Press On

 To our beautiful all grown up children. 

I wanted to be a good mom who stayed; who was there to love you no matter what. Andrew wanted to be a good dad who was dependable and there to play with and who would take the time to teach you stuff, no matter what. And we fought hard to live that dream, bit by bit over time deciding at first to hide away, and eventually to let go of, what had hurt us in our pasts and to celebrate and build on what had been given to us that was good. We found such delight in our home with the four of you and with all your friends who came through those doors. Because our childhoods were punctuated with loss and loneliness we learned early on to protect our joy by choosing to remember the good and disregard the awful. The worst times of my adult life have been when I study and think on the bad times of my life. I can't change those. 

We remember so many good times and we remember some hard times and we often remember them differently because we're two very different people. But we both wanted you to lean on the God who rescued us from our imperfect childhoods .. we perceived Him differently but He is very real to us nonetheless and we know we would not have found the peace we have if not for His help; if not for his redemption of these two lives that didn’t look like much on the surface. 

Because we’re flawed, broken, imperfect people we have trouble letting go of things we have collected... for me it’s been things that remind me of the people I’ve loved and lost... written things, homemade things, clothes, blankets, gifts, cards... for Andrew it’s things and materials and bits and pieces and tools he might need to use to provide for his family in the future. We’re working on that, we recognize it, and we accept that it’s one of the flaws that holds us back some days, but God isn’t done with us yet and we’re thankful to be on a journey where he’s making us better. It’s ok that we’re not perfect. We like ourselves and we like each other. And we like all of our children for different reasons. God’s not done with you all yet either. 

I like that you’re all better at a lot of stuff than we were at your age; it doesn’t take away anything from our story, though. I  like our story. It’s interesting. Good decisions and bad ones brought us all to where we are, and I not only can’t go back, I wouldn’t, because maybe I’d screw up even worse!  No way, man, I accept who I am and who I have been and the journey I took to get here. I’m thankful for every little part of Andrew... he was made just for me and I for him and I think that God worked all of it out for the good and is still doing that... despite our mistakes, flaws, sins, selfishness and sorrows. This life we’ve had together is unique and it’s ours and I’m just thankful that we both got to see our children grow up and we’ve even gotten to see some of our children’s children so far.

In our quiet talks and walks, and when we pray  for you out loud together, and in our alone times crying out to God for help and forgiveness and healing and hope, we often visit and deeply regret where we fell short, when we hurt you with our words or actions or lack of attention to your needs or when we disregarded or stepped on your feelings. God only knows how we hope beyond hope that you decide to let go of the things you hold against us and that could trap you and hold you back from living free full lives. I hope you choose to forgive us and focus on whatever good we’ve contributed to your story. 

We’re just a little tiny part of your story, but you’re a HUGE part of ours. And we love every sentence of it. We wouldn’t change a thing about you and the story you’re telling with your life. Keep going. Press on. 

Love,

Your Mom

“I focus on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, I press on…”

‭‭just one little part of Philippians‬ ‭3:13‬ ‭& 14 NLT‬‬

How the Blueberry Got its Crown

Ask any of my children what their momma’s dream is and they’ll tell you: their momma has dreamed for most of her life of having a book published. I can still remember one day at work, kneeling in the children’s aisle of the WHSmith bookstore, opening up a box of the latest Robert Munsch book, and suddenly finding myself in a puddle as I read for the first time his instant classic,  I’ll Love You Forever .  I have been hooked by the thought that I could someday make someone feel like that. There have even been rare moments in the 35 years that followed during which I would catch a glimmer of that dream again and start to believe that it could maybe somehow be possible. 

Last year an angel unawares sent me an email out of the blue asking if I would like to discuss possibly illustrating a story she had on her desk... we met, I read and fell in love with the brilliant little story, and a year and a half later it’s here in my hands, and  the dream has forty pages and a shiny cover and an ISBN! 

I now fully believe. 

This story! Without giving anything away, I can tell you that to me it encourages a child to imagine what magical things are possible when a kind, willing heart leaves behind its own concerns and worries and notices, listens to, and helps another heart in need 💕

I met Suzanne Sheehan, the author of this wonderful Nova Scotia fairytale just a few weeks ago, and I fell in love with her too... she’s the real deal and I hope this is just the first of many tales she gives back to Nova Scotians and to the world. 

Please email me at beelersonya@live.com if you’d like to have a copy for yourself or your littles! If you live really close by and would like contactless safe delivery to your door, the price is $15.  If you live further away in Canada, the price is $20.00, shipping included. If you live in the United States, the price is $20.00 US$, shipping included. 

 

Can I get REAL?

