Thanksgiving Month, Day 20: Flower Girl

For the last three years my friend Doreen has given me the most amazing birthday present: she fills baskets and pots with shapeless, nameless, greenish plants and arranges them around the front and side of Nilgiris.


And it's not random planting and arranging, either. She has a picture of the final product in her mind's eye when she starts gathering plants. She knows what colours, flowers, height and depths she wants, and she plants accordingly.


Of course, those greenish, shapeless plants are not nameless to her ...


But that's not where it stops: for the rest of the spring and summer and into the fall she commits herself to watering, pruning, fertilizing, turning containers, pulling off dead heads.


And even that's not where it ends: she has taken over the care and management of Shauna Rose ("We've got to give that rosebush a chance!")and she also coaxed blooms out of the late-planted sweet pea fence. 


Oh yes, and she also cuts and arranges flowers for me in the TH because I have no time or talent for such things - and I LOVE fresh flowers at each table!


Doreen has been a true friend to me over the years. She has come over to visit or check the flowers and has ended up stirring a pot or chopping vegetables or doing loads of dishes. She listens to me, counsels me, laughs and cries with me (more laughing than crying!). She is not afraid to be vulnerable, to express herself, to show her heart, despite the fact that that same heart has been pummelled and bruised so often.


She is not afraid to be herself.

But even though she's practical and pragmatic, she gives me items that tell me she's heard me, she knows my dreams, and she wants me to succeed. She gave me a travel documents pouch before I went to South Africa. A Mad Hatter's Tea Party gift mug and tray. A beautiful green cut glass bud vase ("I was noticing that you don't have many that you can put a couple of flowers in ...").

And she gives me time with her, which is the greatest gift of all. 


She sees the potential, the finished product in her mind's eye and she encourages me toward that end.


So this month I want everyone to know who makes the initial approach to the TH so sweetly romantic with the beautiful flowers, and who encourages my own mind and soul to blossom and grow.


Thank you, Doreen! xo

Thanksgiving Month, Day 19: The Candy Man Can ..

He comes charging purposefully into the TH almost every weekend: "Hi, Auntie Karyn ..." he calls out vaguely, his eyes focused on the goal, which is somewhere behind me. Sometimes I might catch him in mid-stride and give him a little hug, but then he wriggles out of that interruption and continues on his way back behind the counter, back to the "little fridge", back to the chocolate Ovations.


Once he's got that little mint stick in his hand, he's good to go for a while and can sit and chat and eat lunch and choose what colour cup he wants his juice in.


He might deke over to the tea trolley once or twice during the course of his family's visit, just to check on the jelly beans and make sure they're safe ...


And then, right before his family is getting ready to leave, he'll come and stand at the counter, gazing up at me beguilingly, waiting for the word that invites him to come back and get four chocolates this time - one for Dad, one for Mom, one for Soren and one for Theo.


Four chocolates or partial multiples of four - does it really matter? Since the first time this little chap has come into the TH, carried by his Dad with his Mom hovering close by, I have loved him. There is something about the solemn sweetness of his face, the way he thinks things through before answering, his sudden flashing smile or deep little chuckle, that make my heart sing.


Not long ago he came running in on a Saturday morning just to show me his cool new sunglasses ... okay, and maybe to get a chocolate.


The next time he came back I asked him where the sunglasses were. "They breaked," he answered sadly, shaking his head. "But I didn't sit on them - I was using them when they breaked." 


Theo is this month's representative of a number of little guests who come into the TH, in whom I delight and for whom I am so thankful. As some of you know, if I had my druthers, the whole TH would be the scene of one giant tea party for ages 2 - 8! So when Theo and his brother come in, I kind of forget that they have been chauffeured by their parents and that I should chat to Brian and Katherine as well ...


