88

If my Dad were still with us, he would have turned 88 today.

I woke up earlier than usual this morning, thinking about the last of his birthdays my Mum was here to celebrate, his 75th.

She was lying in ER at Foothills Hospital in Calgary when a sister and I arrived to see her. She had had a brutal night and was in so much pain she was barely responsive, eyes shut, not speaking.

When we pulled the curtain behind us, she asked  - eyes still closed - "Has anyone got a cake for Dad?" We hastened to assure her that we would get one.

"It has to be wheat free and try to get no dairy."

We managed to find a tiny cake answering all the requirements for a mere $85 from a French bakery on 17th Avenue SW. By the time we returned to the hospital, she was in her own room. She was delighted. We never told her the price, and we agreed that it would have been worth twice that to see her smile and taste a minute morsel.

Two weeks later exactly, she was gone. That cake memory always makes me happy! 

I saw various tributes to Dad online; and then several other reminders of him presented themselves to me throughout the day.

The first was the verse from the daily calendar in the bathroom. I read it, and thought immediately, "This is speaking of Dad!" He devoted his life to studying the Book, and helping people to understand it. 

The second was a piece of paper that fluttered out from a stack I had placed to go through. He had compiled this list for a beloved daughter ten years ago. He knew who he was, my Dad did. "When you know God and you know yourself, you have nothing to prove, nothing to lose," he would say. 

When he died he had nothing to prove and nothing to lose. And he took the time to show her - and the rest of us - who we were before God. What a gift!

As I was getting ready to ride to the Brooks cattle auction with the Good Rancher, I had two men on my mind: my Dad, and our friend Mark, who is waiting in the shadow of the Valley as I write. I was praying for him, and for my friend / his wife, Miriam, earlier in the morning; and I was pondering the words of tribute and remembrance I had read. Does Dad know we're all thinking about him? Does he know we love him so? If time has been replaced with eternity for him, do birthdays even matter at all?

My phone rang. Just one ring and then silence. Curious, I checked to see who had called. The name was unfamil...

It was like one of Heaven's angels was delivering a message: "Mark is in God's hands; and yes, your Dad knows." 

Thank you, Mark of the Archangels! 

The Good Rancher and I headed to Brooks. It was a pretty day for a drive and we were together. (I guess it could be classified as a date, yes?!) We went inside and almost immediately he saw acquaintances he hadn't seen for some years. What a joy it was for him to pick up the threads of his previous world in the familiar surroundings of his youth. 

It also happened to be the auction house's anniversary celebration. 

Lovely Selena, who has worked there since the GR was a child, came over to greet him and told us to come and get some lunch.

I went but the GR said he would eat later.  

"What about him?" Selena demanded. I explained. She nodded twice. "I know him. He used to come with his mom and his brothers. He always was a shy boy. I'm going to put extra food on your plate, and you take two sets of forks and you share with him. He will eat."

And she was right.

As he ate, I was thinking - once again - about Blind Bart. Our dear neighbour had invited Bart to spend the winter and keep her calf Barny company in their lovely new barn - and then her old cow gave birth to twins three days ago! I knew Ivy would still take Bart, but that would have been so much added work and I couldn't in good conscience send him over.

I was mulling over possible solutions when suddenly into the auction ring (don't get ahead of me here!) trotted a solitary little black calf. Alert, chipper, 200 pounds of company for Bart.

I turned to the GR. "It could be Bart's friend! We could fix up the calving barn for them, couldn't we?!" 

He rolled his eyes and leaned slightly forward. I was mildly annoyed, thinking he was ignoring me - until the auctioneer said, "Sold!" and the GR looked at me and said, "There you go. I cannot beLIEVE I just did that." 

He turned to the friend sitting to his right. The man, smirking, shook his head and shrugged. "Wives," he commiserated.

The GR went to talk to one of the auction crew. There was not a single other calf at the auction that day. 

Of course, now we had to get this little scrap home. We left the auction shortly thereafter and drove the hour and a half north. When we pulled into the yard, the GR said, "See you later," and hopped into his truck pulling the stock trailer. Three extra hours of driving on the first afternoon he had had off in a long time ...

Another reminder of Dad took the form of a vignette at the main buyers chairs by the ring. A dad and his dark haired little daughter appeared and settled in two chairs for the afternoon. 

