a convergence of several things. First off, I have always liked writing to keep in touch with those who have departed--moved away, that is. Second, a Carlton Card shop that used to be open in the local mall went out of business. It was so long ago that I can't even remember when it was, but some time in the last six or so years. Not one to resist such bargains, I do remember scooping up several, if not many, boxes. They were at least 50% off and so lovely! Finally, and most importantly, accumulating these ways and means of keeping in touch seemed to me to be a tangible way of hanging on to . . . something . . . I'm not quite sure I can articulate what. Keeping in touch, that's what it was all about.

Anyway, I have brought order out of chaos. I have a sense of accomplishment. And I may never have to buy another birthday card!

Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 11th ed.: The Cutting Edge

As I usually do, I stopped on the way home from work to pick up the mail. I was hoping to see the red tag and key for the package compartment because I knew that it had been several days since my Amazon order had been shipped, but there were only some advertising flyers. Oh well, maybe tomorrow.

When I got home, much to my surprise and delight, I saw that the box from Amazon had been delivered to the door! Bonus day!

In the box was a new Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, Eleventh Edition.

I did already have a dictionary, a really good one. A Big One. Random House Unabridged Dictionary of the English Language, Second Edition. In fact, it is the exact same one that the local college library has. I have used mine countless times since I bought it shortly after it came out in 1987. Now, it's more than 20 years old.

Admittedly, I was drawn to the Collegiate 11th edition by the shiny silver sticker on the front, which lists some of the new words that are included: acai (haven't we all heard 10 different pronunciations of this one!), staycation, softscape, sudoku, celebutante (hadn't even heard that one!), and others just as intriguing.

Besides, I watched a video (also outdated) that had this advice: if your dictionary is more than ten years old, you're missing out! Language is alive and changing, and hundreds, if not thousands, of words are being added to the English language yearly.

As I mentioned, today's mail also brought some advertising flyers. As I flipped through one, I saw two words I HAD NEVER SEEN BEFORE!!! Great! An opportunity to use my new dictionary. Here's what the ad said: Kitchen Knives: NSF approved German steel blades retain an ultra sharp edge; blades have granton depressions for easy cutting without binding; non-slip santoprene handles.

Actually, there was also that abbreviation, NSF. From my banking days, I recalled that it meant "non-sufficient funds" but I doubted that was the meaning here. I found that meaning on the Internet: National Sanitation Foundation, a non-governmental, not-for-profit organization that develops standards for health and safety.

So that left "granton" and "santoprene" . . . NEITHER OF WHICH were in my new Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, Eleventh Edition!! Oh, the disappointment.

Yet all is not lost! I had heard of "neoprene" - work gloves are made of this stuff. So the -prene ending indicated some kind of manufactured material made from some chemicals. In fact, "neoprene" was in the dictionary. But santoprene? Well, in this day of the Internet, sure enough, santoprene.com came to my rescue. Santoprene is an Exxon Mobil chemical brand name used for all sorts of things - from chairs that give comfort by conforming to your body to a substance for improving pipe gasket performance. Okay, the knives had some kind of plastic handle. (But will they withstand the rigours of the dishwasher?)

I still had to deal with granton. The dictionary had nothing. Rien de tout. Nada. Back to the Internet. Hmm . . . a granton (often capitalized) edge has thumbprint-shaped depressions in a line about one-quarter to one-half an inch from the sharp edge of the blade on both sides. Apparently, these depressions prevent food (for example, tomatoes or soft cheese)from sticking to the knife.

And thanks to the cooksillustrated.com site, I found the origin of the term "granton edge":

Origins of the Granton Edge

William Grant, founder of the Granton Knives Company in Sheffield, England, patented this innovative edge in 1928. The company still hand-makes granton-edge knives with scallops carved all the way down to the cutting edge (imitators have scallops that stop just above it).

From the picture in the ad, I could see that these knives must be imitations because the grooves did not come all the way to the cutting edge.

A quick trip to Sheffield, England (via the Internet, of course) brought me to the Granton Knives Company Web site at http://www.granton-knives.co.uk/. These people know knives. They've been making knives for 408 years. I also saw that Granton is a registered trade mark, but, alas, like Kleenex and Scotch tape, now seems to have passed into general use for imitations, no less.

All this to say that the moment a dictionary is published, it's out of date (although the Granton edge was patented in 1928, so there's nothing new about it!)

