MOVE ASIDE, SANTA! (A THANKSGIVING MEDITATION)

                       THANKSGIVING MEDITATION:  MOVE ASIDE, SANTA!         by Frances K. Van Mil (520 words)

              I waited in breathless anticipation.  It was Christmas!  Besides the carefully-wrapped  gifts for each family member, I had exceeded my budget at the last minute to buy piles of stocking-stuffers for everyone.  The stockings had looked so bare, my family was so dear to me and had come from so far, and I just wanted to see smiles of contentment on each face.

How much fun I had had wrapping all the carefully-selected gifts and placing them in the stockings after everyone was asleep!  For my granddaughter, aged nine and highly creative and artistic, I had purchased something I knew she would love: a whole scrapbooking kit with books, specialty papers, alphabet  letters and themed stickers.  I could not wait to see her pleasure at receiving this gift.

Finally, it was Christmas morning.  What fun to see the children open their stockings.  The scrapbooking set was a success.  Joy and merriment abounded.

After all the presents were opened, and scrambled eggs, coffee and Aunt Judy’s Christmas stollen had been consumed, everyone picked up their new things and took them to their rooms.  The children brought out their new playthings.

My granddaughter, with a determined look and obvious enjoyment of her gift said, “I’m going to do my scrapbooking now!”  I waited for the usual “Thank you, Grandma!” and a kiss, but I did not receive any acknowledgement at all.  I felt disappointed.  Then I remembered that the stocking gifts were supposed to be from Santa Claus, not any family member.   I certainly hadn’t given the gifts with any thought of getting credit or thanks, but somehow I was let down, and missed having her know that it was MY love for her that was behind the gift.  As I entertained this thought, I seemed to hear the Lord’s voice within my spirit, saying,

              “How do you think I feel?”

His words seemed to come with great plaintiveness and vehemence, showing empathy with my feelings, while expressing His own.  I felt that Someone understood.  My thoughts turned to Him.

              I thought about how God must feel all the time to have created this beautiful world- the planets, the stars, the woods, waters, animals, flowers and birds; to have created each one of us uniquely; to have devised a plan to redeem us all to go to Heaven at the cost of the gruesome death on the cross of His divine Son Jesus.  I thought of His provision of family, food, water, shelter and jobs; His guidance of our lives into meaningful occupations and use of our talents;  His desire for intimacy, His lavish giving and His caring about the smallest detail and desire in our lives. 

              So often, God is not given even a cursory thought, much less the credit, obedience and relationship which He craves.  My small disappointment became overshadowed by His ongoing, much greater one.  How I longed for Him to be acknowledged, thanked and loved by the people He created to be His own.  Let us do this in our hearts today.

Every good and perfect gift is from above (James 1:17a, NIV)

 

 

                 

 

 

 

A SILENT SHOUT

     Every August  I hopefully place a chair by my bedroom window to watch for the Perseid meteor showers late at night.  On the peak nights this year, there was much cloud cover, yet I managed to see many faint streaks for a short while on the second night between 10 and 11 pm through an opening in the swirling black clouds - surely this was an answer to my silent prayer.
    
     I remember as a child sleeping out with my brother in our large back yard every August, capturing summer before school began. We lay in our flannel-lined sleeping bags on air mattresses under the open sky, seeing who could point out the best "shooting star".

"Oh, there goes one - see, over there!"

"Hey, look at that one!  She's a beaut! Quick, look!"

     We had no idea  that we were watching the annual Perseid meteor showers, but grew up thinking that this display occurred every night.
Huddled in my cozy bag against the night chill enveloping us like a huge tarpaulin, listening to the occasional cricket and the soft hums and clicks of nature's lullaby, I would gaze at Heaven's navy polka-dotted dress, enthralled with its majesty, before drifting off to sleep. We awakened to the enthusiastic face-drenching kisses of Penny, our Cocker Spaniel, released early in the morning by Mother.

The thrill of watching, so small, the vast, ordered canopy of the Heavens has remained all my life.  I cannot help but feel the greatness of God and the comfort and peace of His presence at such times.

