A Good Night's Sleep

$5,560

Twenty-five bunk beds.

Extra money for sheets and pillowcases - something I had not dared hope for.



Bunk bed #22



Fifty kids who will know that people who haven't even met them care about them, that every one of them is precious.

"Thank you" seems so inadequate. From the 3-year-old who dropped her nickel and penny into the "bed jar" to the people who bought full bunk beds.

From Rand in Toronto to the neighbour across the road.

Thank you. We'll be getting the bank draft this week and sending off the money, and as soon as we get pictures, we'll get them posted.

Someone asked me why I bothered when there are millions of other kids who are in just as bad if not worse situations. 

I've actually thought about this a lot since May 2007, when I met Alex, the South African boy who changed my entire life. Alex is a story all on his own; and what I have concluded through my encounters with Alex is that I might not make a difference to every child in the world, or every child in a country or a village or even a street.

But I can make a difference to that child. And when that child's life is impacted, if he or she in turn can be a help to two people and they in turn do the same, pretty soon entire communities can be blessed.

Bunk bed #25

That's what you all did. You threw the pebble into the pond and as it skipped over the water, wherever it brushed against the surface it sent ripples sparkling in ever-larger circles until the whole pond was ablaze with light and energy.

Very soon, our kids in the tiny Children's Home in the little village off the coast of South India will be lifted one step up from where they have been for the past six years. And - who knows? - maybe, for some of them, that first step will be the launching pad to great things in their futures.

Who knows? God, who knows the number of hairs on their heads, knows.

To be continued in the months and years and generation to come ...

Broken, Part 1

I was sitting with a friend when we spied her across the crowded room. We both called to her but she had her back partially turned to us and didn't hear. I charged over and dragged her back to our table.

We talked and laughed. We caught up with each other - how busy we had all been, one of us with her career, one of us with her calling, one of us with her causes. The friend I was with originally had to leave; we vowed that somehow we would all get together this summer.

The remaining two of us kept chatting lightly. Yes, I was still happy at Carswell and thankful for the opportunities I received from working at this amazing company. No, she had given up most of her volunteering - moving to a new, larger, home had taken any extra energy she had had to spare.

"How's your son?" I asked brightly.

She became utterly still. Haltingly, through suddenly frozen lips, came the words no mother wants to have to hear herself say.

"He ... died six months ago."

Then she simply stood there in front of me, trembling slightly, so little, so alone, as I stared at her in disbelief. Her blue eyes pleaded with me silently as if asking me to tell her it was just a dream, it was only a bad dream, that she could wake up now.

And silently I opened my arms and she stepped into my fierce embrace and began to shake.

We clung together in the middle of that bustling hall and slowly words started to emerge. Massive heart attack ... fiancee hadn't heard from him ... hotel security ... too late  ... all alone.

"I can't tell people yet. Only a few people ... I haven't unpacked in my new place yet. It seems so unimportant when living itself seems so unimportant.

"I don't have anybody now. There's nothing to live for."

"There's you," I murmured. 

How did she get through Christmas? Through Mother's Day? I wondered to myself. How does she get up in the morning?

And during these next few days I have thought of other people for whom I care deeply: the daughter whose mother is fading away little by little in extended care, whose hands cling to hers on Mother's Day ...

The six-year-old son who walks, all by himself, up to his father's coffin and gazes solemnly at the picture of the man whose absence will be such a prevailing force in his life ...

The man whose existence is threatened because of a blood clot the size of a pin prick ...

The frightened girl whose brother is assaulting her and whose mother turns a blind eye ...

The mother, 8 1/2 months pregnant, who stops by one morning to tell me that she is going to the funeral director to discuss the burial of her unborn son, who will die within the first few hours of his birth ...

The father, enmeshed with alcohol and despair, looking in an empty fridge for milk to pour on his kids' cereal ...

The devoted man who had buried his wife and has now found deep happiness with someone who is in turn devoted to him, but who occasionally weeps at the loss of what once was ...

The beautiful woman whom we all can see but who is still searching for herself ...

The sister who is punished for not punishing her father ...

The children who have had their families washed away by a wave that comes
for them every night in their dreams ...

