Rachel ~ Between the Stops

The little girl looked up at her father with a smile in her eyes.

“Rapunzel had pets, you know.”

They were on their way home after going to town for cereal. It was Mom’s birthday tomorrow and both of them were determined for everything to be perfect from the moment she woke up. The day had been completely planned out; breakfast in bed, a morning of board-games and old movies, and in the afternoon they were off to Grandma’s and Grandpa’s for dinner and tea. In the business of getting the day all set up and trying to make sure that Mom didn’t make any conflicting birthday plans of her own, Dad had forgotten to pick up the most important part of their special day breakfast routine: Cap’n Crunch. It was the little girl who had noticed the problem, and so, right after Dad got home they made a special father-daughter trip into town.

“What kind of pets does she have?” her father asked, returning her smile.

“A rabbit and a dragon!”

“Oh, wow! I wish I could have a dragon! Then I could ride on his back instead of taking the bus home.”

The little girl gasped aloud and her eyes opened widely. “Daddy! Dragons have fire!”

“I’m not afraid, sweetie. I could bring lots of water with me. And I think we might get home a lot faster if we had a dragon to ride.”

The little girl seemed to ponder this for a moment and in the space before she wrinkled her nose and shook her head slowly, time seemed to lean back, as it sometimes does, and he marvelled at his daughter. Her long lashes seemed to batt open and closed in slow motion, concealing and revealing again the deep, bright blue of her mother's eyes. It was like staring into a whirlpool of thought, those eyes. He swallowed a sudden urge to well up and dropped his gaze to her pink-velcro sneakers. He smiled. When it came to footwear, there weren't two tastes more opposed. Her mother would never have been caught in stockings and shoes in this weather. He shook himself back to reality in time for the inevitable nose wrinkling.

“No," she resolved, "you can't come. It’s a purple dragon.”

Her father laughed. “Well, that’s okay,” without missing a beat, “I’ll just spray-paint him black.”

“Black! Oh, no Daddy, not black!”

“Not black, eh?” He chucked gently at his daughter’s horror. “Well, what about... what if we colour him like the rainbow?”

Suddenly all of the concern in the little girl’s face melted away, revealing the wonderful smile of childhood’s simple joy and a laugh that danced through the air between them.

“Yes! That is a good idea! That would make the dragon very happy!”

The little girl’s laugh was contagious. A couple across the aisle from them couldn’t help the smiles spreading across their faces as they glanced over at the child, not-so-secretly eaves-dropping on their conversation. The creativity of such an innocent heart is hard to ignore.

“Well, I don’t know about happy, but he sure would be multicoloured.”

The girl’s gaze dropped from her father’s and down at the large, colourful cereal box tucked between them on the seat. Then she took a moment to smile at the bus-driver who smiled back with a grandfatherly grin.

“Could we colour the dragon Daddy? Could we draw pictures on it and colour it however we want?”

“Of course we can, darling.”

“And it will have pink!”

“And blue?”

“For Mommy’s birthday!”

They were talking about Rachel, of course. She had jumped into the role of both wife and mother only two years ago - a leap of faith, both feet and full heart. His baby girl didn't know anything different, as far as mothers go, but hearing the title come from his little one with such love still caught him. Her mother had died when she was only eighteen months old. She had barely learned to use the word, but his precious first wife had heard it a few times, tumbling out of their toddler's mouth with the stumbling, crinkled concentration of a first year Latin student. Oh, the blissful laughter of those first few weeks in the world of words. And then she had gone. The doctors told him that she had been carrying the aneurysm in a dormant state all of her life, unaware. They said it had been a "merciful death," quick and without suffering; but his grief and shock did not heal quickly and he suffered for years, alone and lonely... except for his little girl. She kept him going. She gave him hope in his despair and strength in defeat. She revived in him the will to love.

He met Rachel a few days before his daughter turned three. Tipping and toddling no more, his little girl deserved to graduate from his often lopsided attempts at birthday cake to something that more physically reflected the celebration at hand. He flipped through the yellow pages, checked on Google, scanned the paper and eventually determined to wander the shops downtown until inspiration found him. And she did. Rachel was a veritable muse in her apron. With dark hair, dark eyes and dark skin, "muse" might be a misleading title -- until you saw her art. It framed her as you entered into the little patisserie; towering cakes and sugar flowers so life-like you can almost smell them, marzipan models and modelling chocolate figurines, cupcakes with whole paragraphs of script in the icing, and a hundred other delights vocabulary can't capture. And she stood, smiling at him as his eyes took in the room. She welcomed him to the counter with the same familiar airs of a hostess, ushering personal guests into her living rom and telling them to make themselves at home, and would anyone like a lemonade? She was warm and friendly, and she had honest eyes.

Ordering the cake took about four minutes, but he hovered there at the cash in happy, easy conversation until the bell over the door chimed and another customer came in with three children underfoot. When he stepped back onto the street an hour had passed and the rest of his errand-running was a scramble. Forgetting the Cap'n Crunch during a pre-birthday shop seemed to be as much a tradition as eating it for breakfast on the morning a year is gained in the life of this growing family.

The last-minute make-up trip to town that followed in the morning proved to be as much of a distraction, taking another hour longer than he had planned; thirty minutes were spent pacing in circles around the corner from the cake shop, deciding whether or not it was silly to check on the progress of an order that she promised would take her two days. He decided it was silly, and the next ten minutes were spent walking laps from the corner to his car, changing his mind back and forth. Eventually he had gone in, with almost no reason and with little to contribute but a blushed nodding in the presence of the beautiful woman behind the counter who was pointing at sketches for his daughter's cake, and prattling on about one or another new recipes she was going to try.

When it came time for the little party he had arranged -- mostly friends from work, their wives and kids if they had any -- the bakery masterpiece was shimmering with sugar dusts and looked like an elaborately embossed Christmas card. "Are you able to come and pick it up? Or, if you'd like, I could come and drop it off for you? I've got some extra time on my hands today, and I really wouldn't mind." So she came, and stayed; she played with the kids, made friends with the women, made fun at his expense, just a little. He liked her.

And so did his daughter. This now five-and-three-quarter-year-old lass by his side had taken her time to adjust to a "Mommy" in the home, and even after they were married it wasn't a generously used name. This little exchange on the bus wasn't the first time he'd heard the title used with so much love, but each instance was still so special to him. Little girls have a way of melting even the most grown-up of hearts.

Her father reached high up above the little girl’s head and tugged at the yellow cord.

“What do you say about making Mommy a card when we get home? A birthday card, out of really big white paper and I’ll draw a great big dragon on the inside? Then we can colour him like the rainbow with pictures of whatever we like for Mom’s birthday, and no black anywhere.”

The little girl laughed a wonderful, happy laugh that seemed to light up the whole bus. At the next stop, the little girl’s father stood up tall, took their box of Cap’n Crunch under one arm and offered his other hand to his daughter.

Hand in hand father and daughter marched up the aisle and thanked the bus-driver for their ride. Then, with a quick smile to each other that glowed of great friendship and mutual adoration, they hopped off the bus and onto the sidewalk, both dreaming of Mom’s special surprises and the stories they would be able to tell in the morning.

Heart Attacked

I fear my heart,

It's restless beat-beating that never tires or rests or slows,

not even in sleep.

I fear my heart and its wandering desires 

that tip back and forth like a balancing bird,

not yet convinced it should fly,

fervently unwilling to remain still. 

I fear my heart. 

I cannot trust it. 

It's like trying to control a helium balloon

tied to a pebble by a child,

let loose in the gale of a hurricane.

I fear my heart, wild and slipping, 

madly, desperately trying to stabilize 

independently. On its own.

It clings to everything, to others, snatching as they press past

as though it knows it needs them to help, but it won't allow itself to ask.

I am failing, alone. I feel it failing, too.

I fear my heart.

I fear its weakness. I fear its needs.

I fear the power it wields over my mind and strength.

It asserts its authority; it overwhelms its own sweetness with the bitterness of anger.

I fear its division; the civil war of it all, the wreckage it promises.

It shouldn't be like this. I shouldn't fear the overflow.

But there is a poison of malice that has been seeping out, slowly; 

a black tar of thoughts and words from a sick, dark heart.

I need a cure. I need a doctor.

You say you heal the brokenhearted.