An amazing thing has happened: this baby I had twenty....some....years ago has become a mentor to me. You wouldn’t think that a tiny spark of life and love, both artistic miracle and solid science, could  grow into so much  more than the sum of her parts but here she is, separate, whole, spectacular. I know she was formed in my body, she’s my child, part me, part her dad. But I’m overwhelmed by the reality of who she is, who she has become and is becoming. It’s a real mystery.

I’ve never really understood people who think they make a baby, create a life... I’ve always felt more like a toddler baking with her gramma.... I neither wrote the recipe, purchased the ingredients or even really understand how it all works, but after nanny helps me crack an egg into a bowl, fishes out the bits of shell and guides my little hands to add some other ingredients she’s pre-measured, she declares and helps me feel as if I’ve baked a cake. Andrew and I wanted to raise children and were savvy enough to figure out how to do our part and blessed enough to have it work out and result in the birth of a baby girl, and we managed to take good enough care of her that no one took her from us and she somehow survived it all into adulthood. But we REALLY didn’t have THAT much to do with it. That’s the real story.

Yesterday, I arrived at our community bible chapel at 9:10 for our 9 am worship band rehearsal and there she was with the rest of the band, music prayerfully selected, her own baby fed and snuggled into his car seat, watching the proceedings through sleepy new eyes... and she was  ready to sing, hair done and pants on, ready to lead us. We prayed, we practiced, and I found myself holding my breath as I listened to her clear voice leading us through one of the hymns, struck both by the purity of the tone and the genuineness and gentleness of her spirit. She’s the real deal.

For a few months after my grandson was born, I couldn’t be around Gaëlle enough. I wanted to cherish her every moment I could as my child, my baby girl, my own dear daughter who had done this really big thing. I longed to be near her, watch her, help her. I was totally in love with her. Real, true love.

The part that I find so amazing, though, is that I suddenly realized yesterday that I easily forget the part where I had anything to do with her birth and upbringing as I sit and chat with her, eat a meal, laugh at memes and videos she sends me, cry together over loss or heartbreak, watch her baby sleep or do new things, or sing together at church. She’s my sister, my confidant, my co-conspirator, my leader, my mentor, my friend. Gaëlle Alicia Langille is not mine. She’s  God’s masterpiece. What a real blessing!

Getting Rid of the Baby Fat

Well, it's time to lose the baby fat. I've had four beautiful babies and I gained a little more permanent weight with each one, but the latest pounds have been the trickiest... The ones I gained after one of those babies got married... when my littlest girl got married. Wasn’t it yesterday that I was getting out of a 7pm movie with her dad? Could it have been 23 years ago that we wandered over to the DQ for a strawberry misty cooler, two weeks overdue with an appointment the next day with the dentist and an appointment for ANOTHER ultrasound ...when  I finally just looked at Andrew and said, “Take me to the hospital; I'm having this baby.” I had plunked my butt in that waiting room and wouldn't go home even though they said my contractions were just false labour and they had been stuck at 10 min apart for days... ‘til they finally called Dr White and she came in to see me and said a more patient doctor would send me home and wait but she wanted to see this baby so she was going to rupture my membranes so this little sweetheart could just slide on our into the world. And that's just what she did. Dr White broke my waters at midnight and Jessica was born 45 min later... that dear lady held that baby up and said she thought this one was 7 lbs 4 oz and that’s what she was. I held that little miracle and she grasped my finger and looked in my eyes and nursed right away and fell asleep and I called and cancelled my appointments with Dr Ingham 🦷 and with the ultrasound Dept 💕

How was this not just yesterday? 

I'm just thinking, when your youngest baby was born 18 years ago, baby weight is no longer a viable nor credible excuse...this extra 50 pounds I'm sporting, though lovely and matronly and curvy, is now officially a cookie baby, it's raising my blood pressure, decreasing my flexibility and endurance, hurting my feet, putting me at risk for type two diabetes or heart troubles; maybe even shortening my lifespan... Ain't nobody got time fo that. I love hanging out with my children and granddaughter, playing, swimming, hiking, getting smeared with ice cream at the annual Bayswater Beach Bash by them (angry face, Ted Beeler). 

So I've read Mark MacDonald's book Body Confidence and I've been listening to LIFE fitness cds in preparation for my new and forever approach to food. I've had results with diets before, they definitely have worked for me, but I'm not interested in doing this again, EVER, and I'm DEFINITELY not interested in what always has happens AFTER my diet results. Which has been for me to put it back on plus 10. No way. I'm doing this once. And the only way will be to change the way I think about food. That will change my habits, and that will give me the results I want.

My hero Lana did it: entered and PLACED in her first ever fitness competition. My bestie Catherine cheered me on with the words, "make the decision to do this once, Sonya" ( she has since placed second in a fitness competition too!) My best boo Marcia tied her weight loss and fitness goals to her effectiveness and transparency and consistency as a leader, lost her weight and inspired  her team...and that resonates with me deeply. 

