BOTTLED WISDOM   by Frances K. Van Mil

Spring had arrived.  At Cape Croker Reserve that meant, among other things, eager foraging in ditches for wild leeks and…beer bottles.  Beer bottles, plentiful and redeemable for cash, were the mainstay of the economy in some households.

This spring, Cape Croker was to be the host of the AA Roundup—the annual regional conference of Alcoholics Anonymous.

            I have great respect for AA.  From friends involved in it, I have absorbed much Biblical teaching expressed in practical terms.  Such slogans as “One Day at a Time”, “First Things First”, and “Let Go and Let God”, as well as the well-known Serenity Prayer have been useful in my own life—God’s big guns for those tearing-out-my-hair crises.

Although the local AA group consisted of only a few members—none too anonymous on such a small reserve—the Roundup was a community event and community pride was at stake.  True native hospitality must be shown.  The best cooks on the reserve had been asked to help with the fundraising banquet which was open to all.  Verna, our seventy-five- year-old landlady, took the responsibility so seriously that she brought both her microwave and her freezer to the Community Hall for the grand occasion.

           

My husband and I planned to attend the banquet.  As voluntary workers with the Mennonite Central Committee we had a dual role.  The first was to help with the economic development project—a cow-calf and commercial garden training venture which would provide employment, increase self-esteem and bring resources to the reserve.  The second was to live with our two young children on the reserve, being a Christian witness and forming relationships with the people in our own way.

Even at fifteen dollars a ticket, the banquet was a sellout.  Father McGee was there, anticipating a sumptuous feast instead of his usual bachelor fare of liver and onions or a boiled egg, all in the name of an upright cause.  Irene came prepared to cover the event for her weekly column in the Wiarton Echo.  The Chief and Council had been invited.  When the elders had been served, we all sat down to enjoy a feast:  corn soup, bannock, wild rice, turkey and venison.

After the meal, we settled back to listen to speeches on the theme of attaining and maintaining sobriety.

“My name is Tom.  I am an alcoholic.”

 The solemnity was shattered as two children ran through the open door to the left of the platform, shouting excitedly.  Suddenly I realized that they were my children, and that they were pulling a wagon loaded with empty beer bottles.  A ripple of laughter spread through the room. 

“Look, Mom, a whole wagon full.”  We’ll be rich!” shouted Stephen.

My face was as red as the cranberry punch.

“Don’t worry, dear”, said the lady beside me, patting my arm reassuringly.  “It never hurts us to “Remember When.”

                         MIRAGE IN THE LUMBER-YARD?

           We had no money.  Our family of four were living in an old, faded shell of a house, originally built for emergency wartime housing, but now used for storage by the Brokenhead First Nations, owners of the Wa WaTaik lumber-yard in Scanterbury, Manitoba, about an hour north of Winnipeg.  The Chief had offered it to us as the only housing available for our term as volunteers with Mennonite Central Committee for an agricultural economic development project.  Now the project was over, and we were still there, with little income.
     It tickled my funny bone to live in a lumber-yard, locked in every night.  A sense of humour usually helps in missionary projects.  And we had had many a glowing night at the weekly Bible study held at our home - oops!  Don't forget to unlock the gate! - with our dear friends from the Scanterbury House of Prayer Gospel Church which we attended on the reserve.  No one cared about the décor or the peeling paint.  Nor was it an embarrassment to our children at that point, as most of the reserve children lived in humble surroundings.
     I did not realize just how much it was all getting to me: the outdated orange shag rug, the hideous lamps, the weathered brown sofa, the hopelessness, the tedium, the lack of money.
     My husband Rien and I had begun ministering at a street mission on Main Street north, the roughest area in Winnipeg. We buttered buns, made soup, prepared sandwiches, washed dishes, led music, preached and loved the people.  We became friends with Mrs. Whyte, the "Mother Theresa of Main Street", who ran the mission.  She was a tireless worker and generous giver with a heart full of love for the needy.  One day, she asked us to drive with her to help her daughter, who was moving.
     And that is when God showered us with blessings, and gave me a personal gift to lift my spirits and show me His intimate love for me.
     Mrs. Whyte's daughter was, apparently, a clone of her mother.  She gave us a television set, some household items, and - oh, was it really before my eyes, or  just a mirage? - a pretty table with four matching chairs.
     Oh, my excitement!  The hexagonal glass and wood table with its four chairs was not expensive. It might not have attracted notice in a lavish furniture store.  But to me it represented God's very personal caring.  He  knew my lifelong interest in décor and love of pretty things.  He knew the contrast between our present circumstances and my girlhood dreams of a home with pretty furniture.  More than anything, it was a gift of hope, a sign of God's ability to do the impossible.  It was His personal love-gift to me in His perfect timing.
     The table attracted people immediately.  Polished and given a centerpiece of a frilly pink African violet, it first drew the ladies at the Bible study, then the children playing board games.  When my Dutch in-laws came to visit, they sat at an elegant dining table in the front room by the window, rather than at our tiny kitchen table which would seat only four.
     Rien never really liked the table, because it wobbled and sometimes spilled his coffee.  HE would never have made a table which wobbled.
     But the gift wasn't really for him.

Psalm 23: The Lord is my Shepherd.
                       I shall not want.
  

Which Husband Just Called My Name?

“Curly.”

I heard it quietly, yet distinctly.  Only one person on the planet called me by that name, and he had passed away several months before. 

The pet name had begun as a translation of a Dutch term of endearment meaning “Girly”, but had evolved into “Curly”,  and sometimes “ Mine Curly-cop”   (My Curly-head), accompanied by a ruffling of my hair by my sweet and very Dutch husband.

He might say, “Curly, what do you t’ink about dis colour shirt?”

Or “How about we go out for a coffee, Curly?”

Or simply a loving “Curly, mine Curly.”

Just the fact that it was his private name for me, shared by no other, made me feel cherished.  It was intimate, a special secret between the two of us.

Yet now he was gone.

Who, then, had just called me by that name?

It could only be Jesus.

 His calling me “Curly” reminded me that I still have a husband: One Who says to me  “I know you,

            I cherish you,

                        you belong to Me alone

NOT till death do us part… but forever.”

Isaiah 54:5 NIV: For your Maker is your husband…

Hebrews 13:5 NIV: Never will I leave you

Never will I forsake you.