Soren is starting to develop his own singular charm too. One Saturday at lunch time I came out of the kitchen to talk to the four of them at their table but Theo and Soren weren't there; Theo was sitting cross-legged in front of Baby Elephant and Soren was standing up hugging him and murmuring little words into his perfectly accessible, perfectly friendly ear. I would have loved to know what Soren was saying - and what Baby Elephant answered back, because the tiny boy was certainly beaming!


As Theo was leaving last weekend and he asked if he could have one more jelly bean, all I could think of was that this child leaves behind so much more sweetness than he could ever take with him.


That, and that I don't want his parents to give me his first dental bill ...

Thanksgiving Month, Day 18: Streams in the Desert

I have been pondering the rainless desert for a couple of weeks, remembering how the earth - pounded by the relentless sun - starts to fragment, the little chips of dried clay curling upward imploringly, like a prayer.


Funny how fragment and fragile can seem so connected ...


Then at night the blistering heat can be replaced by the gusty cold, winds whipping the sand into the cracks where it chafes the raw cuts and gouges deeper. This savage change in temperature is a result of the extremely low level of precipitation which doesn't provide a cushion from the heat in the day, and which also allows the heat to escape very easily in the night. 


Freezing ...


All creation groaning.


Waiting.


Hear the crunching of the parched land as it's trodden underfoot. Picture a thousand tiny fingers of earth being snapped by the steps of an unwitting passerby.


Fractured ...


There are animals that inhabit the desert, timid creatures that know no other life but to scrabble for their needs, to protect themselves and those that belong to them from the elements and to keep a weather eye out for danger. Meerkats, for example, always have a couple of their number on sentry duty at any given time.


Frightened ...


When you're in the desert you avert your eyes for fear that they will land on a mirage and you'll be given false hope. You view your surroundings through your peripheral vision because the intensity of facing them head on is too great.


Frantic ...


And then, when you think you can go on no more - when the pain and the loneliness and the disorientation seem to have reached their nadir - you spot a tiny, flame-coloured flower, peeking shyly from amidst the scrub.


"There is unexpected beauty here," the blossom whispers to you. "In this desolate place you can find peace and restoration if you know how to look, if you know how to listen."


"But I need water!" you whimper, wringing your hands. "There's no water here!"


"I'm here," the flower responds. "There are streams in the desert in the most unlikely places. You'll come across them at the most unexpected moments. Do what you do each day. They'll be revealed to you and your frail soul will find relief."


And so you do what you do. You knit. You love your children. You create beauty with your husband and you allow yourself to accept his adoration. You minister to others through a word, a song, a hug, a tiny blue elephant. You reach out with what little strength you have left.


Your groans add to the chorus of all creation's, waiting ...


Travail ...

You start to delight in the minute: a tiny green shoot here, a flittering butterfly there, a small glass of water offered in His name, a sick child who sleeps through one night.


Small mercies.


Transition ...


And you start to notice fine silver threads of water in some of the indentations of the earth. Not a river by any means; but after all, this is a desert and a stream is enough to sustain you when your tongue cleaves to the roof of your mouth. You drink greedily from the source, cupping your hand to dam the flow and scoop up enough for a mouthful.


Then with both your hands cupped together you carry some of the precious elixir to the flame-coloured flower, to the shoot which seems to have grown a little.


And you start to achieve a sort of peace, a sort of rest. The desert is becoming your abode. You wonder when it started to change, when it started to be less severe, less forbidding.


But the truth is, the desert has not changed; it is you who are learning to abide in the place in which you find yourself, you who are growing and stretching and accommodating and shrinking and contracting and setting boundaries to knit this strange beauty into the pattern of the cloak you will wrap around you for protection and for comfort.


As you journey through the desert you find that the once-feared desert in turn has become your sanctuary in this period of your life. And as you follow the trickle of water you discover that the stream will lead you through the desert to a river that swells and flows stronger with gathering force until it cascades into a mighty waterfall that thunders over the rocks and into the deep pool waiting to receive it.


Triumph ...


And you will understand that you were not alone as you sojourned through the desert: your good shepherd was there all along, protecting and shielding you until in his perfect time he leads you beside still waters to restore your soul.


