Broken Wings

Today I played the piano at the funeral of someone I had never met, beautiful Halee, whose life was snatched from her at the scant age of 19.

By the end of the tributes, by the time her friends had sung to her, I wished with all my heart that I had known this incredible girl with the big smile and the matching zest for life.

Her aunt bravely read some of Halee's own account of her life: her mommy's life was cut short when Halee was still a toddler; she lived with her grandparents until she was about 8 and then went to be with her dad and his new family.

And the undercurrent of loneliness, of not really belonging, pulled at her until she discovered the librarian at her school and basketball.

The librarian read a heartfelt letter to Halee from her "Mama Bear." 

Her beloved basketball team formed the honour guard as her coffin left the church.

This morning as I was checking the news, I saw the story of another vibrant young woman fighting for her life, fighting the effects of loneliness.

Demi Lovato was in ER on Tuesday morning, according to her rep. Open about being bipolar and her addictions to drugs and alcohol, in 2011 Demi entered rehab. She managed to stay sober for six years. Before every concert, she would host a mental health workshop.

About a month ago, she released a song called “Sober.” She had fallen off the wagon.

Tuesday morning – YESTERDAY morning – she was rushed to the emergency room.

She is fortunate.

She is making it through.

This time.

The point is, with all the treatment and therapy and support and love sent her way from family, the entertainment industry and her fans all over the world, what does she cry in her song?

I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know why
I do it every, every, every time
It's only when I'm lonely
Sometimes I just wanna cave
And I don't wanna fight
I try and I try and I try and I try and I try
Just hold me, I'm lonely

Her first big break was when she sang the theme song to Barney. She was seven.

This is what she said in an interview in 2013 about that experience:

"Looking back, there was a connection, probably between any kid who's ever sang that song to Barney, a little place in a child’s heart, a void, that could be filled. And maybe Barney fills it.” (Cosmopolitan)

On paper, Demi Lovato has it all. But in spite of people with her all the time, in spite of money, fame, talent, anything she wants at her fingertips, she is lonely.

Listen to the anguish in her voice, read the jagged lyrics, in the link below:

A loneliness that cannot be filled by anything that stardom has to offer. A loneliness and desolation that can only be eased and a comfort that can only be found by trusting in something greater than oneself.

Something greater than the loneliness itself.

It was 2005 when I got the news from his brother. Maynard, one of my oldest and best friends, had been found alone in a motel room.

He had phoned me a few days earlier: he had just completed another stint at rehab and this time, he was confident, was different. He was going to make his way home to his girls.

I flew to Kansas for his funeral. It remains one of the darkest days of my life.

With all the love and support from his family and friends, why did he still feel so alone?

A couple of years later I was introduced to Robinella's very fine album Solace for the Lonely. A song, "Whippin Wind," encapsulates to a certain degree Maynard's and my friendship:



The song comforted me that now, maybe, he is free. It comforted me today again when I thought about Halee.

As I left Halee's funeral, I mused on what is greater than loneliness, what can take away this all-encompassing pain that some of us have to bear.

And I thought of him, hanging at the brink of death, crying out, "My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?"

Jesus Himself, alone. Lonely.

He died so that we do not have to suffer that excruciating loneliness, that feeling of being utterly bereft.

And so for those of us who struggle with soul-crushing loneliness, with the shattering feeling of not belonging, of not knowing where we fit in, I leave you with a song from Austins Bridge that offers hope in that awful blanketing darkness:

Breakfast at Wimbledon

 

One annual tradition in the Sidekick's family is watching the Men's Finals broadcast from the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club in Wimbledon.

Mum and Dad used to revel in Wimbledon. In India we would listen on the radio when we could. Later, after the kids were gone and they got a miniature TV, they would watch whatever the feed would provide. When they retired to Canada, often schedules were adjusted to account for the broadcast times over the two weeks of the tournament. 

In remote ranch country, however, it's pretty tough to garner support for getting up later than usual to watch two people hitting balls at each other on pasture that looks a little the worse for wear at the baselines. Did someone let the horses graze at Centre Court to achieve this shoddy grass? Nothing that a couple of tenths of rain overnight couldn't set to rights, however …

I can see how Wimbledon on the 855 is going to look. I recruit the faithful: the invitation is extended to my family and a few friends, and several of them kindly humour me by showing up. 

Those of us who stayed overnight make our sleepy way to the living room between 5:30 and 6:00 a.m. Someone gropes for the remote in the light of the breaking dawn and shuffles through the channels until we find the correct station. Someone else puts the kettle on for tea and measures coffee as carefully as possible with only one eye and half a brain in gear, then feeds the brewer approximately the right amount of water.

Remembering the greatness!

We slump in chairs and on couches and watch John McEnroe and "Chrissie" - Chris Evert, my grandpa's perennial favourite - discuss noteworthy moments of both the current season as well as of championships past. 

We talk about all the men we've loved: Ashe, Borg, McEnroe, Becker, Lendl, Edberg, Agassi, Hewitt, Stich, Chan, Ivanisevic, Henman, Murray, Roddick, Raonic, Anderson, Djokovic.

Nadal.

Federer.

The Final match of our dreams was not meant to be this year. Congratulations duly went out to Djokovic, whom my Dad liked so much.

And then we turned our attention to the other part of Breakfast at Wimbledon.

The Breakfast part.

