oblivious garden - first week of July

Oh my - death is a lot of work! I’ve been living by lists in the last few days. Yesterday was certainly the climax as all the various dates and times were finally set, which put in motion the need for more and more phone calls and emails. But I think now most of the planning for memorial services in both locations has been done.



Meanwhile my garden, oblivious to all the kafuffle, grows serenely on. These are the days of lilies - daylilies – and my one yellow lily. Like life, they fade too quickly. This yellow bloom is in a tangle of astilbe, one of my favorite shade plants.



But my hydrangea has come back to life. Last year hubby gave it such an ambitious pruning it didn’t yield even one flower. I am relieved to see that it has come back all prolific (after I didn’t let him come near it with the shears this spring).

interlude

When poet friend Darlene Moore-Berg and I made plans to meet for lunch on July 9th after a long internet acquaintance, I had no idea personal events would so thoroughly sabotage things. However, she and her husband Mike were able to fit us in this last Sunday instead of next.

We met them in their hotel room. (Would you believe the penthouse of the Empire Landmark? Don’t tell me it doesn’t pay to be allergic to the residue of smoke in the room originally assigned to you!)

After enjoying this amazing view (click to enlarge) and snapping pictures of everything in sight, we went for lunch at the Red Robin, and hung out on Robson Street for a bit. Then we took them and their luggage to the Cruise Ship Terminal in Canada Place in time for their 5:45 departure for Alaska.

What a wonderful interlude in a bleak time! Thank you, Darlene and Mike, for fitting us into your glam vacation.


A sampling of poems by Darlene:

Earth Dance

Embryology

Wind Chill

Buon Natale

The Making of a Man

Welcome to Shy Road

****************

Oh yes, and to our U.S. neighbors, a very happy Fourth of July!

the opened-up way

Now comes the time of planning -- and traveling. Mom lived most of her life in Saskatchewan. She will be buried there beside Daddy. But she also lived here, half a country away, for the last twenty years. This means that we will do two services - a funeral service in Saskatchewan and a memorial service here.

Mom thoughtfully made and paid for all her funeral arrangements years ago. We don’t have to concern ourselves with many details. But there are some. My responsibility is to plan the memorial service on this end. This must be coordinated with a trip to Saskatchewan and the funeral there. There are lots of decisions to make, like should we do this before that event or after, where will we hold it, who will do the music, etc. Mom expressed her wishes as to who should officiate but already I’ve run up against snags, like no answer when I phone, the general shutting down of things that happens over a holiday weekend and questions that I can’t answer till I meet with the funeral director.

I am not an event planner and I easily stress out about stuff like this. That’s why today’s reading in Streams in the Desert is especially apropos:

When thou goest thy way shall be opened up before thee step by step - Proverbs 4:12 - free translation.

The Lord never builds a bridge of faith except under the feet of the faith-filled traveler. If He builds the bridge a rod ahead, it would not be a bridge of faith. That which is of sight is not of faith.

There is a self-opening gate which is sometimes used in country roads. It stands fast and firm across the road as a traveler approaches it. If he stops before he gets to it, it will not open. But if he will drive right at it, his wagon wheels press the springs below the roadway, and the gate swings back to let him through. He must push right on at the closed gate, or it will continue to be closed.

This illustrates the way to pass every barrier on the road of duty. Whether it is a river, a gate or a mountain, all the child of Jesus has to do is to go for it. If it is a river, it will dry up when you put your feet in its waters. If it is a gate, pit will fly open when you are near enough to it, and are still pushing on. If it is a mountain, it will be lifted up and cast into a sea when you come squarely up, without flinching, to where you thought it was.

Is there a great barrier across your path of duty just now? Just go for it, in the name of the Lord, and it won’t be there.

– Henry Clay Trumbull

... Okay Mr. Trumbull – I’ll go for it!