This fracture has become infected. I now need more than a re-setting.

Restore, LORD. Revive this heart of fear. 

Jakob ~ Between the Stops

She had found his photograph in an old book, at the Library.

The book had been in the selling room, a space set aside for the frayed of binding or loose of page, or the subjectively deemed "dull of content." This little annex of the old brick building was the last hope for the worn-out printed works, stamped "discard" with a heavy black ink. If they remained too long here, they would be recycled... not on to another bookshelf for a new pupil to absorb its wisdom, but to the blue bin, the mass grave of all abandoned codex. Most of the books in the room did not appeal to her; many were the encyclopedic chronicles of sports history, or dime novels stuffed with sensation and not much else, or plotless textbooks now long out of date. Most of them were old-ish, which in the world of books was akin to a hot-ish plate of pasta, or a funny-ish comedian at a club. It was the really old ones that caught her attention, with a simple cloth cover and the irresistible smell of aged paper. It is a treasure most uncommon in such places, but when you know what you're looking for, a keen eye can sometimes find a hidden or neglected two or three.

The spine of the book with the photograph was a dead give away: the cloth cover had let loose at one end and beneath the fading burgundy material, the telltale font of newsprint was revealed. She lifted the volume delicately, as a mother lifts a sleeping child, fearful of waking the infant and yet entirely unable to resist the pleasure of holding a baby at such peace. The book was extremely old, and not in English. Opening to the frontispiece, she scanned for a date. 1828, Berlin.

The German language is something few in her city were likely able to pick up and read, but it was the style of the printing and the formatting of each page that gave her the clues she needed to puzzle out the mystery. She was holding a Bible. She purchased the book before she asked her questions.

"It is most certainly a religious work of some antiquity!" quipped the woman standing behind the desk, turning the pages with reverence. "Although, I don't believe you have a full Genesis-to-Revelation account here. More likely it is a very old commentary, on "Lucas" and "Johannes," or Luke and John. To confirm, I suggest that you refer to a computer, and one of our language translation software programs. You can find them over there, in the "D" section." She thanked the librarian and returned home without the recommended double-check. It took her a few hours of uncomprehending meandering through the pages to find the photograph, but when she did it was like the whole world fell spellbound into the gaze of the young soldier staring out from the frame.

He was dressed in the Canadian uniform common to paratroopers in the Second World War. His whole form looked strong and quite handsome; he was a man of perhaps thirty years, his face full of bravery and fire and the lacing softness of human compassion. She was struck by how much his expression conveyed. He looked resolved, apprehensive, hopeful, cautious, full of a welling love, and something else that her young heart couldn't label at the time, but would later call wisdom.

The black and white picture featured a house and a garden in the background behind the man. There was a mailbox among other things, flag up, with numbers on the side that couldn't be read because of the angle of the camera. Was this his home?

She picked up the photograph and turned it over in her hands. On the back, in a simple scrawl, was the phrase, "Gott ist souverän," and lower on the Polaroid, "Meine Liebe, Jakob. Juni 23, 1940." She flipped it back over and took a closer look at the man's face, re-examining the details of his setting. There was a suitcase in the frame, leaning against the mailbox post. It was a hard-covered brown leather piece with a key and snapping front clasps. Centered near the handle was the word, the name, "TAPFER," printed in block letters. 

Jakob Tapfer. And that was enough.

It was enough to drive her back to the Library, to the microfiche and the war archives. It was enough to find him on the memorial that had been set up in town to honour the men who died serving overseas. She learned that he had been in several small attacks before he died in an invasion known as "Operation Market Garden," in the Netherlands. Almost a month passed before she thought to look in a phonebook. Something about the picture compelled her to return it. However it came to be at the Library, and then into her care, she somehow knew that it was not hers to keep.

There were three Tapfers on her list. The first was a young woman who had recently moved up from Toronto, and had no connection to the family from the local papers of years gone by. The second number forwarded to an automatic voice message about vehicle rental rates and insurance. A man named Jakob picked up on her third try.

She stumbled through a clumsy explanation about finding an old book in the Library, and the photograph that led her to calling, and did he know of anyone by his name that served in World War II? The silence that followed felt chocked with emotion. Slowly the voice returned. "You... found one of her books?"

She listened quietly as Jakob Junior, the son of the man whose photograph she held, told her the history that newspapers ignored. "My mother was pregnant with me when he left. She used to say that he was a true Tapfer man, very brave. She said you could see it in his eyes. She loved him so much." He recounted, in brief, the history of his father that he had memorized from the cradle, the story that his mother had told him all of his life. "He was part of the Canadian Forces, enlisted early on to fight with the British Allies because he was already parachute trained. It had been a thrill in his youth, and he had learned the skill at home, only thirty minutes from Arnheim, the place he died. Both of my parents grew up in Kranenburg, you see. They moved to Canada in 1923 and became full Canadian citizens in 1934 and 1935, mother and father respectively. Neither entertained dreams of seeing their home again, but when my father left for War, he wrote that he thought God was going to take him home. And He did, twice; once to the airs of Arnheim, and then quickly to his heavenly place."

She listened without interruption for nearly two hours, completely absorbed by the passion and pride with which this man told his father's story. She learned that his mother, Sonje, had gone Home too, about a year ago. When her apartment had been sorted through by Jakob and his wife, they found none of the books or letters or anything else they expected her to keep. Months later they came across receipts for the rental of a small storage unit, under her second husband's name, but when they contacted the managers they were told flatly that, "anything unpaid and unclaimed for more than six months, whatever it be, is sold as a lot at auction." All of his mother's treasures had been given away from less than a hundred dollars. "We worked hard to track down the buyer, but once the sale has been made it is a very difficult process. You are the first to ever track us down."

So she offered, as she had planned, to return the photograph and the book it came with. After all of the story telling and reliving of the past, it was this act of kindness that overwhelmed him and his voice broke down into sobs. His wife picked up the receiver and arranged the details of a visit.

All of this had led her to the bus ride she was now taking. In a city as sprawled out as North Bay, the public transportation system is an important, if sometimes tedious, vein. The route was familiar, but the stop was not -- which is why she was so intently focused on watching the road signs out the window when the turnip hit her ankle. She didn't like to swear, and she had worked hard to keep her vocabulary clean, but when something as pain-inducing and unexpected as a rolling rutabaga breaks into your reality, the subliminal cultural training we have received sometimes slips out, entirely without our permission. As she bent down to tend to her pulsing foot, she knocked into a man behind her and set him off balance. He began to topple, just as someone reached out and caught him, under arm.

"Ethan!" she said with surprise, moving to help him right the man, apologies to both tumbling out of her as she struggled to orient herself in the moment. "Oh hello there, pretty girl," he said with a grin, "and where might you be off to with such determination? I've been standing here for nearly ten minutes, feeling very much ignored." His grin had swayed into a smirk. She smiled.

"I'm going to meet a friend," she said, careful about her verbal footing, unsure of how much she wanted to share right away. He caught the reserve in her voice and pulled a face. "Is it quite serious? Your other boyfriend, right?" She rolled her eyes as the bus pulled over and a few people hopped off between them. "It's a new friend," she said, deciding not to explain the adventure just yet. "I'm returning a book."

But then she thought about Sonje and Jakob. Life, her heart reminded her, is a fragile thing. She looked up at her man, smiling down at her face. Would she, in time, press his picture between the pages of her favourite book?

The bus pulled over at her stop at just that moment. Between closed doors and open doors, her mind had changed. "You know, I could use a bit of company after all. Will you come?" She took his hand. "Sure," he said, the grin returning, "But only if I can carry your books."

Sora ~ Between the Stops

The little guy was bundled up in "Classic Pooh," a brown snowsuit checkered with green; the combination of his pulled-down toque and tightly wrapped scarf almost buried his beautiful Native face. He might have been two years old, but no more. "Paappy," he said, pointing up at an advertisement on the ceiling of the bus. It was a Near North Crime Stoppers poster; one of Lynn Johnston's contributions to justice. The dog was looking proud of himself with sunglasses and a piece of bad-guy pants between his teeth. The father smiled, more at his boy than the poster.

"That's right," he said, all smiles, "a puppy. And there's a truck."
"Twuuk?"
"Yep."
"Twuk."
"Another truck, yep."

