Canada Day 2020

O Canada!

Our home and native land!

True patriot love 

in all of us command.

With glowing hearts 

we see thee rise,

The True North strong and free!

From far and wide,

O Canada,

we stand on guard for thee.

God keep our land 

glorious and free!

O Canada, 

we stand on guard for thee.

O Canada, 

we stand on guard for thee.

Knowing Alice

We did not go to Brooks this afternoon. 

Two days before Mother's Day, Alice's three boys tenderly laid her earthly remains to rest.

She had lived a long life, and the three she loved the most were here, together, to honour that love.

Saying goodbye is never easy; but in the Age of Corona it is even harder. 

For the last few weeks of her life she was allowed no visitors, she who loved people and enjoyed nothing more than being with those she loved.

But on what turned out to be her last day we were permitted to go see her and those who were able, went.

The Good Rancher and I were so privileged to be with her into the night, keeping vigil over her, listening to her regular breathing, her occasional stirring.

As I sat and watched a son's love for his mother, I yearned once again to have really known Alice. 

She was already deep into the mists of dementia when I met her. I was never able to ask her what he was like as a baby, a tiny child, a teenager. How she felt when he went away to college, when he married his beautiful Debbie, when they moved north ... 

What it was like to be a wife and mother under very hard conditions - almost a pioneer woman ... 

To find out how her faith burned bright throughout, and how she instilled that faith into her youngest son ... 

To pick her brain on how to be a good wife to a rancher. How to be a good wife to the Good Rancher. 

And then I recollected the third time he took me to see his mom. It was kind of a sleepy day for her, but we had just become engaged and she was the one he wanted to tell. 

"Mom? I have some news."

She was sitting in her wheelchair directly in front of me, knee to knee, holding my hands and playing with my rings. She didn't look up. 

"I asked her to marry me and she said yes! Mom, we're getting married!" 

She continued to fiddle with my fingers. 

With a burst of anguish he leaned over her and gently grasped her forearm. "Oh Mom, I wish I knew if you understood me ..."

Suddenly she sat up straight, looked at him, looked at me. She took my hand and pushed it over to his on her arm. "Shouldn't you be playing with him now?" she asked, and giggled. 

She understood. 

And that would be the one clear sentence she ever spoke to me. 

We babbled together a lot in subsequent visits — I am quite a babbler, and in those days she was quite a babbler and somehow I think we connected. I like to think our spirits forged an understanding. 

The GR and I married on Valentine's Day; and on February 15th we drove to Brooks, to her home, carrying a layer of the wedding cake and some of the flowers, and wearing our wedding attire. 

When the wonderful caregivers at Sunrise heard what was going on, they put a pretty blouse on Alice and a swipe of lipstick and did her hair, threading it through with my wedding tiara. Then they took pictures of the three of us - which to my deep sorrow, I cannot find - and escorted us down to the dining hall. Everyone was given a slice of cake, and I played the piano while Sam, the cheerful, kindly caregiver on duty, had a "wedding dance" with anyone who wanted a wheelchair twirl around the floor! 

Wedding cake topper

Alice sat near me at the piano and kept time, smiling, the tiara fetchingly askew by now. And she loved the cake the GR fed her! 

She grew more and more silent as the years went by. I had my own quiet, blank years to contend with too; we would visit her as often as we could, and I would invariably say to her, sometimes with tears streaming down my face: "Tell me what to do. I wish you could tell me what to do..." Often she would grow still, cradling my hand in hers. On her more animated days she would do her best to tell me something I could do. She would hold my hand, look directly into my eyes with her smiling blue ones, and talk for a few minutes; she would invariably end with a chuckle. 

And though my mind couldn't comprehend, our hearts must have spoken to one another because I would leave feeling understood and consoled. I knew there was hope. 

There were two other "lasts," though of course we didn't know it at the time:

The first was her 95th birthday. I made a ground beef dish with mashed potatoes that she could easily eat; the GR's brother Max brought her favourite ice cream cake. We all sat in the gazebo in the courtyard and it was a beautiful evening. Just before she had to go to bed, we took a group picture or two. This one is my favourite — in this moment she is the sun around whom we all revolve :

The second is the last visit the GR and I had with her before lock-down. We went on a Saturday evening and everyone on the first floor was restless. Staff members were harried and residents were unnerved. 

