'Twas the Night Before the Night Before Christmas

The Shoebox Party of 2023

Unto us a child is born heralds the Christmas season.

But that much-lauded child had no material possessions to launch his life. His mother birthed him with the help of her husband under the desultory gaze of the animals who were sharing their shelter with these intruders. His first resting place was a manger, borrowed from the descendants of the animals he had called into being. He was wrapped in strips of cloth. Shortly after his birth his parents would become refugees, fleeing the murderous tyranny of the political leader at the time.

Who knows what could have happened to them in that foreign country had it not been for the strangers who brought gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh for this unknown little child, items that could be traded for food and shelter and tools to try to cobble their lives together again?

Those Wise Men blessing a little child in a country far away from where they lived were - at least, to my way of thinking - the founders of Operation Christmas Child!

Saturday was the day of the fourth Operation Christmas Child party the Church at Endiang has hosted for our community.

People gather things throughout the year and then start dropping their haul off a day or so before. Or if they can't bring their items in early, they might make up a box or two at home and then come to the community party to pack a few more and visit with their neighbours over pizza from the Byemoor Hotel.

Pictures are worth a thousand words, so I will let them speak for themselves, with a comment or two:

To get the piles of stuff sorted properly, you need a good organiser. Check.

To get the fiddly details set up so that people can grab the essentials they need to place in each shoebox, you have to have someone very practical and able to discern what is universally important for each box to contain. For example, do we have labels and elastic bands? Check.

To get the items inside the boxes we need two people who actually think OUTSIDE the box and can pass their vision and their guidance to kids and first-time packers. Oh, and they need to be willing actually to put together 100 cardboard shoeboxes. Oh, AND be the Welcome Committee. Check.

But to get it all done, we needed YOU! And you came out in spades.

The first shoebox each year is always a Big Deal. Here is this year's, along with our first donation of the day. It showed up at about 9:30 - we didn't open for business till 2:00! Mr July himself and his biggest fan dropped it off and stayed for a short visit.

Then came a fairly steady stream of people who wanted to drop off items or donations toward the processing and shipping of the boxes. Each box takes $10 - this covers the basic boxes and the cartons that all the boxes are transported in; and for each box to go through various checks at the collection centre in Calgary to make sure there is nothing that is on the DO NOT PACK list, and to make sure that each box has enough in it to delight a child's heart. Of course, there's the substantial overseas transport cost itself.

Last year we decided also to make up care bags for needy kids in Stettler. The Stettler Family and Community Support Services distributed them for us. This year we collected lots of things, as well as a small quantity of food items for kids who might need a boost for school lunches or even some cereal in the morning before going to school.

The first kid arrived and we put her to work. The next thing you know, the animals who had tickets to Stettler were having a party ...

Soon the doors opened and the party officially started!

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It's always good to see the men do what they do best 🤣🤗 ... There's no denying they missed their friend Lyn this year.

I didn't get pictures of everyone, and for that I'm so sorry. It was a joy to see our big-hearted kids trying to picture the kid who would receive the box, and to fill it accordingly.

The Stettler Tables - thick socks, hoodies, mitts and toques are warmly received:

The completed shoebox pile grew rapidly.

Just after 4 o'clock, pizza delivery!

But first the kids took all the boxes upstairs so that at Sunday night's service we could have a special prayer for them and the children who would receive them.

A quick calculation told us that we had used one full carton of the red and green cardboard boxes (100 boxes per carton), plus 42 plastic boxes.

142 boxes!! ❤️💚❤️💚❤️💚❤️

That night I counted the donations that had poured in. Thanks to your generosity, we had received $1,390 - only three shoeboxes short!

Shortly after midnight my phone lit up. A message came in from Vancouver, e-transfering $120 to help with postage.

$1,510! Wow!!

The next night at church Kurt led us in a prayer of blessing for the shoeboxes. Kurt himself has been overseas to deliver shoeboxes and has seen firsthand the joy on kids' faces when they receive their own box.

After the service we put the shoeboxes into larger cartons ready for shipping. This year the boxes from Canada are going to Nicaragua, El Salvador, Costa Rica, Senegal, Gambia, Sierra-Leone, Guinea-Bissau, the Philippines; and certain areas were asked to do boxes for the Ukraine. Last year more than 415,000 shoeboxes were sent from Canada; 10.5 MILLION were sent out globally.

Pastor Allan had brought five boxes that had missed the cut in Big Valley. The money for these shoeboxes had gotten left behind. "No worries," I said. "We have some extra money!"

Our total was now 147!

As we loaded we counted. And recounted. And then counted again, just to make sure.