I really shouldn't wait a whole year to succumb to the allure of the stars .

"The Heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament shows forth his handiwork"  Psalm 19

                          THROUGH THE FAITH OF A LITTLE CHILD

                      

            Our time at Cape Croker was rapidly coming to a close.  Rien began attending 

house meetings at Saugeen Reserve, to the south of us.  A group, often including Georgina, would carpool every Friday night.  I stayed home with our young children, but waited expectantly for reports of the meetings.

            The meetings were charismatic, Spirit-filled small-group gatherings where God moved and anything could happen: healings, deliverances, utterances in other tongues, prophecies, visions and more. Rien, partly because of his formal Dutch church background, and partly because of his down-to-earth personality, was not easily convinced that God was at work in these things. 

            One night, the host’s little four-year-old boy became excited and tried to get his Dad’s attention:

“I-I-I-I….”

“Sh-h-h, don’t interrupt.”

“i-I-I-i…”

‘Sh-h-h!

Finally,

“Okay, son, what did you want to tell Daddy?”

"I saw Jesus standing behind that chair!”

Shivers went up and down the back of Rien’s neck.  Adults might exaggerate or be suggestible, he felt, but a child as young as that could not be making it up.  From then on, Rien allowed the group to pray for him, and he began to acquire ministry gifts and anointings from the Holy Spirit which prepared him for the next chapter of our lives on another reserve out west.  When he came home, he told me that his feet had been rooted to the floor, and he had felt as if 10,000 volts of electricity were flowing through him. 

       

     I noticed a difference in Rien’s whole bearing.  He was bolder, more authoritative in praying for people.  When he prayed, the tears would flow.  The uninitiated jokingly called him a ‘cry-baby”, but I noticed that miracles of healing and deliverance happened whenever he interceded with tears.

            And God had done all this through a little child.

Thanks be to God for his indescribable gift! (2 Corinthians 9:15 NIV)n

                               

JUST A RIDE TO TOWN

 

                                                  JUST A RIDE TO TOWN

            One summer afternoon, there was a knock at our door.  Cecil, our middle-aged neighbour, was standing on the porch.  We were accustomed to surprise visits, as the native people were not formal in their ways.

            “Come on in, Cecil.  Would you like some coffee?”

            “Uh, no thanks.”

            “Nice weather, eh?”

            “Sure is.”

            We knew there was a purpose to the visit, but what was it?

            “Garden sure looks good,” Cecil was saying. “Good job, there.”

            “T’anks, ja, we be working hard,” Rien responded.

Not to be impatient, but would he ever get to the point?

            “Say, I was wondering, would you happen to be going to town today? And could I get a ride with you’s?”

So that was it! We should have known, as it happened quite often with different people.  They needed a ride to town, but not wanting to be rude they would visit for a while before asking.

            A simple ride to town –such an easy thing for us to give, but such a huge need for one with no vehicle.  Sometimes, our role here seemed to be to help in a thousand small ways:  to drive someone home from the hospital in Owen Sound, to take a single mother out for coffee, to drive a friend around to pay her bills.  We seemed to be regarded as providers, counsellors, helpers, and rich by many reserve residents.  At times, people took advantage, as people anywhere sometimes do, and I, for one, had to learn how to say the word “No.” (I’m thinking of a perfectly fit young man who called me for a ride from one place to another on the reserve at 4:30 every day, right when I was making dinner for my family.)  And there were many people who had jobs and money and were not in the least dependent on anyone.  For the others – a ride to town once in a while was not too much to ask. 

But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret.  Then your Father, Who sees what is done in secret, will reward you. Matthew 6:3,4(NIV)

           

           

           

           

RED SALAMANDERS AND SNAPPING TURTLES

                              RED SALAMANDERS AND SNAPPING TURTLES

The children had the wildest, most beautiful and educational playground in the world.  As a family, we explored its beauty often.  We went to the Cape Croker Park which was a money-making campground.  We enjoyed the swings, then walked or drove among the lovely, mature blossoming trees and the dense birch section which we dubbed the ”birch ballet”.  In the woods near our home, we picked up pretty brown and white snail shells and watched for the small, red salamanders which I have never seen anywhere else in Canada.  We walked and waded along the beaches, collecting “fossils”.  Once, on the shale rock in the shallow water behind our house, we actually watched fish hatching.