If you ask me to list the top priorities of my life, I'll rattle 'em off: God, family, health... And yet I live my days in a way that doesn't reflect health as the third priority of my LIFE. Which means it's not a priority. Ouch. 

I've been listening to a teaching pack on finances and in one of the CDs, it says something that made me pause, brush midair, step off the ladder and rewind the cd back to hear it again. And what's funny is, I've heard him say it loads of times. I've even listened to that cd before many times. I've even SAID it to people. But like Lana says ALL the time, "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear." What I heard on the CD was this: most people don't have a financial problem; they have a wisdom problem." I immediately recalled what I heard said last week, "you don't fix money problems with more money. You fix money problems with better information. How you help a kid get from grade two to grade three is you teach him a whole bunch of new information."

I love that!

Andrew took me on a honeymoon...23 years delayed, mind you, but it was TOTALLY WICKED! After our FIRST daughter Gaëlle got back from the Disney Cruise she and Jordan went on for their honeymoon, she convinced her dad that we should be the next people we send on a honeymoon, so Andrew booked it and we counted down the days.

As the date drew closer we thought a lot about the bodies we WISHED we had for this trip, but instead of going on a crash diet to try to lose weight BEFORE the cruise, we started dreaming about
the kinds of food we'd be able to eat and the activities we'd have time to do WHILE we were cruising. So when we hit the buffet we were PSYCHED about the seafood and colourful fruit and
veggie choices... We ate all the best, most colourful foods and we made sure we ate a nice variety every three hours, finishing off the day with an elegant dinner with friends and a small delicious dessert we could share.

We found out that three laps of the ship was a mile so we were excited about how many laps we could do each day and how much we improved over the course of our eight day visit. We went on hiking tours and went swimming several times a day and  ONLY took the stairs, planning our day around ensuring we had to walk the farthest and do the most stairs. We came home  lighter, fitter and thinking completely differently about the way we  feed and  care for our bodies. I'm a little over halfway to my goal to lose fifty pounds and I'm so excited and pleased about how much more energy I have and how much stronger I feel. My blood pressure is consistently excellent and I don't seem to need naps to get me through the afternoons! But the best result has been by far how much more I believe in my own ability to change and grow and keep the promises I make to myself. I feel like a champion every day.

Now that little Jessica, born just yesterday but somehow a full grown married lady now, is an incredibly disciplined, fit encourager and has agreed to coach me into shape! Here we go, Jess! Let the adventure begin!!!

"Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have 
received from God? You are not your own;" 1 Corinthians 6:19

Out of Nowhere

It can come out of nowhere. 

We were in a meeting at the firehall, bunch of us learning and soaking up some courage from Phil and Catherine Wall. Andrew and I were excited to be there together with our friends, since we so often don't seem to be able to go to these meetings together; schedules so full we're pulled in different directions. 

I was carrying a little sadness in my heart for a former neighbour who had passed away that morning after a very sudden, short battle with cancer. There really wasn't a battle. It blew in like a maritime storm and dragged her out to sea. So I was more than a little introspective, and very conscious of the brevity of this life.

My phone buzzed with the message, 

I texted back, that no one had, thinking he and Brittany might be expecting again, or wondering if he'd been hurt in some way, or that maybe it was about something he was going to sing….I'd just had a nice afternoon with the Fletchers and their dear baby girl a few weeks earlier so I hoped this news was that it was another baby on the way, even if it WAS soon...They made such a great family and I'd loved hanging out with them that day at Adam and Carito's. 

So at the first break, I dashed outside with my phone to call Heather.

Like I said, it can come out of nowhere.

It can take you to your knees.

Heather told me she had bad news; that Jonathan Fletcher was gone. He had died. A brain aneurism during or before or after he was onstage at his morning worship service, singing. 

Jonathan Fletcher was always singing. He was wonderful at it. Whether it was a praise song or a perfect rendition of Ursula the sea witch’s “Poor Unfortunate Souls”… he was brilliant… And he was 31. He couldn't NOT be. Heather  must have got it wrong  somehow. I cried alone in my car for a half hour until Andrew came out to find me. I somehow choked this terrible news to him. He was stunned, thinking, as I had, that Heather had somehow got it wrong. 

Even now, I can't really talk about it, and my eyes are too blurred with tears to keep typing…

I've so often heard people say, "It's never too late," and I just want to shake them and look in their eyes and somehow convey to them that that is simply not true. Terrible news can come out of nowhere, bringing with it a too late. Chris Brady is FAMOUS for saying, "There IS a too late," but I've known it to be true since the day my mom died thirty years ago from cancer and the three grueling years of on and off again chemotherapy that went with it… that same morning while we waited for mom to slip into eternity, I’d been brought to my knees by another “ too late” as I numbly scanned the newspaper and found that my high school friend Jill Punch had just died at age 18. I knew it when our best friend Ted died at age 20 of a brain tumour; when Jackie Lewis, in her early thirties, died suddenly after a trip down south; when Andrew told me that my friend Catherine’s beautiful daughter Jennifer had been killed suddenly on the highway a few miles from our home at Christmas time; when Jordan's uncle was lost suddenly in a fatal accident last month...

