Burden Bearing

My Dad has often talked about a sermon he read years ago. It was delivered by the Rev George W Truett on June 12, 1917, in Fort Worth, Texas. It was entitled "What To Do With Life's Burdens."

There are three texts in scripture laying out how we should deal with the burdens that weigh us down in different degrees.

1. Each person should bear his or her own burden. The Apostle Paul's letter to the Galatians chapter 6 and verse 5 says this: "For every man shall bear his own burden." Another translation puts it this way: "For each will have to bear his own load" (ESV). 

Each of us has been born with a purpose for our lives. And with that purpose comes a responsibility to pull our weight, to face up to and accept what it is we are called to do. No one else is just like us; so no one else can do for us exactly what we need to do for ourselves. We need to carry our load when we are able, with the strength and the talents we have been given.

2. We should bear one another's burdens. Verse 2 in the same chapter of the book of Galatians says this: "Bear one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ."

I thought about that quite a bit. What is the law of Christ to which Paul is referring? Jesus said that the commandment Love your neighbour as yourself is second only to loving God himself. And in the room where he talked to his disciples shortly before he would be arrested and crucified, he made the words even more personal, even more pointed: Love one another, he said to them.

If we were to care for someone as we would care for ourselves, we would do what we could to help that person, wouldn't we? One of my favourite verses is to be found in the letter to the Ephesians, chapter 4 and verse 32: Be kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another even as God for Christ's sake has forgiven you. This is how we can bear each other's burdens: kindly, with tenderheartedness and forgiveness, knowing that that is how God treats us. We should do whatever we can to ease our fellow journeyers' load when we can.

3. Cast our burden onto God. The 55th Psalm, verse 22, tells us just that: Cast your burden upon the Lord and he shall sustain you; he shall never suffer the righteous to be moved. There are some things that are just too big for us to bear alone. It seems like the waters are so muddied, the situation so difficult, that there is no one to whom we can turn except God. And he encourages us to do just that; he promises that when we do, he will be there to support us, to carry us through the deep waters we are encountering.

I saw all of this firsthand today. I encountered a difficult situation with a client yesterday evening; I thought late into the night what I could do to rectify the situation, to get us back on track. At about 2 a.m. I came to the conclusion that there was absolutely nothing I could do. I couldn't bear this burden by myself. So I cast it onto God. You know better than I do, dear Father, I prayed. Please take this situation, take control of it. Let it play out to benefit this client, to work for Carswell, and to glorify you. I leave it with you.

Enter my friend Sandra. She is located in Toronto but she works alongside me to ensure our key customers' information and service needs are met and that they are empowered in turn to do their job, whatever form that might take.

Sandra and I on my trip to head office in October

I emailed Sandra this morning, laying out the situation. Not too much later I received an email back saying she had researched behind the scenes, an area I cannot touch out here in Alberta; and she had orchestrated the solution - it was all taken care of.

You know what impressed me most of all? This customer is not even a client that falls under Sandra's umbrella! She bore my burden on top of bearing her own heavy load today. And in addition, she gave me words of encouragement: "You have the customers' interest at heart at all times ..."

Sandra is one of the dearest people to me at Carswell. Not only do we work together, we have prayed together and laughed and cried together. I can tell her things that I can't talk about to many people because I know that she listens with tenderheartedness and holds my confidences with kindness. She seeks my good, as I do hers. And she seeks the good of all those around her. She truly loves her neighbour.

Through Sandra's cheerful hoisting of my burden onto her shoulders today, I experienced all three aspects of burden bearing. I carried the burden for myself for a while; when it grew too onerous for me, I gave it to God; and he in turn led me to Sandra, who took up the part that could be fixed with our human capacity.

I hope that every one reading this has strength for the day and for the burdens you have to bear; I hope you have a Sandra in your life to pick you up when you are bent double; and, most of all, when things are at an impasse, I hope you know God is always waiting to hear us, ready to take up our burdens himself.

I am so blessed.

Our colleague Derek, who also does all
he can to help with the load!