This dad was young, maybe twenty-three or -four. He had tattoos on his neck and he was wearing a collection of rings, though nothing on his left hand.

It's an undeniable truth that the world doesn't play by the same rules that it did even one generation ago. The pleasures and privileges of marriage have moved far beyond the laws and vows of the Church. But with love and sex comes risk and responsibility -- pressures that a marriage is built to withstand while informal relationships so often are not. It is in the crisis that character is exposed. As he held his baby boy, standing beside him on the matted red fabric of the bus seats, it was obvious: this was a man.

He was born on a reserve and would have grown and died there if not for the patience of a good teacher who loved people and refused to give up on him. He had graduated from the local school and moved to the city for college, working with passion and focus. It was in this new place with nothing familiar that he found his Sora, his beautiful birdsong who could speak the language of his soul. She surrendered her body; he surrendered his heart. It was the mysterious first submission -- the first of many to come.

The night he found out, Sora was already home. She was leaning against the bathroom door, quivering and in tears, with something clutched in between her fingers.

"Niinimoshe," he said with a soft concern, "what is wrong?" She could barely respond. In broken whispers, "Nimaanendam, nimaanendam," was all she could manage. He held her as she cried. They cried together. In that moment of crisis a man was born.

He had finished the semester and quit the program, found a job and did not leave. As Sora's belly filled with their child he could hardly conceive of the dramatic changes going on in his own heart. Every physical change was matched by a growth in the spirit of this newborn family. He loved her to the point of bursting. He loved her to the point of sacrifice.

The following seven months were a shift in reality: he learned to be calm and still, learned to hold his temper, learned to sing, just a little, the way his father and grandfather used to. "Gi zag gin, gi zag gin, niabinoojivens gwiiwizens, gi zag gin, gi zag gin, gi zag gin." Every day his heart was woven closer to Sora. They were one beautiful seminole, and no cloth could be more beautiful than she.

The bus pulled over to the side of the road. Three students clambered up, teetering boxes of groceries that included two cases of Kraft Dinner, a couple frozen pizzas, potato chips, Honey Nut Cheerios and a turnip. The turnip seemed a little out of place with the other purchases he could see,  but it made him smile. The bus driver was just pulling away when suddenly a pair of flailing arms seemed to leap out of nowhere. One of the arms, attached to a frazzled looking youth, banged on the bus door and the huge vehicle slammed on the brakes. Although the bus had only started moving a moment before, the halt was jarring and the repercussions numerous: his child lost balance and fell face first into his lap, bumping his little head off the seat and bursting into tears; the turnip dislodged from it's nest of junk food, bounced down the aisle, knocked over an unfortunately placed stack of binders in the fifth row and smashed into the ankle of a girl standing by the back doors; the girl cussed instinctively and bent down to rub her ankle, misjudging the distance between her posterior and the cane of the elderly gentleman standing behind her, who was preparing to get off the at the next stop; with his support gone, the man buckled at the knees and would have fallen, had the bending girl's boyfriend not been there to catch him from the side. It was an awkward few seconds and few looked with a smile at the kid who boarded in the aftermath.

"There, there, bear," cooed his father, righting the child and holding him fast 'round the middle. "You are a strong little makwa. You'll be all right." Their jumbled bus-fellows sorted themselves out and settled down again; the class notes re-shuffled, the turnip retrieved, apologies offered and accepted all 'round. His boy-child calmed in the embrace and his cries melted into whimpers, whimpers to coos and coos to smiles again.

Calamity always stirs people up in funny ways. So often the surface of who we are, the polished mask or persona that we intentionally present to the world, is carefully covering something truer that restlessly hovers below; like a tarp covering just a little too much wood, something is always at risk of exposure should one corner be firmly tugged. Simple moments of confusion, like the unexpected application of the breaks, or the tripping over a doorframe, or the dropping of keys can shuffle the world in such a way that our perfectly tucked edges are loosed and the mess of our lives is revealed. Suddenly the world can see the precarious balancing act you had to preform to stack the wood in the first place, and you lose control of your secrets. It is for this reason that a beautiful mask should not be the hope of a life lived. It is for this reason that you must start at the bottom of the pile and build up strong, cord by cord.

As the old bus rattled off again the man smiled down at his son. The child seems bored with the little odaminowaagan he had been carrying. "Here's something new to see," he said, reaching into the backpack on the floor and coming back up with a small square box. He opened it, facing the boy, and the clean, winter sunlight caught the gem perfectly. The refractions danced around the bus, dazzling the eyes of the little child. "It's for you mother... wiidigendiwini-ditibininjiibizoring. What do you think of that?"

She already held his heart. She should hold his life as well.

The ring went into his pocket instead of back to his bag, as he stood up and signalled for the next stop. It wasn't a special day, but it was the right one. He lifted the child up to his hip and gave him a tender kiss on the cheek. They were beautiful, the two of them together, hopping off the bus and into the snow. The three were better still: a woven fabric, rich in texture and colour, and life; a true family; a promise unending.

And the old bus rattled off again.

Around and Round

That explains it. The canvas is torn.

A tiny boat, no bigger than a life raft, spun round in circles about 15 minutes from shore. She was caught in the squaring-off between wind and wave and her sail, flapping wildly, unsecured and multiplying the chaos on deck, revealed a gash in its fabric that sliced from her groaning mast to the tether-turned-whip at its furthest edge. The rudder, though intact, was a minor deterrent to the crash of water coming overboard; the ballasts on her sides did little to steady her as the hurricane tipped her precariously, her starboard side exposed, her port dipped below the surface of the raging waters.

The little vessel was suspended, immobilized, out on that lake. She could do nothing to ease the storm's anxious strains as it relentlessly pitched her from one side to the other. Wind and wave met with a violence that the boat had never before encountered. It threatened to implode her; it struggled to pull her apart.

Give in, little floater, I'll protect you beneath; 

Never again will this wind haunt your sails. 

Give in, little swimmer, and I'll run you aground;

While at port you'll find rest in my gales.

Neither would settle for less than her all; neither sky nor sea could this maiden voyage please. With her control and choice wrecked she was at the mercy of the elements and though at war with each other, with her in their crossfire, both water and air thought their action was all to this little boat's best.

But there was something built into this small rocking ship that remembered a storm quite the same... A floorboard, perhaps, or an old rope on deck that had witnessed a reckless sea in ages past, a terrible tempest calmed by the gentle rebuke of a ghost.

Or they though he was a ghost, at first. He had captured all attention. The wind suddenly quiet; the waves as suddenly stilled. He was the master of them all. They obeyed his command. He saved the boat; he stopped the elemental war.

Oh, how this vessel begs of its Master another divine intervention. Bring order from chaos. Mend the sail, guide the boat, calm the wind and wave.

Back Into Boxes

I am not unfamiliar with the sentiments attached to moving. I move home every summer; crate my books, fold all my laundry, sift through which pillows are to come or stay. I also move back every autumn, for the last three years, to this apartment. This has become home to me. Small "h" home, mind you, but a home just the same. It's the place I've matured. It is in this space that I have ripened.

Perhaps this is the root of my nostalgic trance that I've been in the last few days, trying with little success to package my life for the last time in this city. It's a lonely project, but one I feel must be done in solace. Saying good-bye to a place is a different philosophical experience than bidding a person, even a friend, farewell. With people, the parting is always a mutual weight; feelings are shared between, both are impacted and when affection is mutual, so is the sadness. But saying good-bye to a place is different.

When I leave North Bay, the buses will not miss me; the instability of the transit schedule and the weary smile of each driver will not be altered by my sudden disappearance. When I leave, the Salvation Army which has so often contributed to my wardrobe (including the oh-so-infamous Christmas Socks) will continue to sell their long-ignored treasure to those who need an economical cheer-up. My leaving will not change how the sunset casts a fabulous gold-yellow light into the living room of 512 O'Brien Street, Apartment 2 at that certain time of day... not in the same way that the absence of me will change the beautiful women who will live here without me next year. The city will not miss me (but I hope that they will).

So, saying good bye to this place, because it is so strong and unmoving and so tragically emotionless, must be done alone. The boxes and packing drawers, the tape I can't find and a full season of NUMB3RS, the leftovers in the fridge and the carrot cake I'm thinking about making: we must do this, together and alone, in the strange camaraderie of inanimate acquaintanceships. Pack, into boxes.