On Sunday afternoons, we usually went for a hike along the bluffs.  We parked our car near the Akiwenzies’ house, which backed onto the bluffs, telling them where we were going, and about when to expect us back.  This was because the bluffs, full of exotic beauty, were dangerous.  There were crevasses, often covered by fall leaves, into which you might fall and break a leg if not careful.  You might fall off the bluffs themselves, as there were no guardrails.  I think the untamed beauty was part of their fascination. We came to know our trails quite well.  Imprinted on my soul forever is the image of the huge, chalk-white bluffs covered with orange maple leaves, against the deep blue water below.  Small wonder our children grew up loving nature and hating cramped offices.          

            The children, whether with one or two friends or a whole group, played for hours in the woods.  They had their own special ‘monkey tree’, Tarzan tree’ and laboriously-constructed forts.  I can still hear the plaintive cry of Grace, two years younger:

 “Stephen!  Wait for me!”

 and the fear-inducing instructions from Stephen, in front,

“Watch out for the snapping turtles!”

In the winter, we skated along the wild and windy north shore of the Cape on ice ranging from bumpy to so clear we could make out rocks on the bottom, but watch out -there was open water nearby!  Skating at our favourite place on the north shore during the bleak February days, and seeing a summer toy frozen beneath the ice, inspired me to write the following poem:

                        Unreachable

Icy branches rattle their marimbas,

Snow-pyramids wink and sparkle in the distance.

I stand on the thick, bumpy ice.

Peering through frozen gingerale-green bubbles

I see a child’s blue plastic boat from summer –

A glimpse of yesterday,

Unreachable.

We have loved ones who have passed on.

Like the boat, they seem unreachable –

Caught in another dimension.

Isn’t it wonderful to know that

When the hard, frozen time of winter

Is overcome by soft spring rains

We will find them again?

                                        F.V.M.

…Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty,

the whole earth is full of his glory. (Isaiah 6:3NIV)                                                                                                                                                                          

SOMEONE ON THE OTHER END OF THE LINE

 

                            SOMEONE ON THE OTHER END OF THE LINE

            I was restless, seeking, searching for more of God.  Deciding to do a personal Bible study, I went to the Christian bookstore in Wiarton, operated by the leader of Women Aglow there.  She directed me to a booklet  “Alive in the Spirit” (I cannot remember the author’s name ), which I began to read. 

            One of the things I learned from the book was that prayer is a two-way conversation.  If I say something to God, He will respond.  As basic as this sounds, it was revolutionary to me at the time.  Up to then, with my solid evangelical training, I would read a chapter of Scripture, sensing what God was saying to me through that Scripture.  I would pray about my concerns, and wait in faith for God to take over in that situation.  But I had no experience of God ‘s actually having a conversation with me.

            Excited to try conversing with God, I woke up early the next morning and listened to hear what He would say.

            Here is what God had on His heart:

            “I wish My children would get along with each other.”

Whether applied to families, the church or the various races created by Him, He was almost plaintively appealing to His children to try to understand others different from themselves.  Like a mother, He loves and understands each one, and wants that one accepted and appreciated.  He grieves over the fighting and misunderstanding which go on when we think everyone should be the same as we are. A doer might have disdain for a dreamer, yet both are created by God for His purposes. 

            I was honoured that God shared His heart with me. 

            He speaks, and the sound of His voice is so sweet, the birds hush their singing…(In the Garden, by C. Austin Miles)

            Since then, I have come to know His voice, and to treasure the intimate words of encouragement and love which He speaks to me alone.  No one else can set me free, with a healing word, from self-condemning thoughts about things done long ago.  No one else calls me “Curly”, the pet name my late husband Rien used to call me, with the same husbandly level of intimacy. 