Gap Analysis

Four days' lag time from the last post to this one! Three days ago my director called me up fairly late in the afternoon and requested in-depth analysis of certain areas of my territory. He called it "Gap Analysis" and "sorry for the short notice, KI" - he needed it all done by first thing Friday morning Toronto time.

And then he emailed me the data from which I would be working. 

I dug in on Wednesday morning and struggled late into the night: I contacted professors, librarians, bookstores; I researched courses and websites; I prowled through my own work history. I didn't make much of a dent.

Thursday loomed large and menacing. I was conscious of all the dishes piled up in the kitchen from the regular Wednesday evening meeting, but I pushed them out of my mind. I kept all the blinds shut in the room, so no one would come by. I turned off the ringer on my phone. Fortified with cup after cup of Dilmah tea, I finally saw the light at the end of the tunnel. 

At 4:45, early on Friday morning, I eased my computer into "Sleep" mode and headed off to bed myself with only a glancing thought of the dishes.

An hour later Debbie, the lady who cleans the TH every week, arrived.

When I got downstairs at 9:30, preparing for my phone meeting, I apologized for the state of the kitchen; she volunteered to do the dishes, but I took one look at her tired face and gratefully declined. "I'll get them done this evening," I assured her.

I hurtled into Red Deer and met a dear friend for a late lunch and a much-needed chat. Then it was on to the grocery run to get supplies for the turkey dinner we serve each Thanksgiving Sunday.

I finally limped home at about 7:30, to be greeted with the outside lights on, welcoming me. I unlocked the back door and the entry light was on. Wandering into the kitchen, I saw that it was spotless, the counters gleaming and the tell-tale little light of the dishwasher glowing.

This could mean only one thing: Brenda had been in the house ...

No Thanksgiving month can go by without my giving thanks for this wonderful woman and friend to the TH and to me. On Monday she had had an encounter with the sidewalk where the sidewalk won. Her glasses were scratched and her poor face was bruised; her back felt like she had been pounded on by a street gang.

Brenda demonstrates, usually behind the scenes, the grace of God to me every single week. She drops by, ostensibly to say hi, and immediately puts on an apron. When we are running behind in the kitchen, she walks around the dining room, chatting to people at each table, serving refills of coffee and water, clearing plates and offering reassurance. The mood in the room lightens after she's been out there for a few minutes.

She helps with the Tuesday Manor meeting and the Wednesday TH meeting as well. When I have to go away, I know I can leave the details in her capable hands.

Most of all, she listens to me, she prays for me, and she loves me. She offers wise counsel and she can keep her counsel.

As I started to get ready for the weekend I reviewed the week in my mind. "Gap Analysis" had dominated my thoughts and time; but I had received no idea if the information I had submitted was correct or how it would benefit the organization.

I compared that situation to a statement in the book of Ezekiel:

And I sought for a man among them who should build up the wall and stand in the gap before me for the land ... (chapter 22, first part of verse 30)

God is saying these words, and He goes on to say that there was no one to stand in the gap.

This week I felt like the gap was so big it was turning into a precipice. Analyzing it only made it worse. And then Brenda came along and stood in it, doing whatever she could, quietly and with no fanfare and no expectation of reward or praise. She just did it for the glory of God and because she saw a place where she could be of service.

She analysed the gap and filled it.

Here's a deceptively simple, simply exquisite interpretation of the old hymn "I Need Thee Every Hour": 

In Every Thing Give Thanks

October is "thanksgiving month" here at Reading the Leaves. It's the month that I try to write each day about something for which I am thankful.

I have so much to be thankful for this year; my heart some mornings feels like it could burst when I think of all the many goodnesses that fill my life, ranging from Bob's sweet little lemon loaves to gracious Debbie, who has taken over cleaning the TH every week as part of the many ministries she is involved in all over town.

But even though my heart is overflowing, the words are having great difficulty being released from inside me to RtL this year. Nevertheless, I will try, on as many days as I can, to tell you one thing for which I am grateful this month.