I could just see my dad, given half a chance, doing the exact same thing. 

When the GR finally returned home for the second time I made a litre of milk replacer to try to coax the baby calf out of the stock trailer. Sometimes this can be so tricky, because they are used to their mother and they are scared and disoriented. It can take a while to get them comfortable and willing to take a bottle.

The GR opened the door to the first compartment and as he was unlatching the next he said, "I'll catch her for you and hold her; see what you can do. Ready?"

As he swung the door open there was a bellow and a little rush and the baby launched herself at me. Not at me; at the bottle. She latched on and greedily devoured the litre and then started sucking my fingers.

The GR and I looked at each other.

"Oh. My. Word," he muttered.

"She was so hungry, I guess," I offered.

"No - she is a BOTTLE CALF! It's just getting worse and worse!" he groaned.

"Why? Isn't this a good thing? No work to train this one?" I asked, as I guided the baby by my fingers in her mouth out of the trailer, through the horse corral and into the pen where the other bottle calves were. "Why would someone be so heartless as to sell such a little calf?"

"Because he's a REAL rancher! No one in his right mind wants a bottle calf at this time of year!" 

I felt stricken, overwhelmed with guilt for adding to his already considerable burden.

He glanced at me, grinned and took my other hand. "Have you got a name for her?"

"88," I replied. "Dad would get such a kick out of it all. It's like this is a gift from him to me on his birthday!"

We got 88 into Bart's night-time pen and they jostled around with the grain pail like old friends. The other calves were not quite so sure about her; but by the time the bottle calves received their bedtime drink, everyone had settled down.

Another nod to my Dad actually occurred the day before his birthday. My friend and previous tea house employee Heather came to visit the Round-up Corral with her three small daughters, the first time I was meeting them and the first time in a long time I was seeing their mommy.

Now, I love my boys - stepson, nephews and great nephews. And when they want to hang out in Johnny and Sam's Bunkhouse and play with the horses and trucks and little plastic figurines of days gone by, I fully understand.

And yet - Dad created his Johnny and Sam on the Ranch stories as much for his daughters as for his son. He loved his girls with his whole heart and would enter into our pursuits, whether it was tossing a baseball about or playing with our dolls. He read to us. He sang to us. He walked and talked with us. He got our names mixed up, but he would end up at the right one ... He listened to us - oh, how he listened! He taught us scripture and led by example. When he told us about our Heavenly Father, it was easy for us to love Him; we had the best example possible here on earth.

When "my" girl with her girls drove away, I went back to look around the little Corral. To my delight, along with the trucks and baseball, I saw a doll perched on the chair outside the Bunkhouse and her pram waiting for her. 

It seemed so fitting. Dad seemed to be smiling, just out of sight ...

Thank you, and happy birthday, Dad!

Thank you, Good Rancher ❤️🤠!

Thank you, God!

Welcome home, 88!

A Love Like No Other

Happy Christmas! 

The wind is down and the moon is up: all is calm, all is bright.

I have been deeply moved by a little baby boy who arrived in the 855 neighbourhood a matter of weeks ago. His parents had yearned for a child for years and now, incredibly, just in time for Christmas, they are holding their son in their arms. He was given to them to love and to cherish. He was destined for this family.

As I listened to the Christmas story last Sunday - the greatest love story of all, Pastor Allan said - I realised that adoption is at the heart of the story of Christmas!

The first love we see in the Christmas narrative  is of a man for his betrothed, who - he had been informed - was pregnant. Joseph was understandably shocked, confused, crushed. Of course he was going to have to break the engagement; he had the right to have her stoned, according to the law of the day! 

But he loved her. Despite this apparent betrayal, he resolved to break their betrothal quietly, in order to mitigate her pain and her certain suffering in society.

Troubled, he went to sleep. And in his dreams he was visited by an angel who told him not to hesitate to marry his love. She had not betrayed him. She was carrying the Son of God.