Despite these slight disappointments, I hope to have many happy peregrinations through my new dictionary.

What's this world coming to?

I overheard an amazing snippet of conversation today. Amazing in a bad way, not in a good way.

I was at the local big-box office supply store, waiting in line behind two people who were ahead of me. Behind the counter, a clerk was talking on the phone in an almost-conspiratorial tone: "Can you help me? If I have eighteen inches, how do I turn that into square inches? I already asked Jeffrey, but he didn't know."

I was trying to make sense of her question. She obviously didn't know that something was missing. My mind flashed back to grade . . . five? Length times width equals area. That's square somethings - feet, inches back then - nowadays, centimetres, metres.

As I stood there, the clerk took her attention from the phone call and addressed me, pointing to the next till: "They can help you at Till One." So I darted over to Till One, where the drama continued. A man, perhaps a supervisor, leaned over the counter, took the phone from the clerk who was talking with the Need-to-Know-Square-Inches clerk, and said into the phone: "Length times width. You need two numbers to get square inches. What's the second number?"

None of the foregoing constituted the amazing part of the conversation. After the supervisor left, but before the two clerks at Till One turned to help me, one said to the other: "Square inches? You ever hear of that? Inches I know, but square inches?"

The other clerk, with a slightly superior toss of her head, answered: "Well, I've heard of square feet, but . . . not square inches."

I was amazed. Admittedly, they were young--teens with part-time jobs--but I was sure they had finished grade five. What I was unsure of was whether I should trust her to ring in my purchase.

New Year, New Start

Okay, I'm not even looking at the date of the previous entry. I'm just making a clean start right here, right now. It's a new year. I'm allowed to make a new start.

I felt strange entering this year with no list of resolutions. I didn't make any. It's not because I have a really bad record of actually keeping or fulfilling the resolutions I've made in past years. Ten or a dozen things neatly written and the list posted on the fridge where all who enter my home could see. About a month or so into the year, the list would be superceded by some artwork done by little people who love me. By summer, the list was just a vague memory. That wasn't it. It was just because nobody around me mentioned it. No one asked me what my resolutions were. Nobody brought it up. Nobody told me theirs. No one even said they wanted to lose ten pounds (a perennial favourite). Has making resolutions fallen out of favour?

If I were to make resolutions, I'd want some that would make my life less stressful. I know: every time I come into the house, hang up my keys on the hook that's in the closet. Imagine a life where I would never again have to say, "Has anyone seen my keys?" Ah, that's a certain bliss. I've already made a start on this one. At this moment, I know my keys are hanging right where they should be!

For a second one, I would commit to the One-Year Bible reading plan. I tried the 90-day plan, but I think, for me, slower would be better.

Three . . . would I be able to handle a third one? Maybe . . . choose others first. By this I mean think of others first. It's a variation on the Golden Rule. Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. Speak kindly. Help others.

Well, they won't bring world peace or solve world environmental problems, but in the little circle that is my immediate world, perhaps they will bring a measure of peace to me and those around me.

So welcome to this new year and new way!

Who Knew?

Today, I heard an interesting blip on the radio (CBC, naturally!). I say "blip" because I was only in my car for a few minutes. The show was about public spaces and the move towards a green economy. Using public spaces, including public transportation, puts us all on what was referred to as a "bladder leash," some of which are shorter than others. The gist of the comments was this: if we're going to take public transportation and enjoy the green spaces in our cities, then we need an efficient and reliable system of public . . . facilities. Public washrooms. Johnny-on-the-Spot. If our "bladder leash" is short--if we're young, old, pregnant, infirm, sick, or in any other condition that might shorten that leash--we need to know that we'll be able to find the needed facilities at the moment of need.

For men, this may pose less of a problem for them, but it poses just as much of a problem from the sanitation point of view. Yes, they can duck into an alley (and many of us have seen this happen), but what about that alley??? What about the people who live next to the alley or in the apartments above the alley? So fixing one problem has created another.