________________________________________________________

I was dreading the flight to Toronto last night: I was already so tired from the weekend, then I had a full Monday, and the Tuesday 00:05 departure loomed over my head like that cloud of crows over the dead porcupine on the bridge to Big Valley last Sunday morning.

I checked in and cleared security in good time and managed to find a comfy armchair in which to rest and wait for the boarding call. I whiled away the minutes by chatting to a friend on the phone. We were talking about how much we had to be thankful for and while we spoke, the verse from Paul's first letter to the Thessalonians came to our minds:

In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you (I Thessalonians 5:18)

And it struck me for the first time ever that notwithstanding all the hours I spend thinking about God's will for my life and praying that it will be revealed to me, God's will has been right in front of me all these years.

God's will for me is that I give thanks for everything! Every thing ...

I boarded the plane, jacked up on a large coffee, double-double, from MacDonald's.

Big mistake. The plane was overbooked and overwarm. A couple of men were snoring resonantly. The tiny ancient lady in the middle seat next to me slept fitfully on her neck cushion.

My legs and soon my whole body started to feel restless, fueled by caffeine way too late in the day; then I began to feel lightheaded, like I couldn't get enough air. I fiddled with my personal air vent but nothing happened. Finally, I thought that if I didn't get out of my seat, I was going to faint or throw up or both. I grabbed the dreaded paper bag so thoughtfully provided in every seat pocket and gently yet urgently tapped the lady's shoulder. "I have to get out, I'm so sorry ..."

Immediately she was awake and in full maternal mode. "My dear, are you all right? You're completely white!" She shook the man on her other side awake and they hastily got out of my way. I staggered to the back of the plane and stowed myself in one of the washrooms, praying not to be sick, trying to figure out if every thing meant even this. I locked myself in and doubled over, pretty much on the floor, trying to get oxygen to my head and push the waves of nausea down.

I happened to glance up: this particular washroom was equipped with one of those same air vents with which I had unsuccessfully battled at my seat, pointed down directly at me but turned off. When I twisted the nozzle, to my great relief gusts of cool air hit my face.

My hand, clutching the sink counter for balance, landed on a couple of small square paper squares. Upon examining them I saw that they were sealed packages containing antiseptic swabs, the very thing to place on the back of my neck and my wrists to cool my head and temper the pounding of my pulse. Why they were on the counter, I had no idea; I was just grateful that they were.

Thank you for the relief of air and the icy coolness of the alcohol swabs, I silently offered to God. Thank you that every one else is asleep and no one's pounding on the door.

When I finally felt well enough to make my way back to my seat, my row mates were sleepy but kindly enquired as to how I was feeling. I settled into my seat to learn that the pilot had made tremendous headway and somehow our plane was going to be landing almost 45 minutes early. My suitcase was the third one to land on the conveyor belt. There was a cab waiting and no line up. I was at the hotel by 6:10 a.m., and the wonderful man at the counter said, "I happen to have an available room - I'll check you in right now so you can rest for an hour."

I slept for an hour, splashed water on my face and tidied my hair, and headed down for the day, committing myself to choosing to be grateful and positive for the duration of the conference.

And I remembered something I had heard on Phil Callaway's program "Laugh Again":




We get to choose our attitude, even when we are powerless to choose anything else.

So even when I can't seem to figure out what God's will for my life might be, I know that if I choose to be grateful - if I choose to live - I am in God's will for me.

Jewel Tones

Modelling Sophie

My first memory of you is a serene face atop a black suit with a flash of amethyst silk at your neck. Your sapphire eyes sparkled and you reminded me of a beautiful Annette Bening.

"She'd be someone I would love to know ..." I remember thinking wistfully.

That was back in 1995 or '96.

And, it turns out, you are.

Colour is important to you - you notice the prism-like beauty of a sun dog, the mysteries of the variegated greens as you run through a forest. You affectionately called your much-loved mother-in-law a peacock because of her sense of style and passion for vivid hues.

The Christmas after I got Josephine, you gave me a ruby hat adorned by a black band festooned with silk flowers. Pinned inside the hat was a hand-written tag saying her name was Sophie. "Wear her when you're out and about with Josephine," you suggested.