The woman who started with a pain in her back just months ago and whose body is now for the most part confined to a wheelchair, bending over to sip wine through a straw ...

The son who comes upon his father's body, hanging heavy from a tree in the bend of the path ...

The man who works late into the night, struggling to find a way to pay his debts and provide for his family ...

The daughter who has been set adrift by the death of her mother, her anchor ...

The single mother whose beautiful, brittle son dances recklessly on the tightrope of his own life while she stands despairing guard below, knowing there will be no net broad enough to catch him should he fall ...

The woman who hears the dreaded C word - twice - and authorizes the carving up of her body to prevent the disease from coming back, from spreading ...

The man in limbo because his wife is here in body but has not been here in mind for almost two decades ...

The father who fights for the life of his perfect, oxygen-deprived daughter and finally, four years later, raises the white flag ...  

The friends who are no longer with us because the pain became too great ...

And this list is just a glimpse of the visible scars. What of the deep brokenness that dwells inside so many people who cross my path and to which I am oblivious?

What if I hadn't asked my friend about her son? When would she have been able to talk about this event that is decimating her very being?

God, give me the eyes of compassion and the ears of sensitivity and the words of comfort and the arms of shelter and the heart of Jesus, broken for me, for each one of these dearly beloved people whose lives intersect with mine.

(Thanks to Cathryn, full of Grace, for the gift of Over the Rhine's CD "The Long Surrender" and the beautiful song "All My Favorite People Are Broken", given to me moments after I had met with my friend.)

Where There's a Will ...

"What's going on with the bunk beds?" a number of you have asked me over the last few days. (You'll remember that we had reached 20 bunk beds by last Tuesday night? Click HERE to go back and read that post.)

And then ... I was confronted with the realization that we were now in the last 20% stretch. I HATE this stretch. This is the part that always trips me up in my day job. The last 20% of a goal is so hard. And it was just Wednesday morning.

On the weekend donations in the TH jar got another half a bunk bed. Dad spoke at a little church on Sunday morning and they gave him an honorarium, which he topped up to make a full bunk bed. Debs worked for me because I had to be at a conference and she donated her tips to the BBP.

By the end of Sunday night we had 21 1/2 bunk beds! Three and a half to go, and we started this whole thing only on April 17!

I went back to my conference resigning myself to waiting a week and trying to figure out what we are going to have to do to "close the gap" as my dear director Scott puts it.

And then - Monday morning, I opened up my email and spied a message from Bronwyn. The intriguing subject was "Weekend and William!"

And this is what one of the paragraphs said:

"Oh, by the way, as a result of your blog, a young boy here in Calgary, William N******, raised enough money for a set of bunk beds!!! His Mom volunteers at the church with me and she has been inspired by what you're doing, and has shared the blog with her sons. William is in about grade 3!! I took a photo of him yesterday at church, holding the envelope with a cheque for $200 inside it, and a picture of bunk beds on the front that he drew with crayon. It's pretty cool! So that's another set. I'll send you the photo as soon as I figure out how to transfer it from my phone to the computer."


What?  WHATTTTT???!!!

I phoned Bronwyn and asked her to give William's mother my phone number. Lori called me early this evening and I asked her what was William's impetus.

It turns out that William, age 8, is in grade 2, but it's a grade 2-3 split. The grade 3 class starts learning about different cultures and William, listening, was intrigued by India. His mother volunteers with Bronwyn at church, and Bronwyn had told her about my blog. So Lori had gone onto RtL to show William some of the pictures of our trips to India. And of course they came across the bunk bed stories.

"It would be neat to buy a bunk bed for the kids," said William to his mother. He decided he wanted to ask the kids at his school if they could each donate a toonie and that would be a bed. Due to school policies around such things, he was not allowed to send out a notice; however, the teachers themselves were moved by the story and William's response, and they took up a collection and gave the proceeds to William to start his bunk bed.

An excellent start indeed! Now William's whole family was excited and got behind this: William, his mom and dad and his little brother, 6-year-old David, went together door to door in their neighbourhood, telling the story of the tsunami kids, telling about his desire to buy a bunk bed for them.

The neighbours came through. And Sweet William gets to buy bunk bed #22!!