Back into boxes.

Stephen ~ Between the Stops

Everyone could see that they were in love. It was written all over them for the world to read; written in their clasped hands, on their smiling faces, in their eyes. He loved her and she loved him and they talked pleasantly, so easily, as though they had been loving each other in this manner without trouble or hardship since they had exchanged their promises in the little country chapel, almost sixty years ago. Their relationship had not always been the blissful dream that they had imagined from their honeymoon days, but they had always leaned on each other through the turbulence. Somehow almost sixty years had flown by in a wonderful blur of fashion changes, rock music, Pampers and bunk beds, college applications and the throwing of rice, and then another more recent round of Pampers as their children's children were handed over for a few days at a time. It had been a happy, love-filled adventure together so far. What would the next sixty years bring?

The bus pulled over to the sidewalk to pick up another elderly couple who smiled and waved as soon as they boarded. The gentleman tipped his felt fedora to the bus driver - an original hat from the early thirties, the kind you had to crease yourself with regular use. The bus driver tipped his imaginary cap in return and waited patiently as they shuffled back. The first couple had moved to the back of the bus where the seating was better for four. Everyone took a few moments to catch up, the men about their women and the women of their men, and then with a knowing pause their conversation fell to Stephen.

Stephen had been a mutual friend from the days before the dinosaurs, when school was affordable and people came into fame and fortune by really accomplishing something or by the work of their hands and the sweat of their brow. The three men had been great pals from their youth. "Well, Jim was there too, but nobody sees him anymore. But he was there, old Jim."
"Right," nodded the other man, "but nobody sees him anymore."
"Right."

They let a few more stops pass in silence. A heavy beat passed before the dialogue of a father and daughter nearby drew their attention to lighter things. They all smiled.

"Do you guys remember when Stephen and Jane tried hosting a formal English tea for all the kids in the neighbourhood?"
"Oh, heavens! The Brinkman boys started a food fight with the scones!"
"Little squares of butter all over Jane's poor dog. He was never quite the same."
"I remember one year for Stephen's birthday Jesse and Hannah took all of his left shoes and re-gifted them to him one at a time, wrapped up as pretty as ever. Jane laughed for days telling us that story. Stephen pretended to be miffed at the whole affair, but I'm pretty sure he loved the attention. Wow, I miss those kids. I haven't seen them in ages."
"Well, you'll see them in a few minutes, darling. It's just a shame that it's a visit under these circumstances. Jesse's whole family will be there today. We should get together this week and make them some dinners. They'll have plenty on their minds the next little while without the added stress of cooking for all those little ones."

Three more stops passed and the bus turned a corner into a grocery store parking lot. The driver opened the doors to a young teenaged couple who took the first set of empty seats. The boy was trying to get her attention but she shook him off and stared out the window in a tight-lipped silence.

The elderly man took the hand of his still-beautiful bride. Age had not withered her mind nor faded her spirit, thank God. Time had served only to specialize his affections and deepen their love. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. She felt the same.

The tall church steeple could be seen towering over the town, reminding everyone of its importance and centrality. It would have made Stephen happy to know that his life would wrap up in the same place it had really begun. The son of the pastor who married Stephen and Jane would give the service today; quite a coincidence, but Stephen wasn't a man who believed in happenstance. Jane had taught him to trust God in even the finicky details of life and he frequently credited his Heavenly Stage Manager. It was nice of Him to write his hero such a romantic exit.

The light and abrupt "ding" of a pulled cord announced the nearing end of their journey. As the bus coasted to a stop the elderly gentlemen took the arms of their wives, not so much physical support as emotional comfort. It was always a very hard thing, growing up and growing old, but laying a friend to rest forever was a horrible twist indeed. At least for the left-behinds. Stephen had always believed all those old hymns he sang so often. If he had it right, the angels would be tending to him and his lovely Jane would be with him again...

Heaven...

As the bus doors opened he let go of his wife for a moment as she stepped down onto the curb. He was not prepared to let go of her forever. He couldn't bear the idea of letting her go and never again taking her arm or holding her hand or sharing her love. Maybe it's time to put some thought and conversation into the whole heaven thing Stephen used to go on about. Maybe it was time to take a lesson from his friend's life and death before he followed to the graveyard.

He stood staring at the open door of the church from the open door of the bus, and still holding the yellow rail. He looked down at his wife and, taking her hand again, he vowed once more to lead her, off this bus, through this world, into this church. Perhaps not for the last time.

The old man's eyes seemed to glisten with both joy and remorse that he couldn't find the balance between. A tear rolled down his cheek, over the weathered mountains and valleys of his face that had seen so much, laughed with such bravery, cried in vulnerability and now smiled once more upon the love returned in the eyes of his wife. It was a tear that she didn't understand, but would be explained before too long.

Almost sixty years with this woman.
And there was still so much to talk about.

Breaking the Silence

My fingers have been clicking away without waver for weeks on end but the quill of my heart has been stilled for so long that I have almost forgotten my love for paper and ink. This place, this literary release, this haven was left void of my thoughts for too long. As I return to it now I feel almost estranged, as though my steps forward are some kind of trespass into the world and space of another. I feel almost as though I no longer belong, and yet... yet there is something so familiar, like a soft smell that dances so close to your face that you can almost taste the gentle fragrance before it laughs along on the wind to go and ruffle someone else's senses. It is quiet here. I have missed this quiet.

My summer was filled with much and varied sound; the noise of singing children, the slap of bouncing rubber balls, the snap of dry cookies, the splash of water-filled balloons as they explode against the grass, the buzz of lights, the yawns and sighs of long, warm hours. Every day I was met by new sounds, new experiences, new textures of language and speech, new insights, new outlooks, new friends and one new and growing relationship. It was a very good four month break from the 'reality' of my September-through-May life.

And now I am back here, at Nipissing University for my fourth and final year. My days are once again filled with noise, but it is the flipping of pages, the chatter and clatter of city buses, the scratch of a pencil, the squeal of chalk against board and, of course, the clicking of keys that sets the rhythm of my life. My mind skips to a scene from Disney's Oliver and Company, when our feline protagonist first finds himself in the chaos of New York; first overwhelmed by the cacophony of auditory stimuli, then falling in sync with the driving beat of the metropolis, and falling in love with the music of life.

There's been a lot of falling in love in my life recently. In fact, the fourth finger of my left hand now proudly declares that I have been pursued and claimed by an amazing man of God who returns my love in a way I have always hoped (but never really expected) to be real. I will write out our whole story soon, but sadly I do not have the time or attention to put towards such an endeavor at present.

In the meantime, take this short, mildly melancholic and typically reflective piece as a reassurance that I am still writing outside of my class work, at least sometimes. This one's for Dad; thanks for calling me back to my blog.

Episode 3: Moo No More

"Good morning, Marco."
"Good morning, Polo."
"Can you pass me the milk, please?"
"It will have to be white today, I'm afraid. We're almost at the end of our chocolate rations, and our tokens don't come in until Thursday. Is white okay?"

Polo sighed sadly.

"It will have to do. It seems so long ago that we used to be able to walk down to Macs and buy chocolate milk by the carton. Now we can barely get a handle on a litre a month!"
"I know," said Marco, dropping her chin into her hands with a sigh of her own. "I tried to buy a ration from Ophelia, but she told me to get myself to a nunnery and then she climbed out her window and onto that old tree outside. I think she almost broke the branch trying to jump into that river below. If she isn't more careful the poor oak is going to snap one of these days and she'll drown in that water."
"I can't say I blame her for resisting your bribe, though. I wouldn't sell our tickets for a million umlauts. It's just too precious a commodity!"

Marco and Polo ate their breakfast cereals in silence for a few moments. Their table used to resound with the sounds of snapping, crackling and popping cocoaey goodness, but now their bowls and spoons were as eerily silent and white as an asylum in January.