And I was to get another call the week following Jonathan's death, as my brother in law died suddenly of a heart attack, leaving my nieces lost and heartbroken.

It just came out of nowhere. 

So when I got a call last week from my stepmumm, I dropped to my knees when I heard the words," I have some bad news."

It WAS bad news, but, dear friends, though I cried for a solid hour on the phone with Deb, I was filled with this inexplicable thankfulness. 

Dad has cancer. And it's bad. But it's not too late. This is not our too late. I still have my dad and we still have time. Time to talk and laugh and cry and hug and look at each other and learn from each other. We'll talk about life and love and we'll talk about family and friends and art and nature and faith. We’ll talk about good news.  

Bad news.

It can come of nowhere.

I'm so glad we still have time

To talk about good news. 

Mudslinging

Wow! Did we ever get dirty today! What were we doing, you ask?

Mudslinging. Literally. We mixed cement in round shallow tubs then troweled some out onto boards with trowels. Palettes, broken tiles.. Whatever we could find really, and then we'd wet a section of wall, pick up a glob of muddy cement with our makeshift trowels, aim, and then we'd FLING it at the wall until it was covered.

And until we were covered.

Good times in Ecuador, kids. Good times. Adam would mix the cement PERFECTLY so the cement would stick to the wall; the little builder would come and chuck in a gallon of water to thin it out; Adam would shovel in more cement. Tamara suddenly got a chemical burn all over her legs which Adam treated immediately and effectively. She'd already done twice the mudslinging of the rest of us and had been incredibly effective so we encouraged her to back away from the toxic concrete... Really, she was making us look bad...

We worked hard. 

Then mama Carito helped us all wash up as best we could and we called it a day... Had the BEST ice cream break at a gas station on the way back... Ice cream bars taste mighty awesome when you're sweaty and dirty and exhausted and you just peed in a toilet with no seat and a barrel of water for flushing... No tp... 

Like I said. Good times! 

But the encouragement of a team full of women and men who genuinely love the Lord and love each other, the wonderful meals, the friendship of our drivers Ricardo and Daniel and Julio and our amazing friend and translator and protector Tatiana, and the laughter and singing and sharing each others stories and hopes and pain and fears and joys in the van to and from our work? 

I find myself without words. 

We love you and miss you and are so thankful for your encouragement and prayers and this opportunity to serve and love and represent you and all you've poured into us. 

Dios te bendiga

God bless you

"By the grace of God I am what I am",

Your friend,


Sonya

My husband's a big guy. In his own words:" I displace a LOT of water. Add a big ol' hat on top of that and you've got a landmark. So just like Curious George's man in the big yellow hat, Andrew Beeler led us through the airports in Halifax, Toronto, Panama and Guayaquil. At one point I stood back to watch and laugh as we tried to get the group to follow Adam while Andrew took the rear guard. The whole team of little monkeys just stopped walking, still continuing the various conversations, gathered around the hat while we, almost shouting, urged them to keep walking.

Well, big as be is, Andrews size is eclipsed by his heart. He's tenacious, persistent, fiercely, pitbullishly loyal, and always ready to serve. Like my old pal Sinclair who just went home to meet his Saviour face to face, Andrew's motto could be " I serve".

You never know what's going to happen when Andrew's around and you never know what's going to come out of his mouth, but you know you're in for a fast ride and a belly laugh of a good time.

He's been keeping track of his time here by writing emails to me and the folks back home and I thought it would be a great way for you to get a taste of what's shakin' down in Ecuador since they let the Canadians into the country... So here's Andrew's view, uncut, unrated, unedited, unstoppable:

Long hard day of work and then setting the prison bags with items, and Carito wants us to go to the top of the stairs tonight!!! 

It's awesome. Ran into another missionary group here supporting their missionary candidate. They are from Mississippi.

Great group this is there last day

Here.

We're just getting ready for dinner and then the stairs. I'm a big snow man melting in a hurry down here. All the Ecuadorian workers look at me with pity in their eyes.

I soaked an hour in the pool and played "loco" (monkey in the middle) with two 12 year old local boys, Miguel and hoi-cho(spelling). Carito doesn't trust me when I relay Spanish to her. Miguel said the game in english( crazies) with a Spanish accent and I thought he said creaser- in Spanish and she couldn't translate it and thought I was crazy.

Ill send this to her and Sonya maybe Sonya can blog it.

I have a couple photos and ill send more of the construction when I get them.