We were in Quebec City at a Carswell conference on a break years ago, window shopping in a store stocked with richly woven woollen goods, when we really started talking. We were both at question marks in that period of our lives. I remember how easy it was to confide in you, how I knew I could trust your wisdom, your discretion, your perspective.

From then on you became in a sense my personal Polaris. 

You are the only person I know who has a concert grand in her living room, who knew that music was so important to the fibre of her being that one of the primary criteria when searching for a home of her dreams was that there be room for the piano of her dreams.

You understand the pull of Handel's Messiah every year. You mourn during the Easter production of the selected Requiem. You gave me the book of Beethoven sonatas that I turn to both in joy and in sorrow.

Your voice itself is melodious, often reminding me of Mozart and the light and beauty he brought - he brings - through his music.

You know the power of the perfect little black dress.

You brought the magic of Paris - a lifelong dream for you! - back to us, who waited eagerly to hear your stories.

You and John plan great swaths of your life with care and much thought; and yet you are flexible enough to live in the moment, to adapt to someone else's plans and schedule without losing sight of your desired end:

At my 50th birthday luncheon

Blue coffees ...

Indian restaurants for plates of copper-coloured butter chicken curry on pearly basmati rice ...

Lazy afternoon in your back yard drinking some delectable amber beverage and nibbling on avocados ripened to a perfect jade ...



Drive to Three Hills for a quick lunch in the purple chairs ... (You are one of the very few people who have ever come out to see me rather than simply meeting me when I'm in the city; do you know how very much that means?)

Even when we haven't seen each other for some time, you make it easy to pick up the threads of our lives right where we left off. You have always welcomed me to share your family table, and it has been a joy to see snippets of your two boys as they have grown and matured into the truly wonderful young men they are today.

You accept adversity, and adjust your plans accordingly, with a minimum of outward protest and a maximum of inner strength. You set a powerful, compelling example of grace in action.

This year it's time to tell you thank you for your presence in my life. Thank you for the music and the colour you bring just by being. Thank you for your friendship.

Happy birthday - you are pitch perfect.

"My Name is Chetan"

We're going home!!

On February 27th evening, I will be catching a plane in Calgary that will get me to Bangalore in the early watches of March 1. On March 1 evening, Dad, BA and Deb will be boarding their own plane which will land them in the predawn of March 3.

The countdown is on.

Home.

When we were in Bangalore last March our brother Ed's wife, Sarah, told us of a Children's Home for which she has responsibility. Deb and I had the chance to go out with her on her weekly visit.

Bagalur is about 40 - 45 kms away from Bangalore, depending on your route. On a whim, I did a Map Quest search: it charmingly and naively states that the time it will take is either 37 or 41 minutes, depending on the route.

It didn't factor in traffic; a permanently collapsed bridge necessitating an extensive detour; narrow, winding, bumpy streets; livestock ambling along on the road like tourists; and a festival procession. It didn't factor in that this is not North American driving. Our trip took almost two hours going there and almost three hours coming home.

The road to Bagalur

Finally we pulled into an open space and drove into the compound.

There was a group of girls under a little gazebo who waved a greeting.

Dorm rooms in the background

Four of the boys called out from the verandah.

Well, three of the boys did. One - the tiniest of all - wouldn't look at us or really respond.

Kitchen cupboard

Sarah gave us a quick tour of the place and then got down to the duties and tasks she had to attend to that week. I - of course - headed back into the kitchen.

Gas stove. Sometimes they have to line up
for hours for the cylinders.

Degunta and wife

This is not a luxury establishment by any means: there are "house parents" - Degunta, who is also a teacher at the College, and his wife - and they have been joined by Sushila, a young lady who had just graduated from the College with her Masters in Religious Education and had felt the call to work with these children. They care for the kids and do the heavy lifting; but each child has responsibilities and chores that he or she must accomplish.