Canada Day 2006

The surreality from Wednesday continued Thursday. When I went to the hospital, Mom was lying there, breathing through her mouth with her eyes open but there was no recognition in them at all. She was entirely unresponsive. I took up my post beside her bed again, sometimes held her hand, talked to her, put a CD in the walkman and hoped she could hear it through the headphones close to her ears.

After I got back from having pizza in the hospital cafeteria, the hospice lady called me to a sunny side room to have a chat. Of course any sign of sympathy cracks my shell of composure and I blubbered all over the place. She has probably seen this repeated times and just heard me out. Her piece was that she felt Mom was so near the end, it didn’t make sense to move her to a hospice at this point and there wasn’t room in the Surrey Hospital Hospice now in any case. (Of course I was relieved that they won’t be moving her again.)

After our talk I went back to mom’s room and did more of the above. A couple of nephews and their families came by to visit and looking after the kids was a nice distraction. Ernie finally came around 4:30.

I dithered about whether to stay the night but decided, in the end, not to. A nurse promised to phone as soon as there were any developments. We went home about 8:00 p.m.

After no phone call all night we returned to the hospital about 9:30 Friday morning. And there was our dear valiant Mom, looking the same way as on Thursday, still unresponsive, but breathing albeit her breath was very rattley now and the nurses were suctioning her regularly.

And so we passed another day – holding her hand, playing her music, talking to her a bit, singing a bit, knitting, reading the paper, doing another Sudoku puzzle while she soldiered on through the Valley of Death.

We left the hospital about 5:45 after praying over her again, kissing her goodbye and telling her one last time that we loved her.

We stopped at the Lido (Chinese) for supper, then back home to send another update email to my list and veg in front of the TV where I got engrossed in a British production of a Miss Marple story.

That was just done when the phone rang again. It was Tessie from Palliative Care. She said, “Your mom just passed away. It was peaceful.” So I sent off yet another email to my family list and then we went to the hospital one more time to gather her things and sign the morgue release.

They’d drawn the curtain around her bed, and there was a butterfly pinned to it. Behind the curtain there she was, her color a lot paler, her skin already looking waxy – but quiet and at peace.

And so her first full day in heaven will be Canada Day.

Mom was a real Canadian patriot and Canada Day was always very special to her. In fact she was quite famous in her condo in Abbotsford for her Canada Day brunches. On each Canada Day for years she would invite twelve people, one for each province and territory (thirteen when Nunavut became a territory) for brunch. I was invited to two or three of these and they were a lot of fun.

She would set the table with her provincial placemats, her floral emblem glasses and cups and saucers. Then she would cook up a meal, serving food like Canadian bacon and Abbotsford strawberries. After eating we would go around the table with each person reading what their placemat said about their province. We also did things like tell about the places in Canada that we’d lived or visited, and played Canada trivia.

This year, though, Mom will spend Canada Day in heaven. I love how my sister-in-law Dawn put it to her daughter Rosie in an email a few days ago:

I think, for grandma, maybe God will have a Canada Day Celebration party for her in heaven... for the best "quilting/quilling/never-quits-creating" Mother/Grandmother/ Great-grandmother... think of all those who are already there who would be around her at that table...maybe He'll send for her floral emblem glassware and He'll make her a very special cocktail from all the fruit juices He's saved up in His fridge, maybe He'll put in an order for Krause /bros. berries 'just picked' by Jane, and Canadian back bacon, ah yes, and add Russian pancakes (Big pancakes for Big Grandma) to the menu. Maybe we should put in an order for her?! What great memories she has created for everyone, eh?? We will so miss her but we can carry her in our hearts forever and we have the hope of joining her someday!!*

To that I have only one word to add – AMEN!!

*Thanks, Dawn, for permission to use this.

garden moments - last week of June

There were several...

Mystery Plant

The magenta flowers on gray-green stems and foliage are pretty when massed. This plant seeds itself too. My problem is, I don’t know what it's called. (And though it's in many gardens around here, I’m wondering if it isn't really a weed.)