On the radio show, I learned about the WTO, the World Toilet Organization (not to be confused with the WTO, World Trade Organization). This group, which had humble beginnings of 15 members in 2001, now operates in 56 countries and boasts 195 member organizations. Many governmental departments, non-governmental organizations (NGOs), prominent people, and ordinary citizens join as members. That's their logo at the left. Their goal: to improve access to basic sanitation for the 2.5 billion people who have never had the chance to sit on the "throne." You can read their full declaration on their web site at: www.worldtoilet.org

The discussion today was not about the millions of children and adults who die each year because of diseases rampant in areas which lack basic sanitation, but about creating a network of public washrooms in our modern cities. It seems city planners don't want to mention the unmentionable. We all know the uncomfortable feeling when we enter a commercial establishment looking for a bathroom, only to be confronted by a sign above the counter that reads: Our washrooms are for our customers. I myself have on occasion become a customer by buying something that I didn't need or want just so that I could use the facilities.

Of course, the idea of public washrooms is not new. I was reminded about a public washroom that the Women's Institute set up in our city in the 1950s. Many rural people would come to town and for the mothers of young children, or nursing mothers, or other mothers, and anyone else who rode over those bumpy roads, a "rest room" was deemed necessary and useful. The local Women's Institutes worked on the problem, and established a public rest room where local travelers could use the facilities. It was a stroke of genius, much appreciated by the families who lived in the area at that time.

Some of the women who were involved in that project are still around. They proudly remember that contribution to the growth and comfort of our city. They could tell you all the details--I've only sketched the picture here. It was a good work. Perhaps we need that kind of determination and drive again.

Half-mast

Municipal taxes are due July 2. On Tuesday, before the holiday, I stopped by the government building to pay my taxes, but the line-up was out the door, with about 50 people who had the same idea as I did. So I made a new plan: I'd go Thursday morning before work, arriving before 8:30 a.m. when the government offices opened so I could be first in line.

While I was waiting for the doors to be unlocked, a worker approached the three flag poles that are in front of the government building and lowered the three flags to half-mast. This is used internationally as a sign of mourning. Someone important must have died.

I asked the worker, Why are you lowering the flags to half-mast? Who died?

His answer surprised me, but perhaps it shouldn't have. It just presented such a stereotype of "the government worker." He said: I don't know. I was just told to lower the flags.

If my supervisor had given me such instructions, my innate curiosity would have led me to at least ask in whose honour the flags were being lowered. If not my curiosity, then the thought that perhaps someone might ask me and I'd want to be able to answer correctly.

During the day, I asked several people with whom I work and others that I saw at a meeting if they knew. No one knew. So maybe I shouldn't fault the poor government worker for not knowing (although I still think he should have known!!) I tried to catch the radio newscasts for a clue, but came up with nothing.

Finally, tonight, a simple Internet search gave me the information I sought. The Right Honourable Roméo LeBlanc (1927-2009), Governor-General of Canada from 1995-1999, died on June 24, 2009. It was in his honour that the flags were lowered to half-mast after flying at full-mast for the Canada Day holiday.

His funeral is on July 3, after which the flags will be returned to full-mast.

We're at "Lock Up" But No Can Do

Building a house is a pretty exciting project. There's lots to do: so many choices, so little money . . . I mean, time! Choosing a plan, flooring, colours--many small decisions along the way right until move-in day.

There are a few landmarks during this process. Digging the basement. Walls and trusses up. Roof on. Lock up. Interior walls and flooring. Finishing. Painting. Moving Day!

Lock up. That's just what it says. Everything is closed in--all doors and windows installed--and the building can be locked up.

That's where our project is; however, there is one small problem. We can't lock it up.

The reason we can't lock it up is because someone trespassed onto the building site and STOLE all the door knobs, deadbolts, and locks, along with six rolls of tuck tape and a set of laminated plans.

Replacing the hardware today cost a little over $500. So now we can lock up.

I ask myself: who would steal door knobs and locks? What would they do with them? Are these people reselling them--I suppose that's a possibility; after all, we know that they are worth . . . a little over $500.

On the other hand, perhaps in the midst of a financial crisis (we had one ourselves today, worth . . . a little over $500), this is a new way of building a house. Visit all the building sites in and around town. Pick up a load of two-by-sixes here, a few doors there, some windows from another place. You might even be able to pick up a set of laminated plans.

Lock up? yes--but the house is not the only thing that needs to be locked up!

Letting Go . . .

We are preparing for the grandmother of all garage sales being held this weekend by a group that I’m in. We’re looking around our house to see what we can contribute. What do we have the most of?? Books! So we start there, scanning each shelf to see what might be redundant or no longer of interest. Women’s Studies—I don’t want to count the dollars that I spent over the years I was teaching this subject! Literature—lots of stuff here that I won’t look at again. Business Communications? What are the chances that I’ll teach that again? Pretty slim, I tell myself.