Yours in Christ

Andrew

Back in My Boots

Well, I dusted off those steel-toed boots and headed back to Ecuador.

I know, I know, I haven't written a word since the day I said good-bye to Nanny. I just didn't. I can't tell you how often I sat in front of the computer looking at that great picture of the two of us together, how many times I read over and over the words I'd written, feeling all the love and hope and despair and gratitude that was wrapped up in them, thinking, "Wow I really would like to write down what happened today"... but I just couldn't get away from that goodbye page.

That is, until now. My friend Deb suggested I just write down that I was having trouble writing stuff down. Genius, that girl. Pure genius.

What WASN'T genius was me getting eyelash extensions at the start of a trip to Ecuador. You can't cry for 7 days, they said. Don't get them wet, they said...AS they were applying extensions to the second eye. After you've had one eye Eva Gabor-ed, you can't very well stop the process, so I decided I was just not going to cry.
  

BAHAHAHAHAHAH!!! Hello, have we met? I cry at movies; I cry reading books; I cry every time Carrie Underwood puts out a new song; I'm a mess at every church service; I lose it when my daughter leaves to go to her home 6 minutes down the road; tears spring to my eyes when someone puts away the dishes...you get the picture.

So my next genius idea was to put away my glasses. If I can't see stuff, I can't cry about it, right? I'll just enjoy the journey, build the house, pack the bags and backpacks for the children and prison inmates, and make no eye contact. I can't see anyone's eyes without my glasses anyway, right?



Well I really made out pretty well. Surprised myself. People kept looking over at me during moving moments and, although there were a few lumpy-throated close calls, I was a stone, man. Children, puppies, babies, reunions with old friends...nothin'. But, you see, I didn't have my glasses on, so I wasn't really seeing these things. Not really. Just a blurry representation of a much sharper reality. My focus was on my eyelashes. My focus was on myself.

After lunch with the group we packed into the van to go to see a friend of Carito's, a widow she knows who needed support. As we traveled there, Carito explained that this lady had not only lost her husband, but that her 31 year old son had died of a heart attack soon after that. And that she was taking care of her sick mother. We were going over to encourage her and to give her some groceries to help with the financial burden of taking care of her home and her mama with the little she was able to bring in as a seamstress.

I still didn't have my glasses on.

Carito introduced us all, we hugged and greeted her and then listened without understanding as Carito spoke with her in Spanish. They both conversed a bit and cried with each other and then Carito asked if any of us had anything to say to her. We didn't know what to say. My heart pounded as I thought of Isaiah 41 verse 10, thinking, "I could tell her those words of comfort". They had sprung immediately to mind and Pastor Les had helped us all memorize the verse word for word so I knew WHAT to say. But I didn't say anything. Because I wasn't really involved. I wasn't listening with understanding and I wasn't looking to see.

But just as we were leaving I stopped to say goodbye to the lady's mother, who was sitting by the front door, just watching the whole event, with what seemed like a vague disinterest. And as I leaned in to kiss her and say one of the few phrases I've learned for farewell, something happened. My eyes were suddenly locked with hers. And I knew immediately that this lady had dementia.Well. That's my gig. I face that disease every day. And as we looked at each other I knew she deserved more than an unseeing, un-hearing, un-involved greeting from a stranger. I knelt down and talked to her. Tatiana, my friend and our awesome translator confirmed that this dear lady has Alzheimer's disease, and then Tatiana helped me say a few words to her. I held the mama's face in my hands and smiled into her eyes and matched the tone of her voice and let her know I loved her. I lingered a moment more,  listening to her little voice, then kissed her and went out to the van. I dug through my backpack...

...and I put my glasses on.

As the tears started to roll down my cheeks I thanked God for such an obvious lesson. And for such clear vision.

I've cried a few more times in the 30 hours that have passed since that moment. Just a few, ha ha.

The eyelashes are fine. They're still hanging on.

But my eyes? My EYES are OPEN and my eyes are AWESOME!

"Do not fear, for I am with you. Do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." ~Isaiah 41:10

"Those who have eyes that see what God sees find was to help the helpless"~Julie Ackerman Link

Now, if you want to hear what's actually going on in Ecuador, my pal Lisa has been writing about it here:

http://allthingsjoyous.wordpress.com

Love you all!!!

Sonya

Here in the Silence

I could watch this face forever. I could just sit here in the silence and drink in each line, each curve, every soft inch for hours.

I love my Nanny. 

My eye traces the scar just above her left temple, where the silver cloud of once black hair pulls back just a bit, refusing to conceal this reminder to me of the fragility, the vulnerability inherent in even the most courageous, resilient lives. 