An 8-year-old boy who wanted to do something to help other kids went out of his comfort zone and raised $200 to give two other kids in this world a bed to sleep in after six years of being on the floor. Six years - that's about as long as David has been alive ...

William (and family!): Thank you. I'm going to try to make sure they see your picture, see someone who is a kid like them and who loves them and cares about what happens to them.

The Bible tells us that it's more blessed to give than to receive. You have given SO MUCH, William. Not only have you given a bunk bed; you've also given other people the chance to be generous and to share in the blessing. You've given the rest of us motivation and inspiration.

And you've given those kids hope that they are not forgotten, that they matter.

I hope you see so many blessings in your own life that you don't even know WHAT to do with all of them except to share them with other people, just like you did with these kids! God will be able to do great things with you because you are willing to let Him use you to help other people.

You rock!!

The Small Elephant In The Room



Baby Elephant, in his corner
by the piano and the tea trolley


They all greet him as they arrive and pass him on their way to the bookcase to collect favourite toys or crayons and paper for their visit to the TH. They go over and check on him in between sips of tea from miniature china cups. The smaller ones sometimes just sit there in front of him, looking at him smiling at them. And as they leave they will often hug him, and many of them will drop a little kiss on his sweet trunk.

Baby Elephant, they call him. They talk to him and tell him things, things that sometimes we can't understand although he seems to: they glance at him, eyeball to eyeball, and he's still smiling at them.





Fanta and Ellie



But this morning something truly exceptional occurred. When Aneliese - my beautiful little friend who loves red tea in the blue tea set, whose face lights up at the thought of berries and cream for a treat - arrived for a morning visit with her mama, she collected Ellie and Fanta, the two stuffed elephants who sit in the foyer in my nephew Matthew's tiny rocking chair and welcome all the little visitors who come through the door. They accompanied Aneliese to her table and I think I caught a glimpse of one of them sneaking a little sip of tea when Aneliese wasn't looking ...

The morning got busy and I rushed around doing what I thought was important. Then she called me over.

"Look!" she exclaimed. And there were Ellie and Fanta, trunks entwined, sitting companionably next to Baby Elephant.

"Baby Elephant has friends!" I replied. She nodded vigourously, her face shining, and reached over to pat his trunk.

The thought came to me: why do we as grownups so often tiptoe around the elephant in the room? Why can't we examine it, openly and without guile like my little people do, and treat it as part of the comings and goings of the day? Maybe if we did that, if we weren't threatened by whatever it represents for us, we would realize, like incandescent Aneliese does, that the lonely little elephant needs to be acknowledged, needs a voice and an advocate, needs someone to make sure it has a friend.

And as the little girl bade farewell to the little elephant, I felt like I had been given the gift of a spring sunbeam pushing away the cobwebby obligations of what I thought was urgent for the day and lighting up what truly is important: taking the time to appreciate all creatures great and small.

Thank you, Baby Elephant!

Thank you, Aneliese!

The Wedding Rehearsal Dinner

The first call from Margaret came way back in November. "My son's getting married. Would you consider catering the wedding rehearsal dinner? He was a groomsman at Matt's wedding and he LOVED the food you made for that!"

And so, MANY phone calls, a few emails and two in-person visits later, we arrived at today.

I've posted pictures of the behind-the scenes kitchen work before; here is the dining room being transformed.


Elizabeth and Margaret in for a quick
touch-down this morning ...

"Before ..."

Dad setting up chairs - he'd
already done the tables!





Dad cutting the menu cards





Last-minute table check ...





... and it's ready! This is where the
bride and groom would be seated.

 












The sweet little menu cards,
tucked into each person's napkin



 

Margaret's place setting



Dan the Renaissance man is for this
occasion assuming his "Celtic fiddler" guise





All the best for a very happy life together,
James and Pamela!

Do You Hear a Hammer and a Saw?!

Dad and Mr Nair talked on the phone today - the mattresses have been ordered and the bunk beds are starting to be made! Dad and Mr Nair are very excited at how this is coming together!

So am I ... As of this moment we are just $40 shy of

                              TWENTY BUNK BEDS!!!