Sushila

Deb went outside to visit with the children, only to discover that after their initial clamorous greeting, they had headed off to enjoy their precious moments of playtime in the sun.

All except for one. 

She glimpsed him sitting with Sushila under the gazebo, so she walked over to the two of them and asked if she could join them. The child said nothing, but Sushila welcomed her warmly.

Deb chatted with Sushila and found out that while she had been at the College she had come out to work with the kids, and had taught them in Vacation Bible School when they were all bussed in to Bangalore for what would be their equivalent of camp the previous summer. 

Slowly as the two women talked Deb started to catch the tiny boy's eye. Slowly she started to weave him into the conversation. Slowly he began to respond.

Finally she asked him his name, and she gave him my notebook in which to write it:

"My name is Chetan," he said shyly.

He had to go do something and then we heard his sad story. His father was no longer in the picture and his mother could not support three children. Chetan is the youngest of the three. With no doubt desperation, in January she had brought him to the children's home to be taken in and cared for.

He was five years old.  

He was still in shock three months later. We asked Sushila and Degunta's wife how long it would take before he was okay, and the bleak answer was, "Three years. After three years he'll be adjusted."

Three. Years.

Three years of questioning why your mama kept your siblings and gave you away. How he must wonder what he had done that was so awful that she left him with strangers! Did he cry himself to sleep each night longing for the comfort of her voice, the softness of her sari as her arms wrapped around him?

And then it emerged that most of these children had one parent living still. These parents, most of them loving their children and simply unable in their abject poverty to so much as even feed them, did the only thing they knew to do to keep them off the streets where the only thing they would be qualified for was to beg - or, in a land weighted down with human trafficking, subjected to a worse fate. They chose to give them away rather than that.

A few children had been rescued from abusive situations; most were there as a testament to their parent's great love for them.

But how does one explain that to a girl who, at 13 and just entering puberty, is sobbing for the mother who sent her away before she was 10?

How do you explain it to Chetan?

I realized that day that even in a safe, secure atmosphere where one's needs are provided for, there are worse things from the point of view of a child than being orphaned. The perceived abandonment of a parent - how do you recover from that?

My heart lashed out at the parents who could send their kids away.

In the days and weeks to come, however, another mother came to my mind. A woman named Jochebed had given birth to a son but due to the political situation in the land, his was an "illegal birth." She kept him hidden for as long as she could, loving him like only a mother can love. But finally she knew she would have to give him up to spare the rest of her family. So she placed him in a waterproofed basket and left him on the banks of the river, hoping for the best. 

We know the rest of the story: that baby's name was Moses - the prophet-and-leader-of-Israel Moses.

And I thought of two other parents who wept every single time they had to leave any of their children in boarding school. Mum and Dad were the most devoted parents any boarding school kids could ask for. One or other of them came to see us almost every month; and they wrote to each of us every week at least once. We had birthday outings and care packages and weekends out of the dorm. We were home for every vacation. Despite all of this, we cried and they cried when we had to be parted. Every time.

How much worse it is for these children in Bagalur! I mourned deep in my soul.

As we drove back home to the College that evening, I was of two minds about the Children's Home. But really, in a country of 1.2 billion people where vast communities of people still look up to the poverty line, what choice did some of those parents have? And how their hearts must have broken as they surrendered their most precious treasures to be raised by someone else.

One of the first places I am going to visit when I get back to Bangalore is the Children's Home in Bagalur. A number of you have asked if there is anything you can do to help support children's work in India. You had made the bunk beds possible for the Tsunami orphanage in South India. And now you want to do more.

I wrote Sarah asking if there was any pressing need for these kids.

Sarah wrote me back:

Thank you for wanting to visit the children in Bagalur.  We can go out there on Saturday afternoon as they will have school in the morning.  There are 7 boys and 7 girls that we take care of now. Three of the boys are older 14-16 years old, three boys are 8-10 years old and the littlest one is 6.  The girls are all 12-15 years old.  They do not need anything specifically.  You may bring what ever is possible to bring, or we can purchase clothes, toys or other things for them when you come.  They need new bed rolls, but that is a bigger expense ...