The chocolate milk industry was depleting at an alarming rate. Over the past six months North America had reached a depression-level shortage, thanks to the environmental activists that banned artificially coloured leather because it was draining the world of its tannin supplies. The famed Latvian blue cows were the first hunted for their naturally pigmented skins, after the same environmentalists passed a law to prohibit the poaching of animals without hair. No one could figure out what the moral difference was between killing hairy and bald animals, but the distinction saved a rainforest of rainbow heterocephalus galbers. After the blue cow, the brown Jersey was targeted and, as everyone knows, it's the brown cows that make the chocolate milk. In response to this, the Ministry of Natural Resources began to ration out chocolate milk tickets, hoping that regulating access would give farmers a chance to protect and stabilize their cocoaey herds. Unfortunately, the rationing served only to alert the public to the crisis and now people who did not normally drink chocolate milk were suddenly as concerned about its future as those who routinely lifted their glasses to the Good Lord in thanks for the brown cow. The result was that more people than ever were drinking down the heavenly-flavoured dairy products and instead of alleviating the stresses of the farmers in question, the motion actually served to increase demand three-fold. If something wasn't done soon, Canada would fall with the United States into a state of brown cow extinction - and nobody wanted that.

Polo raised her bowl to her lips and slurped up the last few drops of her very white cereal. Marco stared into her half-empty glass and sighed again. Polo sighed louder. Marco gave her a look and proceeded to empty her lungs with a dramatic, exhaustive blow. Polo took the cue and before long the two were in a very competitive "sigh-off," swooning, fainting and blowing air into each other's faces in the most ridiculous of fashions. Five minutes later their contest had ended, to nobody's surprise, in a wrestle to the ground and Polo threateningly hoarking into her hand.

"Enough!" cried Marco in mock panic and legitimate surrender. "I give up!" They both clambered to their feet and Marco let out one final exasperating sigh - and then quickly changed the subject before Polo could quite realize what she had done. "So," she said, "What is on our agenda for today? Shall we engage in a bit of northern piracy or travel to a distant land aboard the mighty Karen Thrasher?"
"Actually Marco, I was thinking that we should try and figure out a solution to the chocolate milk problem."
"You might as well aim to take over the world, Polo."
"You say that like we haven't tried it before."
"Well, what do you suggest, mon aime?"
"I thought we could try.... jelly."

Any other plan would have been written off immediately as ridiculous, but Marco couldn't help grin at the suggestion. It was irresistibly brilliant.

"Polo, have I told you recently that I love you?"
"No, not this morning, Marco."
"Well," she smiled, "I do."

The two girls abandoned their breakfasts, resolved to resolve the bovine dilemma. Their first stop, naturally, was Utterson. Others had already begun to gather at the famous site, where an American Dairy Princess and a Côte d'Ivoirian Theobroma Cocoa were first mated and a chocolate milk squirting Jersey was born. It was here that the Canadian concentration of the breed was kept in a sanctuary away from prying eyes and empty glasses, and it was here that Marco and Polo found exactly what they needed: inspiration.

The manager of the herd let them in immediately after they had exposed the beginning of their plan to him. It's amazing just how much hope can be stirred up in a hopeless heart at the word "Jelly." The sight that met their eyes was enough to make Marco's stomach turn sour... in the middle of a large field that could have held hundreds of cattle stood five. Five lonely, skinny cows drooping their lonely skinny heads into a trough of the world's finest imported grasses. Suddenly the magnitude of the situation flooded our heroes' hearts. This must be solved. Tonight.


Stay tuned for part two...

Prayers of Psalm 51

Why am I resisting you? Now, of all moments when I should be clinging desperately, I am running like Jonah from the hands that will save and guide me, into the middle of the one thing you have told me to flee - the one thing that will lead my mind to destruction and my heart to misery. Why am I giving in to these temptations as the seize me? Why do I turn from what I know is truth and peace and light only to intentionally grapple along in the dark places that my flesh is so actively seducing me to? Why have I lost my hope? To what place has my joy vanished? How have I walked so far away from you, Lord?

Hear my tears and see my guilt. Come after me like you promised to. Look for your lost sheep. Break me, if I need to be broken. Hold me, Father, for I know that I need your care and your love. I am lost. I have wandered. Pull me back to you and your flock, Jesus. I am yours. Call me yours.

Heal the pains I have but can not name. Temper my trembling spirit and the shaking of my shamed heart. Restore me like David. Forgive the sins I so frequently and carelessly commit. Clean my heart, cleanse my eyes, renew my memory and wash it to new.

God, I am sad. The cause of this burdening has been buried away from me, but you know even the secrets that we keep from ourselves. Heal my unknown pains. Strengthen my weakness, calm my fears, settle my body. Create in me a clean heart, oh God, and renew a right spirit within me. Cast me not away from your presence. Restore to me the joy of your salvation and uphold me, Father.

Wrap me in your arms.

The Umbrella

It was raining again. It had been raining for weeks on end, drowning her world and her basement in inches of water. She had bail buckets scattered and often floating around her feet as she stooped to scoop her floor dry – an impossible task between the attack of the rain and the thaw. If her street flooded it would be the end of her foundation altogether and she might as well install a diving board. How had it come to this?

Upstairs things were not much better. Her boyfriend was sitting by an open window, watching the water pour in over the sill like the Niagara. “Look sweetie,” he said with a dopey smile on his face, “I put a bucket under the flow, so it wouldn’t ruin the floors!” She gave him a sharp look of “Actually, right now? Are you an idiot?” and pointed to the window. “Why didn’t you just close the window?” she asked aloud. “Why didn’t you?” he countered. It was a fair point. She had been living in her house with the windows open for so long that she hadn’t even thought to close them when the rain started to come. She had been distracted with the basement immediately and had only thought about the windows being open when she started to see water damage not only from the walls but also from the ceiling of the basement. Jack could have been a little more help, though. He was sitting right there, after all. But she said nothing in correction and rarely gave suggestions; instead she spent her time criticizing his choices and mocking him in her mind. It was a kind of release for her, in a way, albeit a selfish one.

She went into the kitchen and opened a drawer, rummaging through the mess of disorganized odds and ends. Rubber bands, scissors, a flashlight, Kleenexes, a ruler, three dried up markers and a few candle stubs, but no matches with which to light them. “Jaaaaaack,” she called back into the living room with an exasperated tone. “Do you know where I put the matches from the campfire last weekend?” There was no response. She walked back into the other room, each step squishing audibly as her socked feet took on all qualities of a sponge. Jack was lying on the couch, half-asleep with the bucket balanced on his chest as though he had attempted but not quite made it to the sink. The still-open window was drenching the rug. She thought about tipping the pail into his face but opted for her jacket instead. She needed space. She needed time away from this place and this life. She let the front door slam behind her.

The world outside had turned into a puddle. It was as though they were living in the first few days of Noah’s deluge and now the precipitation pace seemed to be picking up. Her jacket was thin and she felt every gust as though she were in nothing more than a tissue-paper robe. The night was overcast and chill, and the store was a fifteen minute walk away. She began to wish for her winter coat, or the umbrella still hanging on the kitchen hook – something, anything, to protect her.

Lightning illuminated the sky as the storm flexed its power over the small town. In that moment the whole street lit up and she saw, or perhaps she only thought she saw, a man standing at the corner. The otherwise deserted street was plunged back into the darkness that she had known only seconds before, but in that one moment with hardly enough time to breathe she knew that the man was waiting for her. Her body tried to turn and run, but her eyes had met his in the flash and her curiosity could not resist... she needed to talk to him. Deep thunder shook the earth, as though to agree.

With resolve she continued down the street. The lightening split the sky again and she looked intently at where the man stood. He was tall, with dark skin and a kind face, dressed in a tan coloured trench coat, collar up. He was holding a large, white umbrella and he had begun to walk toward her. They met part way to the corner a moment later.

“Where are you headed? It’s cold and you look like you could use a little shelter. I’m happy to walk you there, if you don’t mind the company.”

She smiled in appreciation and although she would normally turn down a stranger’s help, especially that of a man, she decided against pattern and thanked him. “No,” he said. “Thank you. The truth is I was hoping for a purpose in this walk. Now I have one.” They paced in silence for a minute, synchronizing their gate and then he picked up the conversation again. “My name is Ben. What’s yours?” He looked at her with a sure, encouraging kind of confidence. “River,” she answered. She looked at him expectantly; her name always caught strangers off guard and even now some of her closer friends were just getting used to it, but Ben was un-phased. “Glad to meet you, River. And happy to hold this umbrella as well, but something tells me I could do even more for you tonight. You look like you could use a listening ear. I love stories of all kinds and I’ve been told I give pretty sound advice. We’ve got a few blocks, if you feel like talking.” He smiled as he spoke. It was the kind of smile that you usually find on the face of a grandfatherly caregiver, a smile that calms and invites and promises the helping words that come with personal history and yet this face was also young and full of colour and life. Without permission her eyes filled with tears.