Tranquility.

Thanksgiving Month, Day 17: My Favourite Health Inspector

When the visitor starts off with, "HellO, Karyn, this is your favourite health inspector!", it's understandable that you might be a little apprehensive.


Well, a picture is worth a thousand words, so here is my thanksgiving for today:

Thanks, M.F.H.I.! Thanks, TH staff! 

Thanksgiving Month, Day 16: Missionaries in Three Hills

I said at the beginning of this month that I was going to write about people who have made an impact on me. The people I'm writing about today have made a crushing impact on me, and I don't even know their names. They'll never know what they have done to me. And I will most likely never see them again.


It happened this afternoon. I looked out of the east window of the TH and saw the sweet little family coming down the sidewalk toward Nilgiris. They turned into the cul de sac just before crossing the street, a dad, mom, son and little daughter, all chatting and laughing and happy as they strolled along together.


I stepped outside through the door next to the fire place and the tiny girl saw me. She said something to her dad, clearly excited about something; he handed her a pamphlet of some sort and she came charging across my lawn in my direction. "Here - this is for you!" she managed to gasp out before rushing back to the security of her parents. Her eyes were sparkling and her smile threatened to swallow up her whole face.


As I went back inside the TH, I looked down at the paper and I realized that I had been handed a religious booklet. This is the first time since I've moved to Three Hills in 2003 that I've ever had someone come door-to-door visiting for the purpose of handing out tracts and pamphlets. And how happy the family is just to be together in the sunshine on this perfect Sunday afternoon! 


"Missionaries in Three Hills - what's so remarkable about that?" you might ask. This town was built on old pioneer missionaries, it has sent out countless missionaries to all parts of the world, and a lot of them seem to come back to roost here too.


Except ... in this little family, the mother wore a burqua.


And the pamphlet they handed me was called "Ahmadiyya Muslim Community."


I felt like I had been punched in the gut as I realized that the very first people I have bumped into going door to door in my neighbourhood handing out tracts or literature in all the time I've lived in this "Christian" town were not Christians at all.


The pamphlet is beautiful: good quality gloss paper, colour, graphics, well written; its message is one of hope and optimism, with a nod to all major religions. It tells about the charitable work it is involved in, and it gives a list of its places of worship, with complete address and phone information should you want more information.


And that little family was So.Very.Happy.


After I had read a bit of the pamphlet I was overwhelmed with the need to reach out to them in turn, to invite them into the TH for tea, to show them the love of God that is in our hearts and that truly is in this town but which, I am pretty sure, would not be extended to them very readily this day as they went from door to door.


I knew that if they reached my Dad's home he would talk to them (they didn't); and I really, really missed Mr Erickson, who would have done the same. He would have been overjoyed to speak with them, actually. 


Jesus would have loved to talk with them.


I went running outside again and checked the cul de sac and Main Street, but they had already moved on. 


I felt (and feel) wretched and pray that someone else in our little town will have been more sensitive to the opportunity that I so carelessly missed.


However, the lesson they taught me was enormous. It's certainly not considered de rigeur any more to go door to door "proselytising". And somehow I can't see myself ever being able to do that. But what about when I encounter people in my day-to-day life? Am I hesitant to speak out?


I had a colleague who became a friend at Carswell. We both started at the same time, way back in 1992. In our training manual was typed a flippant comment supposed to encourage newbies who might mess up: "Only Allah is perfect." She took quiet offence to this comment, feeling that the manual was making light of what was sacred. On her first week on a job she really needed she said she would not be able to work until the manual was revised to remove that comment. That name was precious to her and she would not have it disregarded in this manner.


I remember that that took a lot of courage for her. And it was a rebuke to me at the time: was I that sensitive to people tossing the name of the Lord Jesus Christ around, using that name as an expletive? I know that I cringe inwardly every time I hear it; but how often do I say anything to identify myself as one of His followers?