Love-in-a-mist (Nigella)

I first planted these from seeds Mom collected from her garden back in the days when I was into drying and making ‘everlasting’ arrangements. For that you use not the flowers but the seed pods, which are really quite lovely in dried bouquets. Since then I’ve come to look forward to the few days these romantic-looking flowers are in bloom. In fact, now that I seldom make dried arrangements, I often pull out nigella as soon as it’s finished blooming so as to avoid all those seeds ripening. Love-in-a-mist is beautiful, but even it can’t be allowed to take over the garden.

Surprise!

A flash of orange turns out to be primula, over-summering under one of the hostas and flowering about two months late.

*******************

- Latest picture of Rebecca's Yukon garden.

surreal

Life is surreal these days. Yesterday morning I got a call from the hospital saying Mom was having a bad day and they’d be transferring her to the palliative care ward.

Though they hadn’t yet moved her by the time we got there about 1:00, they wheeled her in while we were still talking to the nursing staff. After they settled her in her room, we went in and I asked her about the previous night and the morning. She didn’t remember any of it.

In the last few days she has a different look on her face, a wooden look, almost as if she is wearing a mask. Sometimes it seems she has a hard time focusing her eyes. I have the feeling it’s from her medications. They’re giving her something quite strong to help her with breathing.

Talking gets her very tired so she talks very little and when she does, her voice is so weak as to be almost inaudible.

It was the day when the volunteers were on the ward. They came around offering coffee or tea and cookies to the patients and their visitors. We’d just finished our Starbucks so we declined the drinks - but the homemade chocolate chip cookie I had was delicious. I even convinced Mom to try a bit.

For most of the time we were there, I sat beside Mom’s bed, sometimes holding her swollen cool hand, sometimes knitting, while old ‘40s and ‘50s tunes tinkled from the piano in the lounge where the volunteers had set up their tea party. (We actually encountered the piano player when we first came up on the elevator to the unit – an elderly lady volunteer with a shrink-wrapped sandwich lunch in the basket of her walker)

We hung around till the supper trays came, when I fed Mom. Eating wearies her too. In order for her to swallow properly I had to turn up her bed, which puts pressure on her midriff. It’s nasty to watch her struggle with ordinary things like eating, talking and shifting around in bed.

We read her Daily Bread to her before we said goodnight.

Today was to be a day E. and I helped my sis. move. I will pass on that, though, and take the bus to the hospital to be there in time for lunch.

It’s hard to concentrate on anything but what is happening right now – or opt for avoidance. When we got home around 6:00 after dinner at A&W, I dashed off an email to my family list, then vegged with HGTV’s 'Real Estate Wednesday' shows for about an hour and a half. I’d like nothing more than to simply sleep through the next few days!

**********

“Hast thou seen the treasures of the hail, which I have reserved against the day of trouble?” - Job 38:22

If we look back upon the past, many of us will find that the very time our Heavenly Father has chosen to do the kindest things for us, and given us the richest blessings has been the time we were strained and shut in on every side. God’s jewels are often sent us in rough packages and by dark liveried servants, but within we find the very treasures of the King’s palace and the Bridegroom’s love. - A. B. Simpson (quoted in Streams in the Desert)

book review - Mark of the Cross

Title: Mark of the Cross
Author: Judith Pella
Publisher: Bethany House
Genre: Fiction, Historical Romance
ISBN: 0764201328

We first meet Philip de Tollard, the 18-year-old illegitimate and outcast son of a British nobleman and hero of Judith Pella’s Mark of the Cross, on his way to a neighboring estate to work as a stable hand. On that journey he encounters Beatrice, the beautiful and spirited teenaged daughter of his new boss. From the story’s beginning in the spring of 1263, this 450-page book follows the tragedies and triumphs of these two for the next ten years.

The story is firmly rooted in the culture and history of the 13th century. The feudal system, crusades and knights, jousting and chivalry, castles and convents, servants and nobility are all part of the milieu.