This year, because the awe-inspiring Serena Williams made it through the rounds to the Women's finals EIGHT MONTHS after giving birth to her daughter, including labour and delivery complications and unexpected health issues, we started early on Saturday instead of Sunday.

Though the runner up, truly a magnificent champion:

"... for all the moms out there …"

Pictures say far more than words, so here are a couple of shots.

Thank you, one and all, for a wonderful weekend.

And if there is anyone on the 855 or beyond who would like to join us next year for "Breakfast at Wimmy," as The Good Rancher has dubbed it, just say the word: there's always room at the table, for either the Wimbledon or the Breakfast part!

Just like there's always hope in my heart for the ultimate final with Rafa and Rog …

Saturday morning brunch

"This is The Greatest Outdoor

Show on Earth?!

Strawberry shortcake served on an

eponymous Wimbledon

Sunday morning began with tea, English scones and 

our take on Devon cream and homemade strawberry jam ...

… followed by buttery scrambled eggs, breakfast sausage links and coffee.

I received my own trophy: my friend Rhonda

gave me this treasure from Bud's family -

imagine living in a flat overlooking

the courts back in the day!

What Really Matters

We were at a neighbour's place at the beginning of the week - a tiny branding first thing in the morning and then I was going to run in to town for a doctor's appointment.

As I was helping prepare lunch, a friend arrived at the house with the news that there was smoke rising from the next place over. 

Nothing else needed to be said. With one accord, everyone who was able to help pointed their vehicles in the direction of the smoke.

When I arrived a few minutes after the first responders there was already one fire truck on the scene, as well as a water truck. People were stamping out small "hot spots" and hosing down larger ones. Just when you thought you had an area tamped down and soaked thoroughly, a curl of smoke would rise almost mockingly from the base of a tree or an orange spark would wink derisively. Just a typical grass fire.

Except this grass fire was right across the road from the house and yard.

As the wind continued to thrash the trees around and whip the grass into a frenzy, one of the neighbours who happened to be driving a grain truck by the scene stopped and positioned the truck so that it would put a wind block in front of the house and yard's driveway. "Just in case," he said.

Two more fire trucks arrived and stretched out along the lane. Neighbours shoveled and stomped and helped direct the heavy hoses. It reminded me of how the community came together to rescue us last year, and I resumed my stamping and peering in the ditch and up on the slope for any intimation of smoke.

After what seemed like half a day, not half an hour, they got here - mother and daughter, who have been through so much in the past 12 months. So many losses. So much sadness.

And now this.

One of the most tricky things about living out in the country can be how everybody knows everybody. This day, it was one of the best things: my friend Leslie and her mom, Joyce, could go from person to person and each one there could respond with a hug, a word of encouragement, an insider's comment designed to elicit a small chuckle.

Slowly, patiently, under the direction of our Fire Chief Jim, everyone worked until there was no more sign of danger. 

 

I had lost track of Leslie and Joyce; suddenly they appeared near me again. They had gone to the house, "just in case."

They had each retrieved one thing.

"There weren't many pictures taken of my Dad," Joyce said softly. "All the other stuff we could have replaced if need be. What really matters?"

 And as for Leslie, my beautiful Leslie - Panda was the only thing on her mind ...

Fire Chief Jim did one last walk-through, examining every inch of the affected area before giving the all-clear. One fire truck left, and that was the signal for us all to start dispersing slowly.

Final hugs, final words and the two ladies were off - destination Red Deer to buy groceries for the Byemoor Hotel's week, which would start bright and early the next day.

As I headed slowly off, I was profoundly moved by the clarity, the priorities, of those two valiant women. They knew without hesitation what really mattered to them.

Once again I was left to marvel at the community pulling together to help its own. "Could be us next time," one of the guys said gruffly with a rasp in his throat as he awkwardly patted Joyce's arm.

It's this rallying together - in times of both joy and difficulty - and showing people that they are important, that they matter, that makes this place split my heart wide open.

And we know that this kind of thing happens up and down the 855, all through Alberta and across our country.

At the end of the day, for the most part, we don't need to be legislated into loving our neighbour as ourselves.

At the end of the day, we all know what really matters.

The Beautiful Inn in the Prairie

Through times of both turbulence and tranquility, so many of my friends remain there for me.

One such couple are the Janzens, proprietors of the Rosebud Country Inn. We met when I had the tea house in Three Hills and since then I have known with rare certainty that these two are in my corner.

And so it proved again last week. I had to be in Rosebud for an Ag dinner; the next day I was scheduled to attend the matinee performance on Main Stage.

When BJ heard of this, she promptly invited me to stay the night and "get caught up."

I thought I would make her a peanut butter pie - but we were out of peanut butter. Who runs out of PNB?!

So instead, here is my birthday card to a woman of great integrity, kindness, courage, humour and heart.

Psalm 23, Rosebud paraphrased version

BJ and Ken are my hosts; I shall not want.

They make me to lie down in Room 7:

they lead me to a place of tranquility

They restore my soul.

They reveal to me a path of hopefulness

for love's sake.

 Yea, though I often walk through valleys and shadows,

and occasionally ponder death,

This morning I will fear no evil

for they are with me;

Their welcome and their kindness comfort me.

They prepare a table before me with the absence of any enemies;

they anoint my body with bath salts and balance

My cup runs over

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all this livelong day;

and I will return to stay in the Rosebud Country Inn

for as long as they allow me!

Happy birthday, and many more!!