And thus we see the second great love of the story - Joseph's love for his God. He awoke from his dream and never looked back. He married the woman he loved, but he didn't consummate their marriage until after she had delivered her baby.

www.jasonjenicke.com

Ahh, that baby! The love Joseph had for him! He could never have predicted how his heart would be rocked to its core by something so little, so dependent on him, so precious. "I can't even!" exclaimed tiny Rio's mom, and that's exactly how Joseph must have felt. He adopted this child as his own, and it was Joseph who taught the little fellow everything he could. He taught him his trade, carpentry. But he also taught him how to read, taught him the sacred texts, taught him how to be a man. He showed him how to treat women - with respect, as an equal, without judgment. He showed him the love of a father for his son. 

As Pastor Allan said, there was never a more influential father in the history of humankind.

And then there was the baby's mother. From the minute she started to show, eyebrows were raised. Months were counted off on fingers. If not Joseph's then whose? 

The talk never died down, even when her son was grown and off on his own mission. She would travel to hear him when she could; she heard the retort they spat at him that day: "We are not born of fornication …" and the stabbing pain in her heart returned as she tried to catch her breath at the injustice, the hurtfulness, of it all.

Over the years she would think long and hard about all the things she had experienced since she agreed to be the mother of this child: her cousin Elizabeth's proclamation; Joseph's steadfastness; the stable; the glittering kings from the east with their unusual presents of gold, frankincense and myrrh; the megalomaniac ruler who decided to slaughter any threats to his position, resulting in her, Joseph and the baby acquiring refugee status in Egypt where, unable to work, they were bankrolled by those same, extremely expensive gifts; the annual pilgrimage to Jerusalem where this boy of hers went missing and where they found him, three days later, discoursing with the leaders in the temple (the boy's respectful but firm reply, "Don't you know that I must be about my Father's business?" had caused her to glance over at Joseph. She saw her husband's dear face registering his understanding, his acknowledgment that this son - loved fully with his whole heart from the moment he helped deliver him - now had a higher claim than Joseph's paternal authority on his life. But he would never stop loving this boy. He was his son. It was a love like no other.); the slurs and innuendo that surfaced from time to time when people felt the need to "put him in his place"; right up to his death on that splintered cross where he remembered her and - in a strange parallel to his being given to her from the beginning of his life to be cared for - gave her to his dearest friend to be cared for until the end of hers.

She was a quiet, humble woman and she kept all these things in her heart. But she never, for one moment, doubted the plan for him. She never, for one moment, stopped loving him.

The next person in this love story is God himself. Despite his being holy, unable to tolerate evil and sin, he loved us. And all of us can acknowledge that we have messed up more than a few times in our lives! Back before the story of Christmas people all around the world, from every culture and religion, had been trying to atone for their wrong doing, trying to live a good life, to make things right the best they could so that they could gain the favour of their deity and be assured of a safe landing when they died.

The birth of this baby in the manger was the beginning of the end for humankind to have to try to find a way. This baby was God, who - while never losing his deity - became human to reach us, to provide a way for us to be able to reach God. 

Pastor Allan commented that the text Billy Graham used more than any other in his sermons was this:

For God so loved the world 

that He gave His only begotten son 

that whosoever believes in him 

shall not perish, but have everlasting life  

He loved the whole world, and his birth son died to take away our sin - which is what separated Him from us - so that we could be forgiven, freely enjoy His love and one day be with Him where He is.

He knew there were people who would reject him outright. He died for them anyway.

People who would mock him and scorn this "plan of salvation" and yet continue with their own plan to fill the God-sized hole in their heart that yearns for lasting peace. He died for them.

People who would raise their eyebrows and query what was so special about this particular man. He was used to raised eyebrows. He died for these people too.

He loved … the world. The greatest love of all.

The last participant in this love story can change the whole outcome, and it's us. We have been created with agency, with free will. We can choose to accept this gift - the first Christmas gift! - or not.

Pastor Allan told us we can come to God as children and simply say, "Will you be my Dad? Can I be your daughter? Can I be your son?"

And when we accept his gift of salvation He adopts us into his family. That baby in the manger - himself adopted by Joseph so long ago - becomes our elder brother. We become equal heirs with him in all that our heavenly Father has to give his children.

And it's not "in spite" of our being adopted, Pastor Allan went on, with a catch in his throat. It's because we are adopted. 

Pastor Allan should know. He and Dina have adopted their three children. 

God should know. He gave his son up for adoption. 

The greatest gift of all.