Pella has divided the story into five main sections to follow the tale of Philip and Beatrice as they are first thrown together, then torn apart. The sections take us from England to France to Italy to Palestine and back to England as Philip and Beatrice follow their seemingly separate fates. In the process they mature. Philip goes, through the plot’s twists and turns, from being an impetuous and hot-headed though idealistic youth to a ruthless and decisive leader. And Beatrice’s selfish and sensuous tendencies are channeled, through her own set of trials, into selfless and compassionate healing pursuits. The question is, will they ever find each other again?

Though the two main players are complex, other characters are not as interesting or fully drawn. Few, however, are ambiguous. In that way, the book has the feel of a fairy tale, with the good characters thoroughly good, the evil completely evil.

For me the book’s strength is in the little known historical period it explores. To do that, Pella roots her tale in the middle of actual events, to the extent of making some historical figures minor characters. Mostly the story is told without undue explanation (with the reader given credit for background knowledge or knowing how to research if intrigued to find out more). The point at which Pella’s enthusiasm for historical details appears to take over, breaking the narrative spell, is in her explanation and opinion of relics on page 160, where she strays from storytelling to lecturing and dispensing editorial comment.

The storytelling style is distinctive, with a certain formality of word choice and sometimes convoluted sentence construction used in both conversation and narrative (“Mayhap” for “perhaps,” “coin” for “money,” “While the hunting party waited in a small glade, the huntsmen and handlers went forth with the limers and harriers to set upon the tracking...”). The text is also sprinkled with the vocabulary of the time (“destriers”, “braies,” “chausses,” “braw,” etc.). I assume Pella chose to tell the story this way to give readers the feel of a different time in history. I appreciated the historical accuracy, but the archaic storytelling style annoyed me at first. I did eventually get used to it, though, as Pella never strays from that path from beginning to end.

Some of the themes the story tackles – like class difference, and the meaning and purpose of marriage – also spring from the historical context. Others – like betrayal, revenge, love, friendship, the relationship between father and son, and having a relationship with God – are timeless.

If you are looking for a romantic story with a Christian slant, would like the vicarious experience of being a knight or lady, and prefer the graphic description of hand-to-hand combat over battles with guns, bombs and planes, Mark of the Cross may be just the fat beach-book for you.

(Thank you to the Internet Marketing Department of Bethany House for providing a copy of the book for review.)

chitchat

E. and I rode the skytrain into Vancouver late yesterday afternoon to meet with my sis who is here from out of town on business.



After enjoying the view from her room in the Fairmont Waterfront while munching on an appetizer of fresh cherries,

we strolled down Cordova to the Spaghetti Factory for dinner.

On the way back I got a picture of the Gastown Steam Clock, at the tail end of its belch.

Later in the lobby of her hotel – which sports this gorgeous flower arrangement -- I spotted (the honorable) Peter MacKay, Canada's Minister of Foreign Affairs – with someone (female). Hmmm. E. said it’s probably his executive assistant.

humble beauty

Let circumstances bring you where they will, keep drawing on the grace of God in every conceivable condition you may be in. One of the greatest proofs that you are drawing on the grace of God is that you can be humiliated without manifesting the slightest trace of anything but His grace.

- My Utmost for His Highest - Oswald Chambers

Photo: Vetchling

hidden and secluded

Pillar Coral - (Wikipedia)

The polyps which construct the coral reefs, work away under water, never dreaming that they are building the foundation of a new island on which, by-and-by, plants and animals will live and children of God be born and fitted for eternal glory as joint-heirs of Christ.

If your place in God’s ranks is a hidden and secluded one, beloved, do not murmur, do not complain, do not seek to get out of God’s will, if He has placed you there; for without the polyps, the coral reefs would never be built, and God needs some who are willing to be spiritual polyps, and work away out of sight of men, but sustained by the holy ghost and in full view of Heaven.

The day will come when Jesus will give the rewards, and He makes no mistakes although some people may wonder how you came to merit such a reward, as they had never heard of you before.

– Selected.

