Time in a Bottle

Early in the morning, this day, three years ago, my Dad shuffled off this mortal coil, to borrow from Shakespeare.

Everything was in order, just as he would have liked it. His friend and ours, Char, had come over the previous afternoon. Char had taken over the teaching of Dad's Wednesday Bible study when it got to be too much for him, and she would come over every Thursday and go over the lesson with him and they would have an often lively discussion. This particular Thursday, Dad had had a good lunch and their conversation was interspersed with gentle laughter and the flipping of pages to certain passages of the Bible.

As she prepared to leave Char got up, walked over to Dad and said, "May I pray for you, Allan?"

At the end of her prayer she rested her hand on his shoulder and murmured the old words:

The Lord bless you and keep you, 

The Lord make His face to shine upon you

and be gracious unto you, 

The Lord lift up His countenance upon you

and give you peace. 

.

Then she bent over and placed a kiss on his forehead - "... see you when I get back from my trip..." and she was gone. 

BA returned from work and we had tea and a "rose cookie toast" - a highly prized treat from Deb's Christmas kitchen.

I was getting ready to leave when suddenly a car drove up - Deb herself, who had decided to come down one night early instead of the Friday morning as originally planned.

The sun started to slip away and I had to go; the drive back to the ranch terrified me, more so when it was icy and dark.

On the way was a beautiful sunset. I stopped to take a picture, as I often did, to show Dad the next day.

Of course, that didn't happen. Instead, I received the phone call from Deb.

On the desolate drive to Dad's house, I had rarely felt so alone. As I approached the Tolman River I sort of asked God if they were together, if they had found each other. A few moments later, on a precipitous part of the highway I looked up, and there was this sight:

Startled, I stopped in the middle of the lane, turned off the engine and watched them for approximately ten minutes. No cars came for that entire time. 

They moved only to look at each other a couple of times; the rest of the time, they stared straight at me.

Then finally, when I could breathe again, they turned in unison and, looking at each other, slowly disappeared over the hill.

When I got to Dad's home the girls told me that his body was lying on his bed, just as they had found him.

When I walked up to his hospital bed, he looked completely at peace. He had removed the nasal prongs that delivered his oxygen, kicked off his blanket, and appeared to be stepping joyfully out of this life into the next.

Dad had used his time on earth wisely and to the best of his ability, and so he could leave without regret and without second-guessing.

"Nothing to prove; nothing to lose," as he used to say.

He was free.

Untrammeled.

The thought of using time wisely, of time slipping away at a seemingly accelerated rate each year I add to my life, has been weighing heavy on my mind for the last couple of months. One of my literary heroes asks the question:

The first Sunday of January this year, The Church at Endiang had a special New Year's service where - following in Dad's footsteps - we each chose a promise for our year. 

It had come to me at around Christmas time while I was pondering our group that meets on the first and third Sunday evenings of the month how different we are from each other, what a wide variety of backgrounds and experiences we bring to our gathering. What do we really have in common? 

What all of us have in common is time. All things being equal, we will all have the same amount of weeks in the upcoming year, the same amount of days. 

Of course, the inevitable caveat: the scripture reminds us that "our times are in [God's] hands," that there are cases where lives run their course before we are ready to say goodbye. 

The nightly news gives credence ... 

Beloved friends are diagnosed, with the addendum "inoperable" ...

Other treasured friends miraculously complete their "18 months to two years countdown" and shakily emerge on the other side with no timeline, no expectations, just gratitude for 17 bonus days and counting ...

One mother mentioned to me that her tiny daughter had commented no one would shoot her because she was pretty. Even in her innocence she is aware on some level that time can be upended.

Madison Rose, 12 minutes.

Baby L, born too early to be able to sustain life. Baby A, fighting for more time, for a chance.

Virgil. George. Maynard. Three brothers, each in their prime.

Pulmonary fibrosis, 84 years old.

Multiple myeloma, 70 years old.

Multiple myeloma, 48 years old.

We can all add our heartbreaks to the list.

Time is so fragile, so precious. 

So as I was contemplating our new year's service I thought that maybe we could mark the progress of 2020 with a simple exercise: I gathered glass bottles and jars in a variety of shapes and sizes and placed 52 little sparkling pebbles in every jar, the containers representing us and each pebble representing a week in the year ahead of us. I suggested that when we went home, we find an empty container and each week we transfer one pebble from the original container to our second container. We can keep an informal track of the passage of time.

I just moved my third pebble over. 