“It’s raining,” she laughed as the tears fell. “It’s raining and there is nothing I can do about it! It’s been raining for days and weeks without relief. My house is flooding, the water damage is irreversible and even my socks are wet! Everything is wet in my life. Nothing is dry or clean or simple or right anymore....”

Her voice broke into sobs and she stopped walking. Ben faced her and put his hand on her shoulder saying nothing for a few moments. “River, child.” He spoke softly with an accent reminiscent of African roots. “It sounds like more than your basement has been feeling the rain tonight. It sounds to me like maybe you’ve been battling a flood in your heart too. Am I right?” She nodded slowly. Ben took a step and they continued on their journey. “Let me tell you two familiar stories, River. The first is about two carpenters, both in the business of building great, large homes. The two men chose very different locations for their homes, one on the lakefront, right in the sand and one further up, on the bedrock of the mountain’s base. The man with the waterfront property, knowing about tides, built the house up high on stilts that were buried deep into the beach. The house was beautiful and its construction was good, but it had no support in its foundation. Now, the other man who was drilling and blasting and securing his house to the land took a long time laying out his plans. When he finally set his foundations they were strong and sealed and sure. Then the storm came, a storm much like this one, and it did it’s best to shred the houses. It beat against the glass and the ground. The rock was tough and held its house secure, but the sand gave way to the fury of wind and tide, and the supporting pillars collapsed. The house was completely destroyed.”

“I’ve heard this story before,” said River with a hopeless look and a heavy sigh. “I built on the Rock.” Ben smiled. “I know.”

They paused at a stoplight, waiting while for the walking man to signal a safe crossing. A few cars dove by, one splashing water up at them from the street in a wave - but the wave did not hit them. It was almost as though the water itself had second thoughts and made a decision against soaking the pair. River did not pay the moment or the direction much mind. She was waiting for the second story.

"Consider that the houses were not uninhabited... within the walls dwelt the architects themselves. With the beach house, the creator of it was destroyed, while the other survived with conviction, for a time. You see, even if the foundation is strong, it does not necessary secure the strength of the rest of the building, and it is the roof and the walls, not the foundation, that take the beatings of a storm." As they turned another left she found herself back on her own road, only a few doors from her own home. Ben stopped walking and faced her, his back to her house with windows lit and windows open.

"The owner of the house has a decision to make. With neglect the house will be destroyed by the wind. Only the foundation, deep and strong will outlast the weathering of a storm if all defences have been abandoned. If she does this, she will have to start from nothing - Jesus and nothing. It is not impossible, but it will be very hard, and she will have to work through great disappointment and bitterness. If, however, she recognizes the dangers that her house, her life and her mind are so aggressively faced with and she blocks them out, shuts the door to them and seals her windows, her home will prevail even in the fiercest of trials."

River looked over his shoulder at her house. Could it be salvaged? Could it be renewed? Was this an offer for her heart as well as her home?

Ben didn't answer her questions, not even with his eyes. He smiled, handed her the umbrella and turned away. She called a "Thank you" after him, but he did not reply with a standard. "Don't thank me," he said in a whisper that she was surprised to be able to hear, "I am only a messenger." And he was gone.

River shook the umbrella dry as she opened her front door again. Nothing accomplished, but much learned. She walked into the living room and closed the window. "There is hope," she said to her reflection in the rain-braten glass keeping the water away.

"There is still hope."

Gearing Up and Downwinding

Have you ever made a decision so quickly that you feel as though it must be rash or misguided, but when you sit back after you have decided you find that every muscle in your body is finally at peace and you just can't help but smile? At that moment you know that, despite temporary emotional shock to the contrary, the decision you have made is the right one. Nothing could be so perfect. Nothing could make more sense.

I have had two recent decisions affect me in this way. The first (though second made) was introduced on Wednesday evening. Three days of consideration has led to a fairly decided heart: I am going to change my academic path from teaching to counselling.

Until this year I did not really understand the value of counselling. I had not understood how much weight can be released by simply opening your heart to a patient, relatively quiet, wise and gentle person. I still believe that I have the smarts and the creativity and even the dedication to wake up every morning and teach a class of tots how to multiply two digit numbers, if I wanted to... but my heart isn't in that anymore. I want to love people through more than a classroom. I want to love the people who so desperately need love - to love people who so desperately need Jesus.

So I'm mulling over the idea of counselling. I like the idea of maybe working in a high school (or even elementary), and being a guidance counsellor who gives counsel on more than class arrangements. The woman I went to in school was nowhere near a confidant to me, and so much of the time it is simply openness and gentleness that kids need to have access to and don't. Sometimes the closest thing that a child will get to a loving parent is a caring teacher... but teachers can not take a half an hour out of every day to build relationships with each kid in their class, and they can not sit down and help them through tough decisions and secrets. That is where the guidance counsellors come in, if they are doing their job right; they become whatever that particular child needs them to be. Sometimes that is moving around classes - but sometimes it is so much simpler and more relational than that... a listening ear, a sympathetic voice, some wise advice, a safe place to just sit. I want to be that space, that person, that office for kids who need it. So, I am finishing my B.A. in English and then I am going (somewhere) to get a counselling diploma. As I figure out the details I will let you know.

The second decision was made, at least in part, about a month and a half ago. The same decision will not be formally made until June when he comes home to meet my family, at which point a whole lot more of this story will come out. But for now, this is a tip to all you would-be matchmakers in my life; God has done a better job with pairing my heart than I can even begin to understand (and He didn't need our help!). On that note, to all of you who are still feeling lonely at the top of your tower: don't give in to the temptation to let your hair down. Guys who have to pull on your hair to get into your life will just give you a head and heart ache. The right guy, a guy who's worth the wait and who knows you're worth the effort, will learn how to scale the wall even without your assistance. Some are so determined that they will camp at your locked window and knock on the glass until you finally break down and open it. Ladies, such a pursuit is well worth the waiting, and I can finally speak that with absolute confidence.

So, as my academic year is (finally) coming to a close the rest of my life seems to be bursting forward in revelation and reality. Two more weeks of placement and several weeks of summer prep (that I am SO excited for!) are on their way, then summer in full swing... but more on that another time.

For now, enjoy the sunshine and the leafing trees, the company of others and the hope that comes with tomorrow.

One Day Without Shoes

Click on this LINK, watch the video and begin to understand the genius behind this quickly approaching day. Here's the gist, in the infamous super-fast-I'm-in-the-middle-of-a-study-break-and-have-several-other-things-that-I-should-be-doing-with-my-time-other-than-blogging style.

You own shoes.
You are probably wearing some of them.
But you could take them off if you wanted to.
And then you could put them back on.
Some people do not have that option.
And by some I mean MILLIONS.
Barefoot by choice can be an incredibly freeing, wonderful experience.
Barefoot by poverty 
is a very different story.

A company called Toms Shoes is doing something AMAZING.
Brilliantly simple.
Liberatingly active.
Exposing, intriguing, daring, brave.

This Thursday there is an international awareness campaign.
The world will be fore to look DOWN at their feet
And recognize their IMMENSE wealth and blessing for what it is.

Sharable.

If you are fashion savvy, this is your thing.
If you have the standard two feet and ten toes, this is for you.
If you have more of less, you are still welcome.
If you know nothing about the manufacturing process that brings you the clothes you wear, if you are studying to be a biophysicist and have not interest outside of the mathematical realm, if you like people, if you appreciate oxygen - seriously.
EVERYONE should get involved in this somehow.

Every pair of Toms buys a pair of Toms for a kid
Who can't even afford the laces.
Your naked toes can save a sole.

Click and be inspired by the movement.

The Colour of Audio

It is likely that you have already heard this story, but unlikely in this form. I'm in process of trying to podcast some of my stories (in my magical spare time...) and though I don't have a fancy space for if just yet, you can now listen to The Lemon's Aide if you click that title. Who knows? You might be getting in on the ground floor of a multimillion dollar storytelling industry. You could be famous.