From Streams in the Desert - Mrs. Charles E. Cowman (quote from the original, not updated, version)

For more on coral reefs and polyps, including pictures, check out here, here, here and here.

this week's garden moment

is veronica (blue) and sea thrift (pink) in a tangle of color and line. Sea thrift would look more brilliant, of course, if I took the time to dead-head!














Other gardens I've come across:
Rebecca -- from the Yukon.
Islandsparrow - from P.E.I.
Candyinsierras -- from Nevada (HT/Rebecca)
Kim from Hireath -- from Hireath of course (HT/Rebecca)
Dulciana - from Georgia

congratulations!

My friend and poet buddy Alvin Ens published a second volume of his poems, I Am the Poem, in 2005. I just got the news that his book won a 2006 Word Guild Award in the "Special Books" category. That award, along with dozens more Canadian writing awards, was announced at a special gala in Toronto on June 14th.

Congratulations, Alvin!!

A sampling of Alvin's poetry:

- Let Your Light So Shine

- Clearly

- The Loop

- Find the Mind

pushing up daisies

Rest In Peace - cultivator in the orchard at the Stewart Farmhouse, Surrey, B.C.

no condition is permanent

It feels like we are in a holding pattern right now – circling, circling but not given permission to land just yet. Or like a boat in dry dock – up on blocks instead of in our natural element, directing our days of puttering around in the water.

Mom has been in hospital a week today. Her condition remains unstable. She is on oxygen and getting some medication by mask. These seem to help her breathing. The doctor stopped by while we were visiting on Sunday. When I quizzed her about what is next and do we need to see about getting other arrangements in place, she hemmed and hawed, then beckoned me outside and told me the cold hard fact - Mom may never leave the hospital.

Of course Mom, as mentally chipper as she is, demanded, as soon as I reentered the room: “What did she way?”

I told her. And she knew. Somewhere in her gut she has known for a while.

Of course a miracle could happen. We pray that it does. But until then, it’s one day at a time, waiting, and handling whatever comes at us.

We will be giving notice on the assisted living apartment. Then E. and I need to clear it out. We’ll put things in storage.

In my ‘work life’ - man am I ever glad I don’t have transcription to worry about! But I do have a few writing-related things to get in order. That’s where it’s so important to listen. To get my assignments from God each day and do them. To act on those urges even though the calendar says I have lots of time.

In that vein, I look back and see that it was so a God-thing to get my kids’ devotional book proposal out when I did - in that little window of opportunity the few weeks when Mom was feeling better. I have also finished writing and nearly done tweaking my next FellowScript article, due July 1st. And yesterday I started putting together (that is, choosing, putting in order and doing edits on) my next book of poems (related to something I haven’t mentioned on here: in April I was appointed International Christian Poet Laureate by Utmost Christian Writers. One of the perks of that appointment is the publication of a book of poems, hopefully by Christmas 2006).

Yesterday this verse grabbed my attention:

“The Lord also will be a refuge for the oppressed. A refuge in times of trouble.” Psalm 9:9

(times = a particular time or season)

I feel like I am in one of those times or seasons at the moment. When such a time is on me, it feels like circumstances will never change, that such a time will never end. It’s in times like this I recall one of the sayings of a former pastor: “Just remember, no condition is permanent.”

In the meantime, I need to continually defer to God as my boss, my schedule and agenda-maker, my refuge. In that way, I know that someday I’ll look back on these days, weeks, even months and recognize them as a good time.

Photo: The boat hospital - Ward's Marina (at the Stewart Farmhouse), Surrey, B.C.

twenty-five years ago today ...

my dad

In His Shop

In his shop Daddy improvised
like a jazz musician.
Virtuoso of rivets, solder, screws
he repaired hinges with leather
lengthened a steering shaft
for the tractor-drawn binder
braced wobbly chairs with welding rods
reincarnated metal seats
into lawn furniture.

Lightning from his welder
like brain synapses
crackled creations into being.
Pounding hammer
tapping chisel
whining file perfected
riffs of leather, metal, wood.