151. 151. 151.

Then we remembered the four completed boxes that had been brought to the Hall. We hadn't thought of them when we did the quick 100-box count!

We did a quick calculation. 151 boxes at $10 a box = $1,510.

$1,510.

$1,510?!

Is it just me, or did anyone else get goosebumps?! I think Jesus, who loves kids, has got His eye on the shoeboxes from Endmoor, and He will see to it that His little children who receive them will know that someone in Canada loves them; even more importantly, that HE loves them.

Monday afternoon I shot into Stettler with the items for FCSS. Once again, Deanna beat me to it and had brought up all but the two heaviest boxes. The enormous truck cab was full to bursting, and one box had to ride in the back.

Les Stulberg, our Stettler County No. 6 Councilor, met me at the offices at 4 pm. He's on the FCSS Board, and they were going to have a meeting at 4:30, so the timing couldn't be better that both of us could be in Stettler then.

While Executive Director Shelly held the door, Les and the staff carried everything in.

It was wonderful to talk with Shelly and Les and see their passion for people right here at home. Les introduced me to his fellow board members; and just before I left he said, "Here's a calendar for you. It's pictures of the people involved with the Stettler Society of Prevention of Family Violence. I'm Mr July."

Oh my! How many districts can say they have a calendar boy as their Councilor??!!

As I drove back to Endiang, I couldn't help think of the words of Jesus: "Truly I say to you, in as much as you [showed kindness] to the least of my brothers and sisters, you did it to me."

And I wondered if, while He was saying those words, He was thinking of those wise men from so far away who showed such great kindness to an infant on that extraordinary day.

The Good Rancher

Six years ago on Valentine's day, the Good Rancher and I entered the state of holy matrimony.

It was a beautiful day, although at -9°, I couldn't help but wish it were a bit warmer.

My Dad had made it through what his doctor feared was H1N1 flu, but what mercifully turned out to be parainfluenza; he arrived in Three Hills from Calgary the night before and - although frighteningly frail - delivered a short message. He told the Bible story of Isaac and Rebecca's wedding, and how Rebecca "comforted him."

I determined then and there to be that kind of wife.

And when I saw how my bridegroom looked at me, I knew we were going to have a wonderful marriage.

The Good Rancher's son had flown up from his farrier course at Montana State University to attend the wedding on the Friday and do the chores on the Saturday so we could have a day together; the GR assured me we'd have a proper honeymoon when things slowed down. We drove said son to the airport on Sunday afternoon; after a delightful steak dinner, the 2 1/2 hour trip to my new home seemed to fly by.

The next morning hit me like a cold water shower: coffee and toast at 5:20? Still, I had my own work to do, so I tackled it earlier than I had ever done before.

This seemed to be the pattern. I grew more and more despondent, more exhausted. Soon I closed my tea house. I could barely cope in my professional life either.

("How do you spell matrimony?")

I asked my physician to administer an Alzheimer detection test. Negative.

Everything came to a head in October, and I went on stress leave. I was sleeping 18-20 hours a day. I was losing concentration and vocabulary. I was fearful and weepy. Meds were prescribed.

This was eight months after I had vowed to care for and comfort the Good Rancher like Rebecca did Isaac.

And through it all, neither by word nor by deed, did the man condemn me, question me or belittle me. 

His first wife, who had passed away in 2012 after 25 years of marriage, had been an equal partner with him. I never had the opportunity to meet her; but you can't live in someone's house, you can't get to know her friends, without discovering what an incredibly capable, kind, courageous, loyal and loving woman she was.

She was involved in every aspect of the operation. Her shoes would be impossible for me to fill.

He needed a bookkeeper. I didn't even look at my pay stubs.

He needed someone to ride out with him to check and move cattle, and for the sheer pleasure of exploring the beauty all around from the back of a horse. I had never really ridden before, and certainly never like this. Within months of arriving out here I fell off the mildest mannered horse ever, fracturing my tailbone and putting to rest that dream of his.

He needed someone to organise his mail, pay his bills, run his household. I could hardly get out of bed and shower most days.

("How do you spell failure?")

And yet he stuck with me. There were humourous moments along the way. One time, just before lunch, I took a pill from my prescription designed to reduce anxiety. The GR and son joined me at the table for lunch.

A couple of hours later I awoke with my face in my plate: the medication apparently had been too strong for me. Later, I asked the GR why they had left me. His response was, "When you fell asleep we didn't know what to do, so we went back to work ..."

Fair enough... 
("How do you spell potato face?") 

I knew nothing - NOTHING - about what life on a ranch entailed. (When I first met my future sister-in-law, she asked me if I had an Ag background. I responded, "What's that?") How had we ever been crazy enough to think this would work?