Five bunk beds and $40 to go! And the day's not over yet ...



The girls singing for Dad



If anyone new is reading this, to see where it began, click HERE. To those of you who wrote cheques, I took them all to the bank today! If anyone wants to contribute, please feel free to email me at info@nilgiris.ca .

Thank you, all of you, who have given the gift of these kids having somewhere comfortable to sleep. Thank you for showing them that they have not been forgotten; indeed, that they matter. Thank you for showing them that they are loved.

Mr Nair is travelling right now, but he says he hopes to be back in June, and he will send us pictures!

SEVENTEEN Bunk Beds!!

To see where it started - just three weeks ago - click HERE.

Only eight to go - thank you, all of you, for your outpouring of love and support for these kids.

Mr G.S. Nair and Dad, drinking
refreshing coconut water in the
little parlour at the Children's Home



Two old friends



The Gift Hidden in the Blue Screen of Death

It happened again, and at the most inopportune time.

I was working on the documents for my quarterly review and pondering this coming year's sales plan - a clean slate, so much potential, a chance of hope and a fresh start - when the fan on my computer kicked up a notch, all the windows froze, and the dreaded blue screen reared its ugly head.

I had thought when I received a new computer at the sales conference that this would all be behind me. At the sales conference itself, when I heard the words from the tech support team, "Your USB port was bent and it was impacting the computer - it's not you; it's the computer!" I quickly gathered up the computer and went outside the room and wept at the gift of those words.

And now, exactly one week later, it was happening again.

I could not, could NOT, bear to hear the words, "Let me guess - technological issues again?"

I tried tech support's phone lines; they were all busy. I sent a couple of emails out from my Blackberry but received no response. In desperation I took a picture with my Blackberry of the blue screen and emailed that out as well.

Then Alex, wonderful Alex, called me back from head office. He had seen the picture and had enlarged it so that he could read what the screen said. He took control of my computer and tweaked a few things. He told me that they had simply installed my old hard drive in a new computer case because they had thought the problem stemmed from the USB port. He would be reimaging a new computer for me.

I rebooted my computer and tried to recreate the data I had lost from my documents. I finally got everything finished and sent in at about 1:00 a.m.

This morning I was literally bracing myself for what was to come when the little red light on my Bberry flashed on. "Call me" was the message in response to an email ("Are you in funnels right now?") I had sent out yesterday afternoon.

I called her back. "It's okay - I sent that message yesterday," I started, when she launched in, cutting me off.

"This is NOT your fault. This was supposed to be taken care of last week. You are NOT to blame. We're going to get to the bottom of this. I've already called and talked with **********. I have kept a record of all the times you have contacted us about the computer. You are NOT shirking your work. We're going to take care of this. Listen to me: This. Is. Not. You."

These are the first words I heard this morning. I had gone to bed at about 2 a.m. dreading the morrow. I had woken up wondering why. I had stood under the shower with the water as hot as I could take it, wishing the coming hours would swirl away just as heedlessly, just as predictably, as the water down the drain at my feet.

The expression "I've got your back" is tossed about a lot these days. But when a person's back feels exposed and has borne the brunt of a few slings and arrows, that person might not be so sure how well protected said back actually is.

This morning, with that phone call, I saw someone who truly had my back. Not one to throw words around casually, she has never said the IGYB statement to me. But she showed me by her actions that she did indeed understand, and that she had taken it to the next level - she had spoken up for me and defended me; and furthermore, she was going to do all in her power to get these computer issues resolved.

I'm waiting for my review call - of all days, there was a fire drill at Corporate office! - but my back is straight, my mind is clear, and my soul is restored.

Words have great power. They can build up or they can destroy a person from the inside out.

And you can also derive great power and strength from simply knowing someone believes you, believes in you. Thank you, Laurie, from the bottom of my heart.

"Party Like It's [18]99!"

Because it's my birthday and - my beloved Miss Manners notwithstanding - I figured I should be allowed to do what I wanted, I decided that what I really wanted was to have lunch with my Oldies.

And so that's what happened. 

Every Tuesday morning for many years Dad and Mum would go to the Robertson Manor and have a time of hymn singing, prayer and a devotional / short message from Dad. I was privileged to start tagging along while Mum was still with us.