I thought of her this afternoon as I thought of the little girl's sweet face, of the dad who clearly loved his kids, of the cheerful mom enshrouded in black.

I am so grateful both to my friend and to these nameless missionaries for applying the electroshock paddles to my heart this Sunday afternoon.

Thanksgiving Month, Day 15: "Open Wide ..."

I was thinking about mouths the other day. Mouths are weird things - even the word mouth seems odd.

Then I started thinking about references to mouths. Of course, everyone knows of  something leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.


If you're down in the mouth, you're feeling pretty dejected.


No one really wants to spend much time with a mouthy person.


In Shakespeare's Richard III Queen Margaret remarks bitterly to herself:

So, now prosperity begins to mellow
And drop into the rotten mouth of death.  

The Bible has a few choice tidbits to say that involve the mouth too:

The mouth of the wicked and the mouth of the deceitful are opened against me (Psalm 109:2)


A worthless person, a wicked man, walks with a perverse mouth (Proverbs 6:12)


Their throat is an open sepulchre; with their tongues they have used deceit; the poison of asps is under their lips; their mouth is full of cursing and bitterness (Romans 3:13, 14)


It makes you want to avoid all that putridness at all costs, doesn't it?! And yet one of my oldest friends has made it his job to peer into people's mouths almost every day. Brian has taken on the challenge of facing each new mouth head on and doing everything he can to fix the problems, cause healing, promote wellness, bring about health. With the stunningly beautiful Viv, his dental hygienist wife, working alongside him, I can almost not mind being stretched out on the dental chair, mouth open, feeling at my most vulnerable as I know they will be able to see that I don't floss every day and that my teeth are horribly crooked and misaligned and that my fillings have to be replaced. I want desperately to swallow but sharp tools are in my mouth and I am dependent on them to get one of those vacuum tube thingies to suction out my mouth. Which they always do - they never leave me hanging.


Brian sees all the grossness of my mouth, the cavities and the unaligned teeth, the receding gums, the neglect - and yet he's still my friend. Every time I leave the dentist's office I wonder if he'll still be talking to me. And every time, he still does.


He makes me think of God, in a way. God sees all my grossness, my neglect, the decay that's set in, the crookedness - and yet He still talks to me. He's still my friend, even in moments when I have to confess that I haven't flossed as frequently as I could have, that I ate those candies which gave me a sugar rush for a couple of moments but later brought me crashing down, that I don't visit as often as I should.


God looks in my mouth and takes the x-ray that shows Him the trouble spots; then He fills the holes and scrapes off the plaque.  When He is finished and I can finally close my mouth and sit upright, He doesn't make me feel awkward and exposed, but rather makes me believe that He was happy to see me again. He never leaves me hanging.


The best kind of friend to have.


And it's Brian's birthday on the 15th of October, so I want to take the opportunity to wish him for the day and for all the days of the year to come. Thank you for looking beyond my faults and fillings and still being my friend. I am so grateful I met you when we were about seventeen.


And I'm paying attention to one last verse, Psalm 81:10b: Open your mouth wide and I shall fill it - see you on Tuesday!

Thanksgiving Month, Day 14: To the Father of the Bride

It's her birthday today. Doesn't seem like it was too many years ago that she was a tiny girl with enormous butterscotch eyes and freckles painted artfully on her nose, does it? You managed to make your way through the first years of her life, growing up yourself alongside of her.


Over the years she has grown from that innocent little girl into a stunningly beautiful, intelligent, funny, capable woman.  



How your parents, Dick and Thelma, loved her! My parents love/d her too, first because of their friends and then, when they got to know her, because of her own self. She is able to draw people of all ages to her because of her willingness to be vulnerable, to be herself.

I remember, when she and I were in Africa together, how both children and the women we partnered with loved being around her. Some of the most memorable health lessons were designed and presented by your daughter, who was well out of her comfort zone but who saw a need and stepped in to fill it, whatever the demands of the moment might be. 