You know the saying, "It takes a village to raise a child"? It took several villages to support the Good Rancher and me as we navigated marital mine field after mine field. The village of our churches came around us and stood with us and prayed for us. The literal village of Endiang just up the road met me and started to take me under its collective wing. The village of my family listened to me and prayed for us. They dropped over when they could. And my sister-in-law, the very experienced rancher and notable horsewoman? She met me where I was, and has supported and encouraged me; she and the GR's brother have always made me feel welcome and included. I am very fortunate indeed. 

About two weeks after we married, my parents' friend Leona told me she had to tell me something, based on her personal experience: "The cows will always come first, sorry to say. I should have warned you earlier, but I wanted you to marry him. But just keep it in mind ..."

("How do you spell secondplace?") 

There was one small chore I seemed to have a bit of a knack for, and that was bottle-feeding baby calves. Keep in mind that bottle-feeding is the absolute last resort for some of these babies, who might have lost their mums, been a twin, or been simply too frail or sickly to survive without care.

So, inevitably, some will not make it.

I take each loss personally. I can't seem to help it; it embarrassed me terribly, but my grief for the baby calf combined with my own personal torment threatened to overwhelm me at times. I was concerned that it made the Good Rancher uncomfortable, frustrated even. After all, One. Sickly. Calf. Compared with the entire herd he cares for every day, it doesn't seem like such a big deal. Each time I lost one, I would try to suck it up, try not to be such a baby.

Until The Day.

We had an older guy from Ontario who needed a few weeks' work before he transitioned to his next position. One morning he came in for coffee and commented that the stupid, sick little calf he had gone to check on was just lying there. "Is she dead?" I gasped.

"What if it is? It's not worth anything!" he responded.

Coffee was over. We drove across the road to the other yard. I hurried over to the pen where the baby I had loved and cared for lay, motionless. "My baby?" I whispered.

Just behind him, I heard the guy exclaim in irritation, "For Pete's sake, what's the big deal?"

Then I heard the Good Rancher reply firmly and with conviction: "If it matters to her, it matters to us."

He confirmed that the baby was gone, and held me while I cried. There was no rush in him during those long, soggy moments. When I managed to compose myself, he scooped up my baby's body and carried her gently away.

And I recognised in that moment (for that moment!) that this man understood me - perhaps better than I understood myself, those days ...

("How do you spell understanding?")

A short while later he brought me Judah, a Charolais cross baby with nothing wrong but a lazy mum and a fierce appetite. "This little guy needs some love!" he called out cheerily; and love him I did.

Fast forward to this time last year, and Judah turned out to be the adolescent father to my baby Angel, our first "shop calf" whom the GR allowed to live between his hefty tractors and feeding equipment ...

Angel was born in frigid February 2019 weather to a mum who was too small for this enormous calf she had produced; she was too sore even to stand up, much less look after her baby. The Good Rancher stopped what he was doing and went to bring over the calf-warming box. He carefully laid this little scrap in it as I went to make a dose of colostrum. We had to feed her with a tube that first time; but when I went to comfort her, she sucked my fingers and I knew she would be fine. She never looked back. Her mum, too, recovered, although she wasn't able to feed her.

I took it into my head, though, that Angel - who was so named by my friend Ivy - needed the reassurance of her mum. I mentioned to the Good Rancher that I hadn't heard her little voice at all, that she didn't know what a moo was!

Without any fanfare, he picked up the baby and carried her gently over to the little straw barn he had built for Angel's mum, and left the two in there together for a short while.

The next morning, Angel mooed ...  

And this year, we have little Gabe:

("How do you spell patience?") 

Over the past six years, we have endured injuries, prairie fire, a flooded basement; a much-loved son spreading his wings and choosing a different course for his life, and in the course of events welcoming a beautiful, vivacious daughter-in-law.

("How do you spell succession planning?") 



We said goodbye to my Dad; we said hello to Levi.

("How do you spell sorrow? "How do you spell Little Wrangler?")

We barely made it through the winter and spring of last year. It was so cold. There was such great loss, not just with us but everywhere in the neighbourhood. We didn't even put up a Christmas tree.

("How do you spell bleak?")

All I ask for at Christmas is a card. That's all I ever want, regardless of the occasion. He never made it to the store to get one - until this past Christmas... 

He is rarely on time. I hate unpunctuality.

("How do you spell late?")

He is a morning person, and falls asleep in his chair shortly after dinner each evening. I cannot get up early with any coherence, but come alive after dinner and can keep going until 2 a.m.