Everyone except Alice. She smiled at both the GR and me and held our hands quietly as we talked with her. After about 20 minutes I could no longer bear the distress of one of the ladies who used to be able to sing with me, so I went to the piano.

I played for 2 1/4 hours. Music, as always, has far greater power than we anticipate. It can weave its way surefooted through tangled minds and anchor tumultuous brains. That night there was a new resident whose wife told me had been a musician. He had been immobile, silent, at his table; when he heard some of the tunes he used to play, he began unfurling from the pod of his wheelchair. He held her hand and with his other hand he started tapping his leg in time. Another lady's mom was the resident and the daughter asked me for some well-loved old hymns. Everyone enjoyed their evening snack and, when the time came, was able to depart the dining room at peace. 

As the group dwindled, the GR brought Alice to the piano. She sat right next to me and kept the beat. Her eyes were sparkling, and she was mouthing words as I sang to her. She smiled at me the whole time. 

"We don't know how long exactly, but I would say 24 to 48 hours," the charge nurse told us shortly after midnight as May 2 turned into May 3. "But if you have anything you want to say to her, I would say it tonight ..."

And so the youngest son of Alice stood by his mother's bed. He told her he loved her. He reminisced about their road trips for hockey. He told her that even when times were tough, she could always make them better. He thanked her for being a great mom. And he prayed that Jesus would look after his Mom and take her to be with Himself. 

I said to her what my Dad would have said: "I won't say good bye, Alice, because this is not goodbye. I will say 'Goodnight, I'll see you in the morning.' " Then I sang her the song our parents sang to us at bedtime:

Goodnight, our God is watching o'er you
Goodnight, His mercies go before you
Goodnight, and we'll be praying for you
So goodnight, may God bless you. 

We kissed her softly on her forehead and we crept out of her room. 

As we sat under an overcast sky, shivering in a wide semicircle around the grave of her husband where her ashes would soon also be buried, as we followed along to Alan Jackson and George Jones singing some of her favourite hymns on iTunes ... 

As her eldest son and her sole granddaughter gave the eulogy, and as we listened to the pastor who knew her so well talk about the verse that hung on her kitchen wall - and that because of this promise she never lost hope and she was always content - I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else than here for this occasion. Her last gift to her family was to bring them close together in the most peaceful setting, free from the distraction of the crowd that surely would have attended her funeral under normal circumstances. 

The family drew together. They murmured the words of the songs. They listened. They prayed along with the pastor.

And then, as the last words slipped into the atmosphere the sun blazed away the clouds. Sandwiches, all individually wrapped by the local hotel, were produced. Sweets were proferred, and hot coffee took off the slight remaining chill. 

And the people Alice loved most in the world talked. Not just the perfunctory noises normally heard at the reception following a funeral, where family members rarely even get to see each other much; but old stories, profound insights, loving gestures in place of hugs in this day of social distancing. Ties that had been all but unravelled started to be knit together again. She had ensured that the circle was, for this day, unbroken. 

Alice gave me a special gift. She died on her 62nd wedding anniversary - which also happened to be my birthday. She gave me one last link in our short but strong chain: May 3 was when I entered the world and when she left it. What a privilege to know that each year we will have that little moment of connection, this wordless celebration.

We got home that night and rushed out to feed the bottle babies - something she would have loved to do back in her day. The GR took a picture of me feeding Blind Bart; I still have on the strand of pearls I wore to the funeral. 

Somehow, looking at the picture on her funeral card, I think she would have understood. 

I am so privileged to have been a daughter-in-law of Alice. 

Abide With Me

The sky was troubled tonight. It was shooting red SOS flares on both the east and the west of the house. The winds kept shifting. There was no sound of birds. We had a period of mixed snow-sleet-rain, which stung the baby calves' little faces.