I've enjoyed immensely the times the two of you have joined me for tea and a chat in the TH. You've each had to make your way through life more separately than together, so there's been lots of eye-rolling, lots of getting reacquainted, but also lots of understated love.   Not to mention really good tea ...


Fast forward four more years - where did they go?! - and this summer you walked on one side of her, with her step dad on the other side, as she made her way down the aisle to the man she would promise to love and to cherish.

"Someone to watch over me ..."

That evening, as the two of you made your way through the father-daughter dance - Somewhere Over the Rainbow -  I marvelled at the ties you have managed to forge despite time, despite distance, despite philosophical differences, despite any number of things that could have split you apart. You share a deep affection and a history that belongs to the two of you alone. To the two of you together.


You've handed her over to a kind man who loves her.


But as she celebrates her birthday and ponders the legacy that she is part of, the legacy she in turn will pass on, you'll always hold the place of honour in her heart as the very first man she ever loved.

(Some pictures taken from Alana's FB page; Africa picture by CGI)

Thanksgiving Month, Day 13: Heart of Gold

What would you do if you were told by a surgeon that you had to choose between valves to repair your heart - and that there were pros and cons to either decision?


My friend Lyn was faced with this very decision not long ago. And now, this afternoon, she's in Edmonton, waiting to be called into surgery. She's already been put off for a couple of hours due to an emergency. So she waits.


What is it about hearts? We have the physical vessel, of course, very pragmatic and functional - until it's not. Consultations are made and serious discussions ensue about new valves, stents, bypasses, transplants.


Then we have the whole emotional side to that same vessel. When we feel alarmed or are with someone we are crushing on or even spot a dearly beloved face that we haven't seen for a while, the physical organ gets into the action by beating faster. When we break up with someone we love, our hearts are broken too. Neil Young summed it up in his anthem, "I've crossed the ocean for a heart of gold ..." It's what we all want, one other person's heart that speaks to our heart alone.


Then there's the spiritual side: the Psalmist of old asks, "Create in me a new heart, oh God, and renew a right spirit within me." And there's the promise of consolation: "The Lord is near to the broken hearted."


Our hearts are wrapped up in all that we do, in everything we are.


Those little valves are pretty important!


BA made an astute observation the other day: the heart is a pretty selfish organ. If it's not right, nothing in the body is right either.

Dave and Lyn
(picture scooped from
your FB!)

We go back to my friend Lyn. A more unselfish person you would be hard pressed to find. When her mother passed away in 2003, she was there for her father every weekend and even during the week. She makes a special effort to keep in touch with all branches of her considerable family, even travelling around the world to see them. When her father married again, she stepped up to the plate, helping in any way she could. And she heroically participated in the packing up and disposing of her father's old home - of her mother's, of her own, home - even though this made her heart ache with a wistful longing for what was and could no longer be.

Lyn with cousin Arlene (r),
who was one of my Mum's favourites

I have been the beneficiary of her friendship and I can attest firsthand to her great kindness both in word and in deed. I have often observed her in the tea house. Her tenderheartedness is manifest in how she cares for her Dad and Mary, how she is solicitous of her ageing aunt, how she looks to see if she can be helpful when I am swamped. She gives up her evenings when she can to come and sit in the purple chairs and have tea and conversation with me.


She is truly a friend of my heart.


And now her heart, which has caused her trouble since she was a baby, requires help, requires a new valve. 


So we who love her pray with all of our minds, our souls and, yes, our hearts, that this surgery will be easy; that the recovery will be smooth; and that her heart will once again beat strong for the wonderful person we all love so very much.

Thanksgiving Month, Day 12: Captain Kirk: The Next Generation

You have met my friend Gary before and you know what an influence and a resource and a comfort and a sounding board and a gift he is to me. I delight in his friendship.


However, he's kind of spoiled it for me this year. This year he has started bringing out two little people whom I want to focus on more than I do him when he comes to the TH to visit.


Gordie and Caelyn.