("How do you spell incompatible?") 

He will let things lie where they land. I yearn for a place for everything, and everything in its place.

He occasionally puts his foot in his mouth. I do my best not to offend anyone.

He is boisterous. I am reserved.

He is courageous. I am afraid.

When he is composing a text or writing a note, he is constantly asking me how to spell words. I used to do this for a living.

("How do you spell annoying?!")

I like the Calgary Philharmonic Orchestra. He likes the Calgary Flames. 

But. He loves people. Anyone is warmly welcomed, and he will make time in his punishing schedule to visit, to let people see the beauty and the grace in this relentless, often isolating life. He loves kids and will happily saddle up a horse and take them for rides, or introduce them to the newest baby horses and calves. 

He loves his animals. 

I started calling him the Good Rancher because one day he was checking his mums and babies, and there was a little one missing. He searched high and low for him for well over two hours. He finally spotted him, curled under a pile of straw at the top of a hill. He loaded the baby up and took him to his mother.

That afternoon, it occurred to me he worked like the Good Shepherd.

("How do you spell shepherd?")

He loves the Good Shepherd, and there is never a day that he doesn't start off by committing the whole operation to Him, or end by thanking Him for getting us through another day. "This is all His," he will tell me frequently. "We're just stewards. We have a great boss!"

He loves my family. We can be overwhelming and tend to move like a pack and be sentimental, and for the most part he enters into our adventures whenever he can.

("How do you spell seriously?!")

He welcomes my friends. When my high school chum got in touch with me after 40 years and we made plans to meet up, he enthusiastically welcomed her and her husband - not once but twice! - and now is demanding to know when they can come back again. Mark has hit a rough patch with his health recently, and the GR feels it as deeply as would a brother.

He is intrinsically kind. When Molly, his beloved milk cow who would foster two or three little motherless calves in addition to her own calf each year, had some trouble with labour and delivery for the first time in 14 years, he himself went out and walked her in; no rushing or panic for his girl! He handled her as gently as possible with the birth, and named her strapping calf "after our Mark", who had assisted him in the birthing process and was now the godfather. And then, when she was recovered, he slowly led her and her Mark out to choice pasture. "She owes us nothing," he said. "I want her to just enjoy her baby this year. She is officially retired."

("How do you spell kind?")

He loves me. In the midst of my despair, when I could hardly talk to people, he let me get dogs. And now he lets them ride with him, making sure everyone gets a turn. 

When Musket got hit by a passing truck and we almost lost him, the Good Rancher's tender care, alongside the vet's expertise, saved him. To this day, Musket and the GR have a special understanding.

("How do you spell tender?")

We never did get to that honeymoon. But when my Dad died and I missed him beyond belief, the GR allowed me to create a little spot in memorial to him, a place of peace and adventure and refuge and fun and beauty and stories. A place where all are welcome.

("How do you spell sanctuary?")

We went to an auction once, where he was selling some steers, I believe it was. After his animals were sold he was sitting and visiting with his buddy Ron when a solitary little cow trotted into the sale ring. The big buyers looked at her with scorn. Even the audience laughed at her oddity.

I got upset on her behalf, and turned to the GR. "Everyone is laughing at her! We have to do something - please, honey?!"

One bid. No one countered. And Diamond K, for so her tag read, was ours.

Everyone then laughed at the GR. "This is why you don't bring your wife to an auction!" they chortled.

("How do you spell sucker?")

All he said was, "Don't say I don't buy you diamonds, K ..."

("How do you spell jewel?")

Diamond K went on to have an oddly beautiful calf named Felix, and turned out to be one of the best mothers of the year ...

He works long hours uncomplainingly. He does the work of two or three people without blinking an eye. And every morning, bleary from lack of sleep, he starts his day with this prayer: "Thank You, dear God, for this new day ..."

These past six years have not been without their challenges, but this year I started to see how much he has had to bear in terms of adjusting his life to include me. And he has done so with grace and patience and love.

And this year, knowing he couldn't leave the ranch for a full day and knowing how I loved to be with people I love on special occasions, he decided we would have a small dinner at home, catered for a few of those people we love - all I had to do was set the table and pick up the meal.

It was a wonderful evening.

("How do you spell happy?")

I found a card for him to give me this year - I figured he wouldn't have the time to go get one ...

So happy anniversary, GR! Despite everything, thank you for still looking at me like you did back in 2014.

You are sound asleep as I, wide awake, write. As far as I can tell - I am still clueless on so much of what you do - you are indeed a very accomplished rancher. But because of all of the above, you are The Good Rancher. I am so proud of you.

("How do you spell blessed?")