I still feel responsible. It was probably a dozen years ago when Nanny was a young octogenarian. We were visiting Aunt Margie, laughing as we approached the front steps, when suddenly my dear nanny just tripped over the edge of the walkway and fell, striking her head on the iron rail. I'd never seen a head wound, and I'm not prepared to turn your stomach this morning by letting you in on the grisly details, but I do remember needing to pull off my pale pink cotton sweater and wrap it tightly around her head and quickly realizing it wasn't thick enough to absorb all the blood. The cut was so awful that, when the ambulance arrived just minutes later, one attendant let out some choice expletives and was rebuked softly by my weakened but ever alert Nanny, for his language.

Nanny's hand moves to the edge of the blanket, lingers for a moment then lays curled once more on top of the beautiful flowered nightgown Aunt Nellie bought for her. I love those little hands. Hands that crocheted baby clothes and knitted Barbie outfits, crafted lacey doilies, kneaded bread, washed dishes, washed and untangled and cut my mop of red hair, patted my hand as she sat beside my bed when I couldn't sleep, couldn't breathe, couldn't cope. Hands that comforted my mother when she was a baby,  corrected her when she was a child, folded in prayer for her when she was broken-hearted and lost, and that cared for and comforted her once more when she was sick and frail and dying. 

Nanny's chest rises and falls evenly with each breath, a little pulse visible at the base of her throat, and with each breath, each heartbeat, I can hear the faint echo of her long ago alto blending with and supporting my thin childish soprano in the little Independent Baptist Church in Lockeport. I hear her light, fun "mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy...a kid'll eat ivy too, wouldn't you?" while she washes the dishes, I dry them, and Grandad reads his Bible and twirls his hair in the rocker in the front room. And I hear her more recently, clearly singing ditties and hymns, tapping her hands against her lap, or smacking Jessica's teasing fingers, grinning up at Gaëlle, rolling her eyes at me, not a self-conscious care in the world, no more dishes to wash, hair to braid, cookies to shape or clothes to fold or mend. 

So I sit and watch this face, these hands,  and I wait. She's ready to go home. She's fought the good fight, finished this race. And it's my honour, my delight to spend a few hours, cheering her on to the finish line. 

Oh yes, I'm sad...when i find myself alone and unguarded my whole body shakes with the sobs of grief; my heart is heavy with loss and with shadowy moments of regret and sorrow. But this is not sad. It's a victorious end to a life well-lived,  the beginning of a legacy of 3 children, 8 grandchildren and 24 great grandchildren who have all put their trust in her Saviour and Friend, and who will continue to train up her 6 plus great great grandchildren to love and serve him. 

I hope I get to watch that face again tonight. But if I don't, thank you, Nanny. I'll see you soon...hug Grandad and Mom and Auntie May and Aunt Millie and Uncle Gordie and little Bethany for me...

Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised. Give her the reward she has earned, and let her works bring her praise at the city gate~ Proverbs 31:30-31

He's Gotcha Covered

I had a bit of an "aha" moment yesterday. Over the silliest little thing, really, but isn't that the way it usually is? An apple falls on a guy's head and gravity is discovered. Another guy does a silly dance on YouTube, a million people get a laugh and the guy gets a contract to do a TED talk.  A colossal big marital fight, I mean a "he's sleeping on the couch, she calls a marriage councillor, knock em down, drag em out, I'm going home to mother" spat usually starts with something neither can recall after they finally make up. Not that Andrew and I have EVER experienced such a row, but I've heard of such things...

I was scooping cocoa out of the can to make brownies for Bob, and I gave myself a great long slice on the back of my thumb, as I swirled the scoop to get more cocoa. It wasn't serious... silly, really, and I just shook my head and continued to prepare the batter. 

Usually, I suck on the wound, run it under water, pat it dry, polysporin and bandage the cut... but I knew Bob would wake soon and I didn't want to take one extra second of time. So I just kept my eye on the cut and kept working. Soon, however, I noticed the blood drop getting bigger and bigger, and I was just starting to think that I'd probably HAVE to stop soon or they'd be bloody awful brownies, literally, when the drop stopped growing and I realized I could just let it be. Faster than I thought it would, it dried up into a neat little seal and I let it stay there while I finished getting the brownies ready for the oven.

The first thing I thought was how awesome the human body is to stop its own leaks with the stuff that was leaking. 

That's pretty sweet design. 

And then it struck me that the cut DID NOT hurt. Not even a bit. EVERY cut I get hurts. Me and cuts aren't real good together and I'm not the most stoic patient. I've fainted, cried, hollered, screamed...and those were the paper cuts. I don't do pain well. You'd better clear the room if I stub a toe. 

So this little miracle fluid that plugged the leak, solidified into an organic plaster to shield  the wound from dirt and germs, to keep the good stuff in and the bad stuff out, was also an analgesic. Wow. Really! Wowwww! Did you know that? 