It's sobering and it's also a challenge. It's causing me to reflect on life, on values, on expectations. It's causing me to slow down and also to speed up. I've had a couple of awful days where I've wondered what is the point. And then a couple more days of clearly seeing what the point is.

I think my Dad might have liked this exercise.

A song from a CD my sister gave me has been playing in my head a lot for the past two days: Andrae Crouch's song from the 70s, "It won't be long". In two minutes he sums up what I'm feeling:

As I drove on the Snake Trail from Hanna to Endiang yesterday evening, the sunset was gorgeous. I was wishing I could show the picture to Dad the next day.

Of course, that didn't happen.

But somehow, I feel he knows ...

"How Sweet It Is To Be Loved By You" 🎵🎶

The Good Rancher needed a hand - his helper was sick, and bales had to get out to the fields. I fearfully acquiesced to drive a regular cab truck pulling a short flat deck trailer upon which the bales would be loaded. My dog Carly Simon broke out of the house and jumped in too. Then I remembered the tee shirt I had layered into my fetching ensemble ... James Taylor and Carly Simon together in a tiny truck - what could possibly go wrong?!

As the GR was piling bales onto the flat deck I caught a glimpse of the stackyard cat taking what shelter he could, and I was grateful for a warm vehicle — and amazed at how resilient animals are.

From there it was a simple matter of getting the laden truck up a short driveway, turning left onto the 855 and waiting for the tractor to be loaded and lead the way.

Except that the GR had said, "Don't stop at the top of the driveway whatever you do — it's slippery and you'll get stuck."

And I asked, "What if a car's coming?"

To which he replied, "Hopefully they'll see you and stop ..."

The Good Rancher has told me several times that I overthink things. At the bottom of the slope, where I was supposed to be picking up speed, I was already to the point in my inevitable car crash where the police were locking me up with 100% culpabity and STARS was airlifting my hapless victim to Calgary.

I stalled at the crucial spot. Not even 4 wheel drive could help my spinning tires.

I tried to call the GR, but there was no cell service. Carly Simon was being Carly Simon, one moment trying to comfort me as I opened the window and gulped panic and fresh air down my constricting throat, the next looking down her patrician nose and sneering, "You prob'ly think this song is about you..."

"I know it's not — it's about the frozen, hungry cows," I wailed.

"What?" The Good Rancher was at the window.

"Just talking to Carly," I muttered shamefacedly.

"Move over," he replied, and shifted into reverse.

I will never know if he did this to make me feel like not such a failure, but bless the man, he stalled on his first attempt up the hill. "Everyone does it," he remarked. "Even Lonnie, one of the best, has done it."

"But he was driving a loaded semitruck," I protested.

"Same thing," the GR responded as he hopped out and walked back down the hill to the tractor.

We arrived at the first field, delayed thanks to my incompetence. The cows were waiting for him. He immediately went to work, grinding two bales and then grabbing two more from the trailer. Long lines of feed spit out, and the cows immediately started noshing, a veritable Ponderosa steakhouse buffet.

As we left that field for the next, one chill cow looked up as if to say thanks ...

Creeping along the icy lane to the next field I spotted a horned owl puffed up against the cold.

How do these creatures cope? I wondered to Carly, shivering as I rolled up the window again.

All the bales chopped and strewn, we headed back to the stack yard and little Gabe, who had to be put on his mother.

(He knows exactly where to go: along the length of the squeeze and through the little palpation cage gate, down the alley and into the makeshift pen where his mother waits irritably ...)

This day Gabe's mother deigned to glare at me for the first moments; then she pointedly turned her head, giving me the coldest shoulder of the week.

After his nursing session was over, Gabe appeared at the top of the palpation cage gate like he was ready to get back into the warmth of the shop.

I called to him: "Gabriel, Gabriel!"

And just like that he took off around the yard, over and over, the same triangle pattern, a barrel calf in the making...

The Good Rancher stepped into the fray, with no better results:

 

Eventually he pinned the little miscreant and firmly marched him back to the shop. 

Drama over, the GR loaded sidekick and dog into the truck to take us back to the house, only to turn around and begin the task of bedding all the animals in his charge. His day would be finally over at 7:30 that night - except, of course, for Gabe's bedtime bottle at 10 o'clock.

And as the truck started up the driveway Carly Simon slipped back into her favourite travelling spot, back into the arms of the man who will always love her... 