And then there’s the wide swath of books that I read when I was writing my thesis. Oh my, did I actually read all this stuff? I flip open several volumes. Yes, there’s underlining, highlighting, and my own notes neatly written in the margins, from the first chapter to the last.

I start pulling books off the shelves and quickly fill four boxes. I survey the shelves, ready for a second pass. I marvel that although I have removed 67 books, it hardly seems to have made a dent. Admittedly, I did pull some books from on top of the bookcases—not actually a shelf but drawn into service several years ago because there was no room for yet another bookcase! And I rearranged some, sorting as I moved from shelf to shelf. Hmm . . . what’s this Atwood doing over here? Back where it belongs it goes! Three copies of The Handmaid’s Tale??—There’s a reason: one for home, one for the office (so I don’t have to carry a copy back and forth every day), and a previous edition that has many useful handwritten notes. I decide to keep all three—extravagant, I know, but I’m not ready to part with them—or maybe it’s just with something they represent. A George Macdonald separated from its siblings! Ah! a happy family reunion.

The books may be a little looser on the shelves, making them easier to take from their formerly too-snug spot, but really, the shelves look pretty much the same: full. I must keep culling.

The problem is that as soon as these are delivered over to the garage sale organizers, someone will ask me for a book, and I’ll say, Oh, yes, I have a copy of . . . oh, no, actually I just got rid of that!

But such is life. There is a time to let go of stuff. And for me, this is It.

Well . . . some things.

Entomology and Etymology

Yesterday, there was a frenzy of activity at our house. It's a new and sudden interest, prompted perhaps by some lessons last in my grandson's grade 3 class. The students learned the vocabulary concerning butterflies--it's a French Immersion class, so they learned:
le papillon - butterfly
le cocon - coccoon
les oeufs - eggs
la chenille - caterpillar
l'abdomen - abdomen
les ailes - wings
la Belle Dame - Painted Lady (a kind of butterfly)
les feuilles - leaves
la chrysalide - chrysalid
les antennes - antennas
la transformation - change

At supper, being more interested in etymology than entomology, I introduced the word lepidopterist.

It was a beautiful sunny summer day yesterday, and the kids were catching butterflies in their nets that had been purchased at the dollar store. Once you catch a butterfly, though, you need to know what to do with it. A search on the Internet brought forth detailed instructions on the procedure. First, a killing jar (I don't like this part, but apparently, this is what scientists do). Then the butterflies are carefully pinned on a board. This was easily made with short lengths of molding from the building-supply store. After a day or two, the small strips of paper can be removed and the specimens repinned, studied, and displayed.

We needed just a few rules. No catching two of the same kind. Handle each one with care.

The kids were very interested in all aspects of the procedure, although they definitely needed help with the jar and the pinning. We've ordered some proper pins so we don't have to continue using quilting pins, and we're perfecting the making of our pinning boards.

It's hard to tell what interest from a person's youth will last throughout his or her life. Robert Bateman, the great Canadian wildlife artist, was producing promising artwork by the time he was seven years old. Closer to home, I have been interested in the night sky since I was in Grade 4, and now spend time with my telescope observing the night sky.

Who knows? This current interest in butterflies may foster a lifetime of wonder for God's great creation.

A Full Day!

At least twenty times a day, I think to myself, "Oh, that would make a good topic for my blog!" Now it's 10:34 and I'm sitting on my back deck in my PJs with my laptop in front of me. It's warmish although the air has cooled off from what it was this afternoon. There is no wind at all, so it's very pleasant. There don't seem to be any mosquitoes. Now that I'm sitting here ready to write, I wonder where all those great ideas are hiding.

I was out here this morning first thing before 7, once again in my PJs (in case you're wondering, yes, I did get dressed during the day). I had my telescope set up and was observing the moon. It rises late and by 7 a.m., is in the southern sky about 45 degrees off the horizon. The moon is in its last quarter, which really means you see a half-moon, which is a quarter of the way through its phases. The sun rising gave a beautiful highlight to some of the features.

At church, an interesting question was posed for us to consider: What do you not let anything get in the way of? In other words, what's most important, perhaps not in the grand scheme of things, but on a day-to-day basis, what ascends the throne of our life? Something to think about here.