And so that was my aha moment. Sucking my thumb, licking my wounds, washing them clean, applying salve and a bandaid wasn't as completely awesome as just letting my body do what it was designed to do, because the blood-covering was healing, protecting, restorative and took away the pain!  

And, of course, you know me, that "aha" moment reminded me of my faith life. If you're not a Christian, what I say next may not make sense, so I'll give a little background intel:

As a Christian, I believe that God's son, Jesus Christ stepped into human history just over 2000 years ago, lived the perfect life I couldn't live and died the death I should have died so that I can spend my eternal life with my just and holy Father. One way we think of this is that we, broken and soiled with the stains of daily missing the mark of the goodness we were designed for, are covered by the blood of the one who saved us. He reached right into the dumpster, redeemed us, took our place, paid our price, made us new and clean and forgiven and capable of a relationship with our creator. 

That's kind of my Reader's Digest version of much more spectacular and wonderful good news, and if my explanation doesn't make sense read Mere Christianity by CSLewis (you know, the Narnia guy) and he'll do a much better job...

When we believe and trust His plan, stop sucking our thumbs, and licking our wounds, trying to wash ourselves clean, and making up stuff to soothe and cover our mistakes up, and just let Him stop the gap, provide protection and healing, He takes away the pain, too. 

Sometimes, when the wound is bigger, of course, pressure is needed, stitching up, help from others...and God's ready and able with all those supplies at his fingertips. Sometimes, the wound is too big for this life. You need a whole new one. And he's got that covered too. 

But this big "aha" moment was just caused by a little scratch. Like so many others. 

He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds~Psalm 147:3

He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.

~Revelations 21:4

It was a day to honour mothers...

Isn't Mother's Day awesome?

And awful all at the same time?

In the early years of motherhood it's awesome for the breakfasts of burned toast smeared with peanut butter and a side of kool-aid, a mystery gift the grade p-2 teachers thoughtfully, creatively urged little hands to craft, the fistful of dandelions and your neighbours's tulips and forsythias and magnolia blossoms. Later on for the brunches and presents and cards picked out for just the right words or sentiments or private joke.

Awful if your mom is gone, or lost in illness or wasn't there for you physically or emotionally, or worse, if she was broken and had a role in breaking you.

Awesome for the closeness the day inspires, for the memories evoked and retold and laughed about and cried about.

Awful for the distance the day calls to mind if you've lost a child, or if a grown child is lost in other ways, or just physically living far away.

I've had both kinds of mothers days, awesome and awful, sometimes, most times, all rolled into one.

But this year was the best Mother's Day I've ever known. The absolute best, come big or stay home, no regrets Mother's Day.

And it was all framed up and set up for success by the words of my daughter Gaëlle. She took the time and thought and discipline to write something meaningful and specific about me in the 12 days leading up to the day.

Andrew and I have never been the best gift-givers in the world. Spontaneous gifts of love, sure. But those gifts, carefully, thoughtfully planned and shopped for, that arrive exactly on the day of your milestone or celebration or change of relationship status on Facebook? Terrible. Like Liz McEwan says, "We know you have a birthday this year; we'll get to it..."

So we don't go in for a lot of card and present giving. Our children, probably scarred by our apathy, are turning out to be rather amazing at it among themselves and with their friends, but they know it's not really my deal.

So I was swept off my feet by this gift of words. Sure, I loved the hamburger stacker and blender and lettuce cutter my hubby wrapped up for me from the kids.. I loved the DQ smoothie Stoneridge Fellowship had waiting for me after an amazing, fun, Mom-edifying and celebrating service...And I loved the surprise visit to my FAVE Mother's Day spot... Swiss Chalet (musical notes...always so good for so little...more musical notes). And I loved the cheesies and lime pop and cherry blossom and chips and dip my daughter brought over to share with me..(oh my fractured fitness goals).

But the encouragement and inspiration and, well, really, just the validation that those words brought into my life? And not only my life, but since she used facebook, it probably encouraged others to think about their own awesome relationships. That's forever. That's wholesome, and helpful, edifying (which means it builds others up), and of great value.

That's a Mother's Day gift. Thanks honey.

"Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen"~Ephesians 4:29

But God

It's been exactly a year since Andrew and I jumped on a plane with 10 strangers to go build houses in Guayaquil, Ecuador.

If you don't know me that doesn't sound that outrageous. Honestly, it doesn't sound like much of a leap for a Christian couple to make...right? After all, we're commissioned to go into all the world. We're called to help the widows and orphans. We're called to love our neighbour.

But if you DO know me, you know how very bizarre the whole thing sounds. I had heard the same great commission my fellow brothers and sisters in Christ had heard. From the same Holy Bible read by Mother Theresa and Leslie Chymist and Manfred Kohl. But I always thought the GOING part referred to other people. To missionaries and visionaries. So I did what people like me do. I memorized the verses; I liked and shared pictures of the widows and orphans on Facebook; I baked casseroles and cookies for my neighbours; I played the guitar and sang to the little ones in Sunday School. That was my GO. And it was good and comfortable and brightened the corner where I was.