When I looked into the bed roll need I was also told the children need a sheet, a pillow cover and a mosquito net.

So here is the list and cost for each item:

Bed Rolls Rs 500 each - 10 needed - [ = $10 per bed roll, i.e., mattress]*

Small sheet/pillow cover Rs 200 each - 14 needed - [ = $4 per sheet set]

Mosquito net - 200 each - 12 needed [ = $4 per mosquito net]

Any way you can help will be greatly appreciated, please do not feel obligated to help with it all.  Pray the Lord will provide.

*The information in red was added by me.

In addition, both children's homes pray at this time of year for the money required to enrol the kids in school - the new school year starts in July, and it costs about $20 per kid to get them into school for the year. There are about 65 kids in all between the homes. These are village schools they attend, but at least the kids are learning to read and write.

This list is not intended to put pressure on my RtLers in any way. It's just that some of you have been asking ... and some of you have already been giving, so you'll know what your generosity is going toward.

I would love to take a little stuffed animal for each of the children in Bagalur, like we did for the Tsunami kids last year - and this year, I would love to be able to equip each of those kids with a back pack - in which case, we would need 50 back packs in all! If anyone wants to drop off stuffed toys or back packs, keep in mind that they need to be either new or very gently used.

Just before we left I sought out Sushila. "Please look after him in a special way," I besought her. "He's so little and alone."

"I will love him," she assured me.

I believe her. You see, Sushila herself has suffered from birth, supported every step of her life by a twisted club foot. She is full of compassion and tenderness in return for those who suffer. 

As we drove away that evening the sun splashed its last hurrah for the day across the canvas of the sky.

And I whispered a prayer for Chetan, the little boy who had snuck into my heart much like Alex did in South Africa in 2007:

"Oh God, let him know that he is beautiful. Let him know that he is loved. Let him know that he is Yours."

Book Review ... Day 16

I received your latest missive through the mail last evening. It started off, "A week now into my retirement ..." and I want to note how happy I am for you, even though your absence is our team's great loss.

You are one of the veterans, a scholar and a gentle man. You are the ideal bookseller because you love books and you actually read what you sold. 

You read so much more, too: history, politics, reference, essay, short story, novel. You have been kind enough to send me amuses bouches, if you will, of what you feasted on, whetting my appetite for more from the wide-ranging buffet of your interests.

When we were at a conference in St Catherine's you showed me the historic Shaw Festival offices, and told me about the productions you and Irma were hoping to see.











For my birthday you sent me a tome that could not help but delight me: The Glamour of Grammar ...

I was thrilled that it was I who got to introduce you to Mary Oliver.

No wonder, then, I was so gratified when you said you were going to pay a visit to the TH during the week late in July that you were on your last voyage across the Prairies for Carswell. In one masterful stroke you combined two of my great delights: whiling away a convivial hour or two with a dear friend and introducing someone to the magic of the TH.

And what a splendid evening it was!

After dinner we strolled down Main Street and in your elegant, understated way you revealed to me the beauty of living in a place like Trois Lumps. I might add that there is no doubt of what kind of salesman you are - you even persuaded me to let you take my picture in the gently fading light.

It was you who, borrowing from Shakespeare's Henry V, christened the academic team "We few, we happy few, we happy band of brothers" "- and sister!" you would add, twinkling. With your departure our band seems somehow disbanded, somewhat inconclusive, We look forward to raising a china cup filled with fragrant tea with you at the next April conference when we will be able to send you off in a manner that befits you.

Your great passion, of course, is sailing. I always enjoy hearing stories of your Irenes and I will always look back fondly on the Carswell trip to St Lucia where you kindly took my sister and me out on your borrowed craft and presented us with the gift of the sun, the breeze, the salty drops spattering our faces either from within or without on that year which held not much happiness for us as we adjusted to life without Mum.

This year has not been one of unmixed joy for you; but I see how you work with the winds, some gale force, that would seek to throw your vessel off course. Your courage and consistency have not gone unnoticed and I wish and pray for you smooth sailing in the very near future.