I wrote recently about removing the training wheels and letting a four-year-old "fly" on her own. Well, I needn't have worried. Today, she graduated to a 14-inch wheel, and she is flying! Up and down the street, out in the school yard--she is definitely ready to roll!

It's the end of a glorious day! The sun was shining. The birds were singing. Now darkness has fallen. Let's remember that "The earth is the LORD's, and the fulness thereof; the world, and they that dwell therein. For he hath founded it upon the seas, and established it upon the floods." Psalm 24:1-2.

A Valuable Twenty Minutes

I listened today to the keynote address at the convocation of the local college. At the beginning of the speech, the speaker announced that she was going to tell us several stories from her own life, stories about the "influencers" in her life. This she did, relating experiences of her educator father and her nurse mother. Not surprisingly, the speaker had followed in both their footsteps, first training as a nurse, and then becoming an educator herself, training future nurses. She told of one of the legacies of her father, who had taught in one-room school houses in Southern Alberta. Wherever he lived, he planted trees on the dry prairie. Besides the many lives he touched because, as teacher, he was central in the community, he left a wonderful legacy of green: today, forests grow where his plantings took root.

At first, it might have appeared that the speech was entirely self-centred. Ego-centric. Or worse yet, egotistical. But from the stories she told, she drew out important principles that apply to young people, working people, and people facing change in these uncertain times. Be honest. Work hard. Touch lives. Help others. Leave a legacy.

There are so many urgencies in our world, so many things that could be said to graduating classes as they launch themselves from one phase of their lives to the next. The environment. World peace. Financial responsibility.

Today, I heard another urgency--the great need to be mindful of our roots, of where we’ve come from, of those who have been influencers in our lives. Her charge to the graduates was this: take a moment today to think of those who have influenced you.

The logical follow-up is this: How are we influencing others?

My Heart is in My Throat!

I can't look. I cover my eyes. I have to go in. It's just too stressful for me.

They've taken the training wheels off her two-wheeler. I know this is a rite of passage children go through. Most survive. I know all that. But still, I can't look.

She's four-and-a-half. From inside the house, I can hear her wailing. She must have wiped out. I did notice that she had her helmet on. Also, knee pads and elbow pads. There wasn't too much left exposed that could have been damaged too badly.

Maybe it's not so much the scrapes and bruises that she'll suffer during the next few days as she perfects her technique of balancing and steering (I saw her concentrating on the balancing part, and then she just let go of the handlebars! If her dad hadn't been holding on . . .).

Maybe it's her growing up so fast right before my eyes. Two years ago, it was the trike. Last year, the hand-me-down two-wheeler with training wheels. And now, this. By the end of the summer,she'll be off to the park and around the block, keeping up with her brothers or maybe setting the pace for them!

One minute they're little. We run along beside them, shouting encouragement and giving them confidence. The next minute, they're gone. Hopefully, those shouts are still ringing in their ears!

An accident waiting to happen

It's very strange the way the brain works. Some say mine is stranger than most, and judging from a recent incident, I might tend to agree.

A friend and I were sitting on her front lawn. She was telling me about her next door neighbour who is elderly and whose eyesight and reaction times are not as good as they once were. She related two incidents in which her neighbour had had a slight run-in with her: once, he "tapped" her car as he was backing out of his garage, and another time, he bumped into her as she was standing on the pavement between their two townhouses. That time, she flung her grandson out of the way, lost her camera from her hand, and was pushed to her knees by her neighbour's car.

Her next sentence sounded to me like this: it's a ka-TAL-puh-tree (that's an approximation of the phonetic spelling.)

I did what I always do when I hear an unfamiliar word. I started flipping through my mental Rolodex, looking this time for a four syllable word with the stress on the second syllable. Of course, this means that, effectively, I am eliminating all other words that don't fit this pattern.

From the context of our conversation, I thought the word was perhaps related to "catastrophe" because we were talking about her neighbour's driving, tight turn spaces, and backing out of a garage. I flipped to the "cata-" section of my in-brain dictionary, but was coming up with nothing.

Just as I was about to repeat the word in a question form--"Catalpatry?--the conversation switched tracks back to a conversation from the previous day when we had been sitting in exactly the same spot talking about the tulips and other plants in the little garden spot at the front of my friend's house. She had planted a small tree but couldn't remember the name of it.