The Healing Touch

Jesus is a very affectionate person. He understands the healing power of a simple, caring touch, and he used it often throughout his ministry. Did He heal physical disease, deformation and disability? Yes. But I think He did much more than that when He made intentional, non-intrusive, personally loving contact with the people he met. Allow me to call upon one such example.

"As soon as they left the synagogue, they went with James and John to the home of Simon and Andrew. Simon's mother-in-law was in bed with a fever, and they told Jesus about her. So he went to her, took her hand and helped her up. The fever left her and she began to wait on them" (Mark 1:29-31).

This simple interaction between God in the flesh and the flesh of humanity has spoken volumes into my heart today. At face value this story is incredibly short and finite: after church Jesus and His core disciples are walking home, they meet up with Simon/Peter's sick mom-in-law, Jesus heals her and she serves them. But what the account says and what it is saying are two different things entirely. This is an amazing God moment. It is a snapshot of the entire gospel. Did you miss it?

In verses 21-28 of this same chapter we learn that Jesus had just spent the Sabbath morning declaring the Truth from God's word and being revealed as the Messiah/Christ by an evil demon that obediently shut up and left, an encounter which naturally caused a bit of gossip. Immediately after this story Jesus hits the road with his young gang of rabble-rousing disciples and they head over to Simon/Peter's house, for brunch, perhaps. When they arrive, however, they are not met with the customary, expected greeting from a traditionally hospitable Jewish woman. Instead of Simon/Peter's mom-in-law welcoming them into the home with food prepared and places set she is in bed, weakened, sick and rendered effectively helpless by a fever. Catch what happens next; the disciples explain her ailment to Jesus. Whether they were providing a reason to excuse her social offense or whether they were simply alerting Jesus to her situation, his attention is immediately focused on the woman in question. In response to her need, Jesus goes to her. He comes up beside her and takes her hand – unsolicited aide, but the crossed boundary is quickly appreciated. He helps her. Hand in hand Jesus takes this woman’s weight on himself and helps her to her feet. He takes the fever and gives her the support of his arm. He takes her pain and sickness and restores her body to health, simultaneously restoring her heart to a place of natural servitude – the willing sacrifice of a grateful heart.

Jesus pursues a person in need, makes the move to humbly help, offers his strength, takes her frailty and heals her, body and soul, freeing her to serve him back with natural and instinctive love. This is the man I love; this is the God I serve; this is the example I choose to follow.

A hundred times throughout my day I pass people who are living with physical, spiritual and emotional needs. Nearly every time I see one of those people I pass by with little more than a thought in their direction, whether I consider them a stranger or a friend. But what if? What if I choose to stop in the hall and pull them aside? What if I put my life on pause long enough to address the heart issues of others with prayer? What if I took a moment to share the burdening pain and grief that weighs and weakens both mind and body? What if I responded to need with action, even if the only healing I can offer is the simplicity of company and a caring touch, or a hug?

What if we all did?

I’m not necessarily suggesting that you organize a Free Hug campaign. I’m not necessarily promoting public displays of godly affection in every possible circumstance. I’m not necessarily forwarding the idea of a designated room where lovers of God would welcome anyone in want or need of prayerful intersession or encouragement or comforting. But I might be. I’m certainly putting myself to the challenge of Love. I’m certainly advocating that Christians allow Jesus way more room to work miracles through their lives. I’m certainly saying that this world needs a whole lot more of what we can offer.

Take a lesson from Jesus: you don’t have to go very far or do very much to change somebody’s life. Just respond to the need, and Love.

Episode 2: Splattered Dreams

Requested story elements: Angela Hoekstra-Steed; the Paper Bag Princess or Eeyore; a crazy Italian chef called Thomas; no two snowflakes are the same; there was an explosion in the spaghetti factory!

Splattered Dreams

The spaghetti factory in downtown Toulouse had three main levels. When Thomas bought the land for the business his neighbours jeered – the property that he swore would be his sustenance was only thirteen feet square, and so the man was labelled a “crazy” right from the get-go. The benefit of operating in such a small area was that Thomas’ taxes were very low – even for being downtown in such a popular city in France – but the disadvantages were painfully clear from the beginning of his project. And yet, with the blood of successful and very creative amateur businessmen of the past flowing through his veins, Thomas set to work laying brick upon brick until his dream structure had come to be a wonderfully unusual reality.

It was forty feet tall and a perfect thirteen foot square, right to the top. Because of the thickness of the walls (to adhere to the building codes), the interior of the building was only eleven feet and with the elevator taking up a quarter of that available space (as it was the only method of climbing the tower), there was very little room for a business. In spite of this situation Thomas remained a faithful optimist and he made the most of every inch of space he had, manoeuvring a sink and towel rack, a display case for his finished works, a cash register, a place for the cue line and a grand old wooden desk into the “lobby” of the bottom floor, still leaving space under the shoots to work on and package his goods. And now we come to the heart of Thomas’ factory: the shoots.

The shoots extended down from the very top floor and were made of a flexible metal, lined with thick fondant icing. The inner space was about the diameter of a Canadian loonie, and the colourful coiled wire around the outside of each tube indicated what kind of pastas would be coming down through it. The rose-pink shoot was strawberry flavoured pasta, the blue shoot was home to fish flavours (a blend of tuna and cod) and the bright yellow shoot was for the no-fat double-butter flavour, and so on. There were nine different shoots and three that were unidentified (for special requests and large orders). The top floor of the building was the laboratory where Thomas would spend many hours mixing and blending his secret pasta recipes and though no one could definitively say what was on the second floor most speculated that it was used for storage or that it was the bathroom or perhaps that the level was entirely empty. Even now there is some suspicion as to Thomas’ intentions for that mysterious second floor.

Three days before the shop was opened Thomas hired two employees. The first was a young girl named Aoibheann-Rani-Gimbiyan-Ameerah-Sarai Takarda-Jakar; to limit the time it took to address the girl they summarized her name and her job description to “the Paper Bag Princess” and called her Cessie for short. Cessie was responsible for running the till and packaging the products when Thomas was finished with them. The second employee was Eye-Ore (pronounced “Ee-yore”), an unusually stout Irish man who seemed to have glistening pieces of that legendary lucky loot hidden deep behind his pupils of blue. The contrast between Eye-Ore’s bright eyes and his boorish nature was a strong juxtaposition indeed, but Cessie and Thomas were very fond of him and together the trio was fabulously efficient and happy. Eye-Ore worked on the top floor managing the machinery that mix the pastas and making sure that the paste passed without problems through the shoots and down to Thomas and Cessie who resumed production at ground level.

Here our story must jump for a moment to Mrs. Angela Hoekstra-Steed, an avid Walt Disney fan who was in the middle of a European tour, visiting the cities that had characters named after them. She was exploring the Aristocats legacy in Rochefort, Belgium when she first caught wind of Thomas’ business. There was a poster in one of the cheese houses that read “Tu n’ai jamais vu de telle spaghetti dan ta vie!” Although she couldn’t read the French, she understood “spaghetti” well enough and based on the odd little statue in the photograph, Angela assumed that the company was some sort of dinner-and-art-show, which is more accurate than you realize. Toulouse was already on her list of places to stop and with her Belgian adventure wrapping up like a Babybel, Angela grabbed her Eurorail pass and headed south.

Before his adventures in the noodle industry Thomas had been a professional (and struggling) artist. Though his sculptures were indeed beautiful, not many in Toulouse were interested in sculptures of stone or ice. In a stroke of genius he decided to combine his two life-long passions: portrayals and pastas. It was this idea that sparked his entrepreneurial adventure into the world of linguine and penne.

At eleven minutes after eleven o’clock, exactly a week and four days after it’s opening, Angela joined the line of customers in front of Thomas’ store. As the cue moved slowly towards the door Angela began to smell all of the flavours that were pouring out from the shop. You could almost smell the colours of the pastas that were being made inside: green wafts of fresh spinach and deep purples of blackberry filled Angela’s hungry lungs. When she finally squeezed herself inside the tightly packed waiting area, however, she almost forgot her cravings out of sheer amazement. Behind the barrier of the large, mahogany desk stood a young girl with a very long name-tag. She was whirling around with first money then ribbon then long sheets of paper in her hands, quickly wrapping and cha-ching-ing the cash register. Over her shoulder Angela could see Thomas dancing around a tall pedestal-like table with two long shoots in his hand. One moment he was looking to a posted note and carefully taking in the details of an order then he was weaving and folding and shaping the flow of pasta and in the next second he was standing there with a blow-dryer, setting his masterpiece and then handing it over to Cessie who took a photo of it, wrapped and packaged and then sold it to the person who had done the requesting. It was like watching a beautiful clockwork machine whose revealed dials and tinplates and springs are just as fascinating and entrancing as the intricate carvings on its face.