In closing your letter you speculated that I would be reading it in one of the comfy chairs that nestle into corners in the TH; you were right, as you are so many times. I am much comforted over the thought of connecting with you still over a word, a turn of phrase, a passage.

But today Mary gets the last word:

Breakage

BY MARY OLIVER

I go down to the edge of the sea.

How everything shines in the morning light!

The cusp of the whelk,

the broken cupboard of the clam,

the opened, blue mussels,

moon snails, pale pink and barnacle scarred—

and nothing at all whole or shut, but tattered, split,

dropped by the gulls onto the gray rocks and all the moisture gone.

It's like a schoolhouse

of little words,

thousands of words.

First you figure out what each one means by itself,

the jingle, the periwinkle, the scallop

       full of moonlight.

Then you begin, slowly, to read the whole story.

Body, Mind, Spirit ...

Winnipeg feeds all three for me:


Bistrot by Basil: Basil's used to be my favourite restaurant when I came to Winnipeg more frequently. Then in 2009 I arrived to barricaded doors and the intelligence that the place had sustained a severe flood. In 2010 I checked back again: still closed. 


Last Wednesday night I arrived at the airport late, exhausted, hungry. The plane from Calgary had been delayed, as was the one from Edmonton. On my way to my hotel I swerved left and found myself in front of Basil's - and it was open!


As I approached the restaurant there was a guy sleeping it off on the side walk and one of the doors was nailed up. There was an arrow pointing to the other door, however, and so I pushed it open and went inside.









The thing about Basil's is the secret garden patio that you reach after you walk through the bistro. A person eating alone can be anonymous out there, and unselfconscious. I asked if there was seating available; and voilà! there was a tiny table tucked away in a corner, under a lamp that would permit me to read should I care to linger long enough. Lingering seems to be encouraged at Basil's, should you be so inclined ...


The food was wonderful: roasted eggplant and vegetable spread, accompanied by warm, tender little pita wedges, followed by lamb chops, braised on the outside and faintly pink on the inside. 

I savoured every morsel of lamb and succulent roast vegetables, my tiredness slipping off my shoulders a little bit more with each bite. As I settled more deeply into my chair I could hear snippets of conversations around me. I reached into my bag and drew out the book my Dad had given me, Naomi Zacharias's The Scent of Water, and read until I thought I had better track down my hotel for the night before my heart overflowed. I reluctantly said goodbye to my third-favourite spot in Winnipeg, delighted that it is up and running again and that I will be welcomed back as often as I want to visit ... 

McNally Robinson: All book stores are not created equal. On Thursday I had an hour and a half free, so I slipped over to this book store just down the road from where I was working. I walked into a muted hum of people looking for books, giftware, dessert, a helping hand, a friendly greeting. I was looking for a book whose author I couldn't remember except for her first name; I didn't even know any of the words in the title of the book; I did know that the author was from Winnipeg, however. And the wonderful man at the information desk, after asking a couple of questions, deduced that I was looking for author and performer Charlene Diehl, and he led me directly to her book Out of Grief, Singing. He also recommended another author he thought I might enjoy, elaborating intelligently on her virtues and shortcomings. 

I needed lunch so I slipped into Prairie Ink, the cafe and patisserie attached to each McNally Robinson. I ordered Earl Grey tea and a lemon tart, and I slid my book out of my handbag again. No one disturbed me or rushed me; as a matter of fact, many people were reading, either alone or in companionable groups huddled at various tables. I was quickly absorbed once again with Naomi's fascinating story, her compassion, her unvarnished truth. This time I finished the book, but not without a couple of silent tears of recognition escaping the corners of my eyes at certain moments, or without a few chuckles of heartfelt appreciation at others. I felt that Naomi somehow knew me. And after reading this book, I know that my Dad does!


One of the gifts of a few blissful moments in McNally Robinson is that everyone in there gets it: they are all readers too and they understand the joy of discovering a book that draws you in and holds you in its thrall. One senior lady actually patted my shoulder as she walked by me. 