The Good Rancher is out doing whatever GRs have to do at 10 at night to ensure the cattle are cared for. My wont is to spend this solitary evening hour imagining all the accidents that could befall him. 

Even the five dogs are restive tonight. 

It feels pretty lonely all of a sudden. The enormity of the pain of our stricken world is bearing down on me mightily.

Yesterday we received the shocking news that our friend Cyril had had a heart attack and had died. Not Covid 19. Not hit by a bus. 

Heart attack. 

Try though I might, I cannot batten down all the hatches; none of us can. 

This is what his wife, Lois, wrote on Facebook:

"It is with broken hearts that we share that Cyril, my loving husband, a devoted father and awesome Grandpa had a heart attack and passed into eternity this morning and is now with His Lord & Saviour Jesus Christ.  Words cannot express the grief we are experiencing right now but God continues to pour out His grace on us.  'We are confident yes, well pleased rather to be absent from the body and to be present with the Lord' 2 Corinthians 5:8.  Cyril could not get through a song or passage of Scripture that spoke of seeing Jesus face to face without weeping. He isn't weeping any more.... 'And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes, there shall be no more death, nor sorrow nor crying.'  Revelation 21:4"
And it is into this anguished evening that You speak reassurance to me; You anchor my thoughts through the words of the old hymn, as sung in all its plaintive victory by the King's College Choir, Cambridge - Abide with Me:

You will ALWAYS abide with me.

Her First Calf

Yesterday morning I had the enormous privilege of seeing Sadie give birth to her first baby.

This is not the first birth I have witnessed; but for each heifer, it is the first time they have delivered a calf and you never know how it could turn out. Just about a week ago we saw little Brownie's mother abandon her immediately after the birth and then turn on her violently when the Good Rancher tried to get them to bond.

What made this particular birth of even greater interest to me is that Sadie is the offspring of Sage, my very first bottle calf. The GR - seeing how attached I was to Sage - allowed him not to be turned into a steer; the result has been some pretty amazing calves!

But because of the connection, my heart pounded a little bit harder and my throat tightened, and words failed me as I watched this little scrap of cuteness slide out of his mother and into the big world.

Fortunately for occasions like this, there is Wendell Berry. No one describes the birth of a heifer's first calf like Wendell Berry. No one.

This poem has become one of my favourites, and certainly my very top one for this time of year. 

(Pictures and videos of Sadie and baby after the poem.)

Her First Calf

Her fate seizes her and brings her

down. She's heavy with it. It

wrings her. The great weight

is heaved out of her. It eases.

She moves into what she has become,

sure in her fate now

as a fish free in the current.

She turns to the calf who has broken

out of the womb's water and its veil.

He breathes. She licks his wet hair.

He gathers his legs under him

and rises. He stands, and his legs

wobble. After the months

of his pursuit of her, now

they meet face to face.

From the beginnings of the world

his arrival and her welcome

have been prepared. They have always

known each other.

Wendell Berry, "Her First Calf," in The Country of Marriage (Berkley: Counterpoint, 2013), p. 11.

Sadie lay like this for about three hours.

I was beginning to get anxious...

I didn't capture the birth itself because when I went to check, the baby's head, smothered in grey membrane, was all I could see. No little front feet leading the way ... The baby plopped out and Sadie didn't move. The GR's voice was in my ear as I gave him updates, saying that I had to get in there and pull away the membrane or the calf would die in seconds. I ran up to the pair, and that was all it took for Sadie to remember what she was supposed to be doing. Besides which, a mother is entitled to just a moment right after giving birth, isn't she?! (Background sound in the videos is the brisk wind. But worth having the sound on to hear Sadie talking to her baby...) 

Literally seven seconds after
 the baby was born

After about 10 solid minutes of licking her baby clean, 
she pushes him to his feet... 

So close... 

A little rest and a murmur of encouragement

Success at last! 

The thing that moved me beyond words was this: once the calf was able to stand by himself, Sadie stopped her licking and pushing and talking and stood very quietly, allowing him to get to know her:

I checked on them again in the evening, and I could feel the deep connection they already had forged. Sadie had remained with her baby even during the feeding time, and the baby had been up and nursing. He was steady on his feet. And he loves his mum!