Gordie has already started working at the TH: the first time he visited was during the hours we are open. I got him to hand out chocolate Ovations to departing guests. The next time he came to visit was before we were actually open. But Gary's friend and mine, Ed, dropped by a little bit early. Gordie vanished behind the counter, only to emerge triumphantly with an Ovation, which he promptly rushed over to Ed at the fireplace.

These kids are smart as a whip. And they look out for each other very tenderly. When I got tea cups for them on one visit, Caelyn looked at the cup for Gordie and said to me, "He likes green." 


In moments like this I see glimpses of their Dad, see the love he has for them, the care he bestows, the time he devotes to them. I remember how Gary used to be the one taking the early morning shift with Gordie when the latter was a baby - 5 a.m. and the two men of the house would be together, talking and bonding, the one nestled on the other's chest as close to his heart as possible. I remember the text I received when Caelyn was born - shortly after Gary lost his beloved sister Dorothy to cancer - and feeling that this little girl would be an instrument to heal the hurt and the pain, feeling so glad that Gordie now had a sister with whom he could live and grow, whom he would love, with whom he could enjoy a special closeness as had Gary and Dorothy. 


I love these two kids of yours, Gary.  I'm not saying outright that they are supplanting you in my affections, but it might be touch and go ...


Happy birthday, dear friend. May this year give you joy with no sorrow added. 


And please bring out Gordie and Caelyn to visit soon! 

Thanksgiving Month, Day 11: "I'll Give You My Warm"

When my youngest sister, Deborah Joy, was a wee lass of about 2 or 3 years old, we lived in Coonoor in the Nilgiris, where it would get so extremely cold that hot water bottles and extra wool blankets didn't help much. The houses were not made for temperatures so low that there would be frost on the tea bushes. The house we lived in was cement, with cement floors and no wall-to-wall carpeting or central heating.


In the morning, with hot water bottles cold and the horrid certainty that we had to get out of our beds and face the frigid day, we would shiver under our covers asking for just a few more minutes of warmth.


Then along would come little Debbie Joy. "I'll give you my warm," she'd say, to all of us but especially to Mum, for whom cold mornings were particularly hard. Then this little bit of a girl would climb up onto the bed and cuddle up against us for a few minutes until we felt warm enough to be able to brave the day.


I was thinking about this the other day when Deborah took a day off work to help me with the wedding in the TH. I was remembering how many times every week she helps people, especially me, giving us a little boost for our day or week.


She is one of those people who unselfishly and tirelessly seek to spread warmth and kindness to everyone with whom she comes in contact, but most particularly to her loved ones. 


When I was 17 and she was about 4, we were walking near Johnson Market in Bangalore. She was holding my hand. Several people came up to me that afternoon and complimented me on my beautiful daughter, and I was so proud that everyone thought I was her mother.


Fast forward to the wedding: one of the bride's relatives stopped me and asked, "That girl in the black top - is she your daughter?" The only girl in a black top was Deborah. I was not as thrilled as I was 32 years earlier, I must confess ...


Her compassion for "her" kids at the Children's Hospital knows no bounds. She follows her kids' lives well after they have aged out of the system. She cares for them like they are her own. Her cell phone is always on and all of her families have her number.She is their advocate and their coach and their treatment coordinator and their friend. She has been invited to sit with the family at those tragic occasions where the disease has gotten the better of the child. She mourns each loss deeply.


I am always proud to be recognized as her sister. She helps me at the TH in so many ways. And when she senses that I'm exhausted, she will come down from Calgary and spell me out so I can sneak in a bit of a nap. The staff loves to work with her as she's efficient, knowledgeable, likes to cook and knows what needs to be done. And yet she is sweet and gentle and one of the team when she is working.

Her generosity is legendary among her friends and family. Her nephews love her. Her sisters don't know how we would get along without her. And she's Dad's touchstone - morning and evening she calls him to make sure he's doing well.


She's still giving her warm to all those fortunate enough to know her. 


I for one am very grateful.