Well, you guessed it. She had planted a catalpa tree, and she had suddenly remembered the name. And just as suddenly, had catapulted to the previous day's conversation, brought it forward to the present, and announced, "It's a catalpa tree."

I almost drove right into that one. It could have been a catastrophe.

Delightful Chinese Kitchen

We drove along University Avenue, which turns into 10th Avenue, and then down to 4th Avenue, looking for a place to have a bite of supper. There were restaurants advertising various kinds of food - Mediterranean, Mexican, Indian. Then on the far side of the street we saw Chinese Kitchen. We decided that yes, we'd go for Chinese.

It was small. Five tables with white tablecloths, at each of the four settings a colourful placemat explaining the Chinese zodiac and the tabletop covered with plate glass. Bead curtains held back in a swag surrounded the entrance to each booth.

The place was empty. We were the only customers. The servers were very friendly, chatting with us about the lack of people in the street because of the hockey tournament. We ordered our food and it came quickly and it was very good.

The servers kept bringing the dishes that made up our "dinner for two." We ate and were filled and were satisfied.

A relaxing, friendly atmosphere--we felt welcomed to the city.

The Heavens Declare the Glory of God

I've just come in from a two-hour star-gazing episode with a friend. Even though it's a lovely windless night of 5 degrees Celsius, we were cold. My neck was cold (of course, we've already put away all our scarves and mitts.)

We set up the telescope and had a beautiful view of the crescent moon with its many craters in high relief.

We saw some double stars and picked out the constellations we know. I always try to spot something new. Tonight we worked on Draco, but we were too close to town light to see it all clearly.

There are so many stars. I never tire of looking at them. Well, my neck gets tired from bending my head back to look up, but I don't tire of gazing at the sky. I love to see that handful of stardust we call the Milky Way. The Chinese call it the Silver River, I'm told.

The sky charts make it seem so easy, with all those lines connecting the dots of the stars into shapes: eagle, crown, bear, dog, a woman on a chair. But they are flat, two-dimensional. Looking through the telescope gives a small glimpse of the three-dimensionality of the sky. There is depth there; it goes on and on and on.

Beautiful Saviour, Bright and Morning Star, how glorious is your name!

No "Examination Copy" of this Book

As a teacher, I often get sent what are known as "desk copies" or "examination copies" of new text books being published in my field. Publishers send out these free copies in hopes that teachers everywhere will adopt the new book as a class text, thereby boosting sales of the books. They're free samples, letting the instructors examine the new text (hence the name, examination copy), view the features, and compare it to the textbook currently in use in a particular course.

After many years of teaching, the new editions seem to multiply on my bookshelf, and at the end of the semester, I'll often put some of these samples in a box outside my office. I tape a FREE sign on the box and within a couple of days, maybe even a couple of hours, some students have gone away happy with a new book, and I have some room cleared on my bookshelf.

It's a good thing, isn't it, that God has not offered an "examination copy" of the Lamb's Book of Life. We get no chance to check it out and see whose name is there and whose isn't. When we get to Heaven, we're going to look around and maybe there will be some surprises. Some people we were sure were going to be there will be conspicuous by their absence; on the other hand, our jaws may drop when we recognize those we thought were destined for somewhere where we were sure we weren't going to be.

Of course, we are called to holy living, and we can judge the tree by its fruit, but beyond that, we can only declare what God has done for us and in us, not what He hasn't done for someone else. For it's only God who knows the heart . . . and there's no examination copy of the Lamb's Book.

Canada Post, I'm Disappointed in You

It was only a small slip of the mind, which led to a small slip of the pen. I got most of it right. Riverside . . . should have been Riverview. The house number was right, as was the town, province, and postal code. But back the envelope came today in my own mail (of course, I had obeyed the "rules" and put my return address on the envelope).

But it's puzzling to me. From my understanding of reading the Postal Code directory, there are only a few--three or four, maybe five--addresses with each postal code. They will be on the same side of the street (even or odd numbers) and within a certain range of numbers.

So I'm wondering about the person who put that Return to Sender stamp on the envelope I had sent, and checked off "no such address." It's a small town. The letter carrier has been delivering mail to my friend for more than a year at that address. How difficult would it have been to ask a question or two? The postal code is supposed to be a fail-safe system.

But no. It was easier to stamp it Return to Sender without a second thought and send it on its way back.

I am sure it would have been possible to deliver my letter despite the small error. But that would have required some brave soul to step out and think.