“What can we make you today?” asked the girl with the impossibly long name. Angela had not been paying attention to the shrinking line in front of her. “Well,” she thought aloud, “what are my options?” Cessie smiled broadly – the same smile she offered to every customer – a smile that never seemed to tire in energy or generosity or genuine joy. “There is no limit to the answers I could give you to that question. Thomas’ creations are as different from each other as God’s snowflakes. Reach into your imagination – test your creativity. Really, the sky is the limit!” Angela closed her eyes to think, knowing that there was an unspoken time limit to how long she would be left to search out an idea. “Can… can I have a duckling?”

With a grin Cessie typed “baby ducky” into the register and printed out a receipt on carbon paper. One copy she slid to the end of the desk and the other she tacked up on the wall beside the elevator for Thomas. The slip above hers read “pirate ship” and to her ever-increasing astonishment she looked over to the workspace where Thomas was working on the finishing touches to a perfect model of the Black Pearl, complete with the Jolly Roger and a sour-patch Jack Sparrow. Angela was in awe.

As Cessie took the picture and then walked back to the desk with the edible replica, Thomas took a look at his new order. Looking up at Angela with a smile he reached up to the shoots and took one in each hand – the yellow butter and the orange caramel – and set to work. In a flash he was swooping and pinching, flicking and pulling and wrapping the soft pasta into the perfect shape of a duckling. Thomas guided the noodle in such a way that the little bird’s wings looked tuft with down; its bright orange bill and black dropie eyes creaded the cutest face she had ever seen – the perfect balance of an anthropomorphic smile and a soft, almost plush-like docility. Sooner that she could have believed he was drying it to set the pasta in place and Cessie was wrapping it in thin rice paper, trying it with a liquorice lace that matched the little ducky’s salty eyes. As Angela counted out the coins to pay for her “dinner” and Cessie took her receipt off the wall she noticed with alarm that the form under her “baby ducky” request had only one word written on it: dynamite.

A chill ran down Angela’s back as she handed her money to Cessie. The girl behind the counter was similarly affected and her eyes flicked uncertainly between the cash in her hand and the stranger waiting for his order to be filled. If Thomas had been an entirely sensible sort of man this order would not have concerned anyone (explosive-shaped pasta was a normal enough request, considering the rebellious nature of the French), but Thomas was not an entirely sensible sort of man. Thomas was the kind of person who built a forty foot tall tower with a thirteen foot base. Thomas was the kind of person who put a three-cornered hat on a sour-patch-kid for the sake of authenticity. Thomas was the living definition of eccentric, and Cessie knew it.

When the artistic chef had finished with the duckling and was ready for another challenge, he walked over to the elevator and took a look at the next request in line. Then he took another look. It did, in fact, read “dynamite” and after a moment of processing the paper Thomas calmly washed his hands in the sink, dried them on a towel, walked over to the elevator and pressed the up arrow firmly. Cessie had stopped counting change and Angela had stopped waiting for it back. Both of them – all of them – were staring at Thomas. The doors swooshed open and Thomas stepped inside. When those doors swooshed closed again he left the lobby behind and in a swoosh that startled poor Eye-Ore half to death he appeared in the laboratory holding a small red vial containing a few drops of mysterious red liquid.

“Eye-Ore, I need you to mix this into a special order batch. Be very careful not to touch it. Do you understand? Take the greatest caution. Send it down the third tube.”

The chatter in the lobby died down as soon as the elevator returned to the bottom floor and Thomas came out. He looked at the man in line and locked his gaze. “You want dynamite? I’ll give you dynamite.”

Thomas walked over to his table and took the third blank shoot in his left hand. With his right he grabbed a lazy-susan from under his desk and placed it on the pedestal table. With his teeth he picked up a pair of surgical gloves that had been hanging up on the wall, tossed them up into the air and in a move that is too incredible to describe in detail he slipped them on without even releasing the nozzle. With the tap of a toggle the shoot in Thomas’ hand started to squirt out bright red fizzing pasta. Cessie shot Angela a quick look and both of them glanced towards the young man in line. “I guess I should have asked for a basketball, oui?”

The lazy-susan on the table spun faster and faster as Thomas poured the pasta onto the platter like a potter working with clay. In a moment he had created a dozen cylindrical tubes that varied in size and length. The whole room smelled of sizzling cinnamon and the small lobby was packed with three layers of curious and slightly concerned customers. All were silent. All were waiting.

Thomas reached up above his head and pulled down the yellow and orange and green and purple and blue tubes so fast you could hardly keep up with the waving of his warms and the darting precision of his perfectly coordinated hands. He added lightning bolts and swirls, arrows and polka-dots and flowers so real you could smell them and indeed you could smell them – the whole building smelled of cod-flavoured blackberries, caramelized spinach, strawberries with butter and pickles and scrambled egg all swirled together in a sensory pandemonium overtop a thick cinnamon base that seemed to be growing brighter and brighter every second!

After three moments of chaos Thomas stepped back from his creations. With a shaky hand he took the cork out of a small red vial, identical to the one he had given Eye-Ore only moments earlier with the exception that this vile vial was full. A drop of the liquid fell from the cork to the floor and POPPED against the tile. This was no ordinary food colouring.

Thomas dipped the spaghetti fuses into the vial of liquid. He repeated this process thrice and on the third round he took his hairdryer and set them dry. His audience held their breaths in tense anticipation.

Angela noticed it first but there was not much she could do. Thomas had changed the design of his dynamite sticks and had managed to clock the alteration from almost everyone in the store. He had added cones to the end of each stick. Directional cones. Aerodynamic cones. Her heart nearly stopped. This was no ordinary pasta dynamite. These were rockets and they were already lit. Angela cried out!

“Aoib… Aoibheeee… Aoibheann-Rani-Gim… Girl behind the counter! This place is going to BLOW!”

Cessie gasped but there was no time to do anything else. Thomas, with a wild spark in his eye and a cackle in his throat emptied the remaining contents of his vial onto the pile of explosives and tore open a bag of Pop-Rocks. The customers who were close enough took cover under the large wooden desk and everyone else piled on top of them and plugged their ears, waiting for the bang.

BANG!

The whole building jumped. Eye-Ore, who had no idea what was happening below, was catapulted from his cushy office chair through the roof and into the next lot (which just happened to be a public swimming pool that was experimenting with Jell-o pudding as an alternative to the traditional water, so the impact didn’t kill him). Inside Thomas’ store was a different story. Cessie, Angela and about half of the waiting customers had their eyebrows singed off but not one of them even complained.

The explosion was the most beautiful sight any of them had ever tasted. By some kind of culinary miracle the spaghetti had cooked to perfection. It was inexplicable and wonderful; a truly sensational phenomenon.

Angela’s hair was filled with pasta but she couldn’t have been happier even if she had actually found Toulouse in Toulouse. It was the perfect finale to her European adventure, and perhaps the beginning of a career in travel writing. When her initial shock dissolved, a sort of wonderment overwhelmed her heart and her senses. She stood up, looked the now bald and beaming Thomas in the eye and began to clap. Soon the entire store broke into applause, giving Thomas a standing ovation and the celebration that began on that day has yet to temper in France. Thomas is a celebrated hero even in local circles as the crazy man with a crazy dream and the courage to take risks to make it happen. He was awarded the Golden Fusilli (the highest honour for Italian cuisine) after only one year in business, which is an unheard of success.

But what was in the vial, you ask? I’m afraid that has become a carefully guarded trade secret. Some say it is an edible nitro-glycerine kept in a vault on the second floor of Thomas’ renowned forty-foot shop, but not even Cessie and Eye-Ore are entirely convinced of that theory. Perhaps it will remain a true secret forever.