I vividly remember the day we were called to the hospital, to Mum's bedside. It was on a Tuesday at about 9:45. I promised Dad, who was of course already in Calgary, that I would pop by the Manor and let the people know why he wouldn't be there that morning. I quickly ran to IGA and picked up some doughnuts. And then I went to meet the people and tell them the awful news of Mum's being in the hospital.

These dear old people, who barely knew me at that point, rose creakily to their feet and surrounded me. They wrapped their arms around me and placed their hands on my head and prayed - for Mum, for Dad, for the family. For me.

And from that moment on, from that sacred moment with the prayers of these saints ascending to the heavens like the sweet smell of incense, I knew that God was in control.

And so He was.

They were all at Mum's funeral, sitting together like old soldiers still on guard. And every Tuesday morning since, they have enveloped Dad and me with love and prayer and support and concern. They wept with us and agonized with us in the early days. They laugh with us and cry with us now.

One of them, Wilma, said just today, "I miss your Mom. I am so glad I got to know her before she died."

This morning, even our beloved Martha made the enormous effort it takes these days to be there. She sat across the table from me and smiled.

They sang Happy Birthday to me before we sang anything else. Then Dad asked me to play the other song, A Happy Birthday to You. I mused aloud that that seemed rather like asking the reigning monarch to sing God Save the Queen. "Just play it!" they laughed, and then they all sang to me.

Dad's text was Mark 11:24: "Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it and it shall be yours." (ESV). I looked the verse up when I got back to the TH and some early manuscripts read, "... believe that you are receiving it and it shall be yours."

Dad talked about how God delights to bless us, from large serious matters in our lives to what might seem trivial even to us. The King James Version (Happy 400th birthday for yesterday!) puts it like this: "Therefore I say unto you, What things soever ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them."

What things. We trust Him with our hearts and souls and lives. We are also to trust Him with our material needs and desires.

Dad told us of a time when he was speaking for several days in the state of Andhra Pradesh in the heat of summer. He spoke for ten days in one place, eating hot, spicy food at every meal. From there he went to a second town in Andhra, and when he arrived it was time to eat.

The very fleeting thought crossed his mind as he sat down to eat yet another spicy meal off the wonderful banana leaf plate: "I wish I could have something sweet to eat ..." He immediately banished the thought from his mind as silly, however, and enjoyed his meal.

At the end of the dinner, one of the men put his hand into his pocket and, bringing out four candies, handed them to Dad. "These are for you, brother," he said. Dad protested a bit but the man insisted, so Dad took them. And he remembered his momentary desire and knew that this was God saying I heard you.

That night when they took Dad to his guest room - a tiny room with enough space for a single bed and a small table - on the table was a bowl filled with Indian sweets! And every day that Dad preached at that place, the bowl was filled.

God cares for even the littlest things that concern us. How important it is for us to believe Him!

After the devotional we had lunch: tomato bisque followed by turkey and bacon with spinach and Havarti cheese quiches, and then the part I was waiting for - Dad's orange chiffon cake, which I had specially commissioned for the event! And we washed it all down with apple cider.

It was a wonderful birthday luncheon - the average age was in the mid-80s, I guess, and I was the young 'un in the room!

After everything was cleaned up (I didn't wash a single dish - they wouldn't hear of it on my birthday!), I went back home to do some Carswell work. But the thought crossed my mind, "Wouldn't it be great if we could get half-way through on the bunk bed project by today?"  I asked God rather diffidently if He would please make it happen. We were at 11 bunk beds this morning and I wanted to be at 12.5 bunks by the end of the day ...

I read the prayer (the "birthday prayer", as I like to call it) from my tiny volume Great Souls at Prayer, the book itself a gift from one of my oldest friends. Here are the words of the prayer for May 3:

O Lord our God, who hast bidden the light to shine out of darkness, who hast again wakened us to praise Thy goodness and ask for Thy grace: accept now, in Thy endless mercy, the sacrifice of our worship and thanksgiving, and grant unto us all such requests as may be wholesome for us. Make us to be children of the light and of the day, and heirs of Thy everlasting inheritance. Remember, O Lord, according to the multitude of Thy mercies, Thy whole Church ; all who join with us in prayer ; all our brethren by land or sea, or wherever they may be in Thy vast kingdom, who stand in need of Thy grace and succour. Pour out upon them the riches of Thy mercy, so that we, redeemed in soul and body, and steadfast in faith, may ever praise Thy wonderful and holy name—Amen.