© 2003 Violet Nesdoly

******************

My dad died almost 31 years ago. He was a quiet, shy man. My regret is that I didn’t get to know him better. Here are some things I remember about him:

- When we were little he would set the youngest of us on his knee, then the rest of us would crowd round as he drew pictures and we guessed what he was drawing.

- He talked to the animals – the cows, pigs, Prince and Queen the horses, of course the dog Toby.

- He could always figure out a way to fix things.

- He was easygoing – to a point. But push him too far and you’d be in big trouble.

- He played the saxophone. Hearing saxophone ensembles always remind me of him.

- Laundry for our large family (nine children) was a big job. Mom got up at 4:00 a.m. to get it started. Often Dad would get up shortly after she did to hang the clothes on the line for her.

- He worked hard on our small mixed farm and rarely took holidays. Spending a day at the river fishing was as good as a week away to him.

- He established a ‘family altar’ in our home. It was called schluss – a German word that means ending. Sometime shortly before bed he called us from our various activities to read a Bible story from Egermier’s Bible Stories, and then we prayed, oldest to youngest. (As we got older oh how we tried to get out of schluss).

- Most days after lunch he went to his bed, lay down, read his Bible, then took short nap, with the Bible laying open on his chest, rising and falling to the rhythm of his snoring.

- He died of complications of bone cancer in 1975. In his last painful months he did something he had always been too shy or reserved to do before – told us in words that he loved us.

in the morning

My voice You shall hear in the morning, O Lord;

In the morning I will direct it to You

And I will look up.

- Psalm 5:3

gay agenda for b.c. schools

Joel at Proud to be Canadian declares in his - 'Church of overt leftist liberalism in full evangelical mode in BC' post:

"Certainly no kid of mine will ever go to public school in BC."

to find out why

(Also note helpful links posted prominently at the bottom of his piece.)

garden moments

A garden is always changing, never a static place. One plant blooms, then fades, but even as it does, another takes over. I have special garden moments, though, when I wish I could stop time and keep things the way they are. This one, when dianthus in her unapologetic pinkness and fragrance takes the stage, with cool blue-green hosta as a backdrop, is high on my list of favorites.

I remind myself that life is like that too. Interrupting the humdrum of ordinary come special moments of beauty. I look back on such times in my life, when the kids were little, for example, and B. would spring into my arms and cling to me with his hands around my neck, feet around my waist. Or when S. in her imaginary world was a singer or dancer or mommy to her dolls and bears. Then there’s that family reunion we had some years ago which I must admit I was dreading, but when it happened, it had a perfection that still glows through the years. The little family supper we had a few weeks ago, with Mom here as well as L&M and C.& J. and the kids was another, as was the night out last Saturday.

The challenge is to see, appreciate and live those moments fully. And to realize that just as the day lilies will take over from now-tattered clematis, and impatiens will light the corner where dianthus once shone, there will be more bright faces and happy moments even if the present looks entirely gloomy and barren, even desperate.

**************

Other garden moments:
- from Rebecca - her June 12th Yukon garden
- from Nancy - what to do with a harvest of rhubarb.

another milestone

This beautiful bouquet sits on my diningroom table – fourteen red roses from Ernie to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary, which is officially on Monday. He brought them home early in case we follow through with our original plan to spend the weekend with the kids.

Twenty fifth anniversaries were big deals in my parent’s generation. I remember when the 25th anniversary was a time the couple or their kids hosted friends and family to a dinner or tea and then they got gifts! Maybe that still happens, I’m not sure. I just know we’re so not into that. In fact, our plan was to keep it entirely low key. (Our dream is to celebrate with a trip to eastern Canada – Quebec and the Maritimes. We’ll see.)


But last Saturday Ernie’s siblings all drove up for the day and took us out to dinner at the Boathouse (in White Rock near the pier).



My sis D. who was in town, also joined us. What a fun evening. Oh yes, and they got us a gift – a beautiful hurricane lantern-style candle holder with (you guessed it) a silver base. Thanks so much, guys!

(And thank You, Lord, for these 25 years. Great is Your faithfulness!)