“They have always known each other."

Corona

This week. News reports eager to update us incessantly on new cases, rising death tolls, lost jobs, empty grocery shelves, restrictions on travel, restrictions on livelihoods, restrictions on freedoms. 

There are varying schools of thought presented, of course, as to the efficacy of treatment plans, the necessity of preventive measures, the degree of separation required, from quarantine to self isolation to social distancing.

So I am trying to do my part, from remaining largely at home to washing hands till they are raw to helping out where I can. 

This week. Very similar to last week, except that this week started with Palm Sunday and ended yesterday, Resurrection Sunday.

This is how I had envisioned Passion Week, as it is known, unfolding:

On Palm Sunday the Church at Endiang was due to have a service and the songs, story and teaching would reflect the triumphal yet humble entry of Jesus into Jerusalem, mounted on a young donkey.

(Credit: Brian Jekel)

Resurrection Sunday was all planned too: Allan and Angie were going to lead a special Easter song service, Susanne would have told a story, Pastor Allan would have reminded us that this is what the entire Christian faith hangs on - the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus Christ, providing the way for us all to be forgiven of our sins and to have a personal relationship with God our heavenly father.

We had even distributed posters to be hung, and a few of the invitation cards had gone out:

And then, Corona. 

About ten days ago, the most beautiful calf was born. His mother, a large, placid Belted Galloway cow, released her baby to the world almost reluctantly. 

He is white, except for two sort of jet black circles of hair, one around his neck and the other around his hips.

I named him Corona. 

I remember the first time I had ever heard the word Corona. Mum called me outside: "Come quickly! We are in an eclipse! Look at the sun's corona! "

The sun looked like it was blotted out; the only way I could tell its form was that it was outlined with a shimmering halo, making it magical, fearful to a child.

"Why is it so dark? Is the sun dead? Will it be like that forever?" I asked my mother anxiously.

"Oh no - keep watching; the moon is blocking the light of the sun!" she replied cheerily; and of course, she was right. The axis of my world righted itself before too long and the dark unsettledness lifted. "As long as you can see the corona, you know the sun is still there," she reassured me as we walked back into the house.

The moon - who has no light source of its own apart from the sun - was blocking the sun? And the sun let it?!

I loved the word Corona from then on. It signified beauty, mystery, humility, royalty, something to be treasured and stored in the box of memories I keep tucked away in my heart. It was a promise that the sun was still there, that its light and warmth would return.    

I have spent long moments observing baby Corona. He is so, so white, for one thing! His mum and he love each other dearly. 

He practises social distancing, at least part of the time. 

And wherever he moves in the pen, it seems like the light follows him.

I showed my friend Ivy pictures of Corona and she exclaimed at his markings. She told me this: In days gone by, when a mother cow lost her calf and you had a calf that needed a mother, you would skin the poor dead little calf and place its hide over the orphan calf. The mother would smell her baby and because of that would accept the new little calf as her own. That's what your Corona looks like ...

Maybe it's because it's Easter in the time of Corona, but of course I thought of Jesus and His ultimate sacrifice: He freely gave up His life in order to bring us to God. Like the little dead calves of that earlier era, He is the go-between between God and us, the link between death and life. Because of His death we can approach God. And God, recognising His son's broken body, forgives us our sins and accepts us as His child if we will just ask Him to.

A brutal corona was crammed viciously on Jesus' head shortly before He was taken out to be crucified. A crown of thorns:

"The Crucified One" by C. Michael Dudash

The Bible tells us that as He hung on the cross darkness fell upon the land, the forces of evil trying one last time to extinguish the Son.

But Resurrection Sunday showed that at the other side of the darkness, the light of the world was not extinguished!

(Artist unknown)

So in this age of Corona, in the isolation, the not-knowing and the fear - for life and for liberty - don't lose hope. Remember, Corona is the light encompassing the darkness. This darkness will pass. Trust in the One who endured the greatest darkness of all and emerged triumphant on the other side.

Wash your hands.

Be kind one to another.

And let your light shine!