(I have emphasized the parts that seemed to jump out at me.) This prayer, along with Dad's message, gave me a sudden boldness: I asked God for not 12 1/2 bunk beds but for a full 13 beds by the end of the day. I believe that He wants to get these kids off the floor. After all, He loves them more than any of us ever could. So I asked God to look after this request.

Then, of course, I started to worry: who was going to step up? "Stop it!" I could almost hear God say. "You asked Me for the two bunk beds. Now leave it with Me."

A lady at the Manor had handed me an envelope, and in it was half a bunk bed. Someone else gave me a card for my birthday, which I opened that afternoon, and in it was a full bunk bed.

Twelve and a half bunk beds, and now it was 5:00 p.m.! I began to gnaw my nails. Should I have stuck with my original thought? "Stop it ...!" I thought I heard a voice say reprovingly.

And just before I headed out for dinner with the members of my family who live in Trois Lumps, an envelope was given to me containing half a bunk bed, which made ...

THIRTEEN BUNK BEDS! All I could do was chuckle amid the sudden rush of tears to my eyes.

Dad had said this morning, "If it's big enough to be of concern to you, it's big enough to be of concern to God." Even half a bunk bed.

And he also said, "For God to hear prayer is for God to answer." It may not be the answer we want or expect - Mum was taken from us exactly two weeks after that morning when the Oldies prayed for her and for our family - but it was the right answer, for Mum, for us, for God's purposes.

What a wonderful birthday - one of my best yet!




My dear Brenda, who is always
there for me without
my even having to ask



Dad and Martha anchoring
the head of the table





Going around the table ...



Bill and the ladies
(that's Betty to his right!)







Continuing around the table ...





... and ending up with Sandi,
who gave me such a
beautiful card!



Wes and Leona, the
sweethearts who celebrated
their sixtieth anniversary
last year

Martha and me: between us
we bring 151 years
to the table!





Anniversary of Regrets

Rhoda and friends. Anita, in the background,
somehow managed to scrounge up the
requisite number of teapots and keep up
with the drink orders - no mean feat!

Rhoda phoned me last weekend and asked if she and a group of her friends could meet at the TH for desserts on Sunday night. What's the name of the group, I asked.

"Oh, it's the Regrets - it's our fiftieth anniversary. There'll be about eight to twelve of us."

All week long I speculated on what a dozen people could regret for FIFTY YEARS: Was it not being married? (Was it being married?!) Had they all experienced hopes dashed half a century ago? Was it the same hope? Whatever it was, it had happened before I was even born.

The song Miss Otis Regrets She's Unable to Lunch Today kept buzzing in my head, wasplike in its persistence.

On Saturday evening, Rhoda called: "There are going to be 18 of us now."

More regrets? I was starting to feel alarm at the thought of all that negative energy permeating the TH on a Sunday night. "Please tell them not to come early," I begged Rhoda.



Thanks for the heads-up on the
rowdies in the group, Neville!

 And promptly at 8 p.m. on Sunday night the front door opened wide and in poured 18 ... 19 ... 22 ... 24 people. We had set up for 18 people, but everyone cheerfully found chairs, even the piano bench, and perched shoulder to shoulder around the tables.

They were jovial, pleasant, delighted to be in each other's company. The place buzzed with warmth and reminiscences.

None of them seemed particularly regretful.

"These desserts were wonderful -
Did you make any of them?!"

Then one of them said in passing to me, "Can you believe we all graduated together in 1961? This is our fiftieth Re-Grad celebration weekend!"

~~~Re-GRAD?!~~~

Miss Otis quickly whisked herself out of circulation again, and I thought I could hear Ol' Blue Eyes murmuring in my ear:

Regrets, I've had a few - but then again, too few to mention ...

Congratulations, Rhoda and friends. Let's do it again in ten years!