Peeking at 2020

New Year's Eve is the night I think I look forward to more than any other in the year … with perhaps the exception of the night in the fall when we turn our clocks back for one extra hour of sleep!

Our family has so many little traditions around New Year's Eve. As many of us as can gather for snacks, conversation, a game or two, some singing, and fireworks close to midnight to launch the new year in style.

But what draws us together more than anything else is the anticipation of the promise we will receive for the year ahead.

My Dad started this tradition decades ago, and we his children and grandchildren lovingly carry it on in his honour.

This year we met at Allan and Angie's home. The table was, of course, weighted down with deliciousness. We snacked and conversed and laughed, getting reacquainted with old friends over for the evening. Tonight's game was Catchphrase; the men won, I feel obliged to report.

And then as the clock ticked past 11, we drew together and Allan read us a short piece written by Charles Spurgeon pondering the departing year and heralding the new one. We sang some songs together, comfortable, familiar songs putting our minds' focus on the faithfulness of God.

Allan lifted the same old antique platter with the verses typed on ribbons and lovingly arranged on it by our sister, each one a promise for the new year almost upon us. Angie prayed for us, that we would be given a promise that would meet us where we were, that would sustain us and speak to us through 2020.

Then we went around the room and selected a ribbon. When we had each chosen one, we read our promises aloud, a chance to share the hope and the comfort that had been given to us, or the challenge that had been issued to spur us on to new growth in our journey with God and with our fellow pilgrims.

A couple more songs, and then it was our own private fireworks display! Our nephew Matthew has treated us to this gift since he was able to buy fireworks; and each year it becomes more jubilant than the year before!

The clock, of course, had been relentlessly pushing us into the next day; so the Good Rancher and I left after whipping up a bottle of milk for little Gabe, the Christmas Calf. (When we arrived at his lodging he did not seem to mind in the least getting a feed at around 2:00 a.m. ...)

And as I crawled into bed shortly after 2:30, my promise for the year started to make its way into my heart.

This particular passage keeps showing up in the life of the Good Rancher and me. At his first New Year's Eve with my family, he selected the ribbon that bore this verse. It was an encouragement to him that God was going to start a new chapter in his life. 

We married two months later, and my family presented us a wall plaque they had comissioned with these verses on it. 

The New Year's Eve after my Dad died, the Good Rancher again happened to select the ribbon containing these two verses.

This year, after an inexplicably tough year, I received the verses.

On New Year's Day several of us headed up to Deb and Jonathan's home for an Indian feast, just like we used to enjoy when Dad was with us. The next day, I met a couple for lunch who has grown very dear to me over the past year, becoming akin to mentors. They knew some of the difficulties I had encountered in 2019. I knew of some of the struggles they had experienced, and I am well aware that the two are not in the same league by any means. Still, with great patience and kindness they listened to me and counseled me. Then - the greatest gift of all - they prayed for me. 

I prayed for them too, and inexplicably was moved to pray for myself, asking God to show me if I had been a detriment to anyone this past year, and where I had failed Him. 

Earlier in 2019 I had been able to go away for a few days, with a sister to a sister. On our trip, she introduced me to the music of Steve Bell and the Edmonton Symphony Orchestra. For Christmas she gave me the CD. 

I was listening intently to it all the way home after lunch with my friends. Today I realised I was humming one song over and over again, Eventide, the very last song on the CD. And through this song, God so kindly pointed out where one of my greatest errors had been this past year: I had - directly or indirectly - caused pain for people I dearly love. In return, this had caused me to face roadblock after high wall after moat with crocodiles. I was not impervious: my action or inaction, my words or silence, had ultimately resulted in pain for me too.

Along with my sad new knowledge, at least one reason for receiving this particular promise became clear to me as its words flowed over me like warm, healing oil.

God was offering His forgiveness to me, and was telling me that, just as He would not hold my transgressions against me, I too must not hold on to the things - thoughts, habits, attitudes - of the past. He Himself is going to "do a new thing ... a road in the wilderness and rivers in the desert." And, best of all, "shall [I] not know it?"

I was being given a second chance.

Eventide is based on verses 9 and 10 in the Old Testament book of 1 Chronicles chapter 4. The man Jabez prays:

So alongside my verses full of rich promise and reassurance, I am choosing this song as my song for the year, a reminder for me to lean continually on God, who will help me not to cause pain.

In the inevitable hindsight at the end of 2020 I want to be able to say that I lived this year with clarity of vision and insight. That I was not a coward.

That I am living proof of God's working in me.

Happy New Year!