I had left a career in banking to raise my four six-and-unders. And with that conscious decision to cut our income in half, in an effort to double the time we could invest in our children, we both had learned to live...frugally. I learned to make bread, play dough, mayonnaise, mittens. He didn't buy new tools. I didn't buy new shoes. The children didn't get dunkaroos. A vacation was taking our minivan, canoe strapped on top, children amused with library books and a dollar store game, to Kejimkuji to stay in a tent in the rain with our wet dog.

We didn't fly places.

People like me didn't fly to Ecuador to build houses. I certainly didn't own the required steel toed boots, goggles and work gloves.

But my husband? Well, if you know Andrew Beeler, you know he was born to build! He built our home in between shifts as a rookie police officer in the first few years of his twenties. No experience, no real house plans, no formal training, just pluck and courage and HEART. So when I read the one line promo in the church bulletin, I knew right away that he was supposed to go. I scribbled on the bulletin right away, "they need you, Andrew!" and thrust it over his way during the announcement time. He looked at it with mild curiosity because he knew we didn't have extra money for trips. We were budgeted down to last penny. Remember us?

He didn't buy tools;
I didn't buy shoes;
The kids didn't get no dunkaroos...

But God...

It may have been that very week or it may have been earlier that I heard Pastor Calder say "with God, there's always a meanwhile," and God was already at work, laying on my husband's heart the possibility that we could trust Him with this. Within a few weeks, the tug was so strong that every time we saw the word Ecuador we would look at each other with the spark of belief that Andrew could actually go to Ecuador and make a difference. When he filled out his application I promised I would help him fund raise and I thought all the big deciding was over.

But God...

Suddenly every time I saw anything connected with Ecuador or even any children or women in need ANYWHERE, I would cry like a baby. I know, I know... Not unusual for me if you've ever actually looked at me and noticed the runny dribbles of mascara beneath perpetually moist eyes during Sunday service. I'm always a little surprised our dear pastors can even look at me during their sermons and stay on track, my face is such a clear window into my heart...

But this seemed different somehow. There was a tug I'm just not used to feeling. It took me WEEKS, my dears, to finally admit to Andrew that I had this feeling I was supposed to go with him. What finally made me 'fess up was this cd I was enjoying on my way home one afternoon by Liz and Bob McEwan on marriage. Liz talked of a time when her children were all little and she'd still made the decision to go with Senator McEwan to China. She talked about the bond of those shared experiences and how they still value that decision decades later. So I cried one more time all the way to the back of the church to get my own application from Cindy.

Andrew and I prayed and God totally came through with all the funds needed for both of us to go... On the very last day, just so we'd know it was Him.

But don't think it didn't occur to me, again and again, that I didn't have anything to offer. Why do we do that to ourselves? Why do we undervalue the incredible work God has done to create us and equip us for His great plans? What about the resourcefulness and creativity it took to learn how to make bread, play dough, mayonnaise and mittens? What about the love and self-discipline it took to dedicate my career years to training up four children? What about the faithfulness and enthusiasm it took to lead children in worship?

We went. We learned to work together and support each other. We built houses. We dug in weedy, rocky garbage-strewn hills. We dug in muck and pig pens. We met women and their little ones, men and their grandchildren, pastors and youth workers in love with their Lord and their people. We hugged them and prayed with them, made balloon animals, played hopscotch, sorted nails, unloaded tippy trucks of their burdens of building supplies. We sweated, we sang, we laughed, we sobbed, we teased and tormented each other, listened to each others' stories, worked hard, walked and drove and laid in hammocks, shooed the cat off our breakfast table, avoided the smelly dog. We brought our gifts and personalities and uniqueness to the table and used them all with every bit of our selves and hearts and strength.

And we learned so much. You could ask any of us. We got more than we gave. We went to be with our brothers and sisters in another part of the world. And we were welcomed and celebrated and loved.

As we drove away from one of the two houses we put up one hot day, filthy and tired and deeply happy, we saw a little boy sweeping out his corner of the new home he would share with his three brothers and sisters, and we were quiet. This boy was like our boys. That father wanted the best for his family and worried about them and prayed for them. This mother cried over her sick baby, the spoiling food in the fridge that had no power; her family's well being. And although none of us could fix everything, that day we had been able to make a difference for that family. A home, food, clean new beds. Some privacy for mom and dad. Medicine for the baby for a few years until we can come back again. And a connection. We all prayed together, Ecuadorian and Canadian children of God, being together and loving each other.

I didn't think I was the kind of person who could ever do this kind of thing.

But God...

But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong~1 Corinthians 1:27