It still saddens me to think Calgary couldn't sustain the branch that opened so optimistically some years ago on the Stephen Avenue Mall. I spent many, many absorbing hours there and was crushed when they closed. Fellow book lovers, please support independent book sellers and encourage them by purchasing from them when you can, even if it may cost a little bit more at the time. If all the independent book stores close, it may cost you a lot more than just the couple of dollars you would save by shopping at one of the national book seller's many locations.  And - who knows? - you might discover someone who loves the same kinds of reads you do ...

Dinner at Muriel's: I was anticipating with great pleasure my dinner that evening: my friend Muriel had invited me over to her home. Muriel was one of the librarians at the local law school until she retired a couple of months back. She and I have grown to know and care for each other over the years and her whimsical, enchanted home is my favourite spot in Winnipeg.


She greeted me with a warm hug and a lime cordiale and we sat in her parlour and caught up with the happenings of the past year. After a while she led me to the dining table, which she had laid with her finest china, silverware and crystal. She had even made place names - and all just because she knew I would love and appreciate an elegant table! She struck a match and as she was holding it to the candle I was thinking - by no means for the first time! - what a gift this woman's presence in my life is. We can talk about work, play, God, feminism, kindness of strangers, kindness of friends. We can comment tongue in cheek about particularly amusing instances in the world of academia; and we can commiserate about particularly sobering instances in the real world. 

It was Muriel who, a few years back, told me about Rosie the Riveter and "We Can Do it!" We were standing outside a restaurant on Broadway at about 11 o'clock on a February evening. It was Winnipeg, of course, so it was beyond frigidly cold. We had been talking at dinner about an unexpected zag in the zig of my life and I had been feeling pretty low. Just after we said goodnight, Muriel suddenly spun around, flung her arms around me and proclaimed in a booming voice quite unlike her normal tone, "WE CAN DO IT!"


"Do what?" I asked, a little dazed.


"You know! Rosie!"


"Muriel?"


"Rosie the Riveter, of course! She could do it and so can you! So can all of us!"


I had to confess I had never heard of Rosie, which ignorance she kindly excused on account of my growing up on the other side of the world. As we shivered on the sidewalk she told me the story of the symbolic woman and concluded with words to this effect: "You also are a strong woman, Karyn. You have come through a lot and you will come through this too. You can do it!"


And with that she swirled off into the crystal night. But a couple of years later I received through Canada Post a book bag, picked up at the Smithsonian, with - you guessed it - Rosie the Riveter and her rallying cry imprinted on it. Muriel hadn't forgotten and had sent me a reminder that she was thinking of me and rooting for me.


Muriel's just like that.


As she put the finishing touches on dinner I walked into her back yard and breathed deeply the serenity and the grace that are imbued in this place.

My friend has had her share of battles and hardships over the years; but her faith, her personal resolve, her acute understanding of justice, and her wicked sense of humour have held her in good stead and have brought her to where she is now. She seeks to bring out the best in people and strives to build them up. She is a dreamer and an eminently practical woman at the same time. She thrives in an atmosphere of beauty and she is unafraid of the work it takes to achieve balance and harmony in her daily life. She had invited me over to her home for dinner, she said, because there had been several occasions in the past when we had eaten working dinners together at one restaurant or another. I would use my food allowance for the day to treat her. Now that she was retired, she said she wanted to be given the opportunity to return the gesture.

As we sat down to a fresh, flavourful feast, she raised her crystal goblet, filled with lemon-infused water, and said, "I propose a toast. In the past we raised our glass of thanks to Carswell's Lord [Baron Thomson of Fleet]; this evening, we give thanks to the real Lord!"

And here's a toast to you, my beautiful friend. Thank you for demonstrating courage and calm, determination and decorum, grit and graciousness.


Thank you for taking the time to explain the ropes of an academic law library to a timid newbie.


Thank you for your laughter and light, spilling into the corners of my life for almost a decade now, touching my soul, showing me how we can do it!


And, most of all, thank you for believing I can.