            Having heard His loving voice, I cannot live without it.

For unto us a child is born, to us a son is given,

and the government shall be on his shoulders.

And he will be called

Wonderful Counselor,

Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. (Isaiah 9:6 NIV)

 

 

A DAUGHTER COMES HOME

 

                                        A DAUGHTER COMES HOME

            Lizz waltzed into my life as an answer to prayer.  I had prayed for a native friend – someone to have coffee with and develop a relationship with.  Soon after that prayer, there was a knock at the back door.

            “Would it be all right for me to do some laundry here?  Gram said I could.”

A native woman with long, straight black hair, looking to be in her late twenties, stood at the door with several giant bags of laundry. 

            “Sure, come on in!” 

I was getting used to the fact that although we were renting, with MCC paying the rent, Verna was still the matriarch of the house and yard.  The washer and dryer were our own.  However, it would be good to help meet a practical need.

            “I’m Lizz, Verna’s granddaughter.  The machine is broken over at Stella’s, and I have three weeks’ worth of laundry.”

            When the machines were both filled, Lizz came up to have coffee.  With a start, I remembered my prayer for a native friend with whom to have coffee.

            “I see you have some magazines in the basement–they’re interesting.”

Magazines? Oh, that series of booklets from an evangelist.  Could Lizz be seeking God?

            After that, Lizz came over often and a friendship developed.  Sensing her spiritual search, we introduced her to Ron, our volunteer co-ordinator, the next time he came.  He was also a pastor, very warm and experienced in ministry. We were all praying for Lizz and sharing the Gospel with her.

            At the next United Church Women’s Bible Study, held this week at Gail’s home, Georgina excitedly blurted out:

            “We have a brand-new baby born-again Christian with us today!”

Who?  Could it possibly be……?

            “Lizz!”

            “Tell us about it, Lizz,” we all begged.

            “Well, “ Lizz ventured shyly, “Our people are taught to go to our elders when we have problems or need advice.  So I went to see Georgina, and received the Lord Jesus Christ into my heart yesterday!”

            How beautiful!  God had sent Lizz to the one elder who had a bold, evangelistic Christian faith:  Georgina, who had had everyone sing the Doxology at her and Jonah’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, with no fear of anyone, although Christians were in the minority.

             A daughter had come home! And we had played a small part.  Now it would be our joyful job to help her grow in her new-found faith.

…there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.(Luke 15, 10 NIV)

…Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved…(Acts 16:31 NIV)   

 

TANGLED ROOTS

 

                                                    TANGLED ROOTS

            It was Gwen’s idea to get together with Ron, our visiting volunteer co-ordinator, while we had him here, to pray for the people whom we had come to serve.  The five of us- coworkers  Ken and Gwen, Ron, Rien and I met in our living room, after putting the children to bed, to do just that.  We poured out our hearts to the One Who had made us all, the One Who had called us here for His purposes.

            When we pray, sometimes God shows us things.  I remember that I saw a picture of something which at the time I did not understand, but which is profound, and applicable to us all: a ball of tangled roots. 

            Yes, in the natural realm, the tangling of roots, hidden under the ground, can stunt the growth of a plant.  And don’t we all have tangled emotional roots - many issues from the past:  hurts in childhood, addictions, mindsets and behaviours passed down through our family, our own mistakes?  Even things done by our ancestors can affect us today without our being aware of them.  Children of two families on the reserve, for example, were innocent victims of a feud concerning issues long past and an alleged murder a generation earlier.  How wonderful to know that the Lord has deep concern for these wounds, and the knowledge and power to heal.

The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me, because the Lord has anointed me to preach good news to the poor.

He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners,…

…to comfort all who mourn…

…to bestow on them a crown of beauty  instead of ashes,

the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.

...They will  rebuild the ancient ruins

and restore the places long devastated…  (Isaiah 61: 1-4 NIV)

 

GOD'S LITTLE JOKE

 

                                                  GOD’S LITTLE JOKE

A small group of women were standing in a circle at Gail’s house, about to close the meeting of the Cape  Croker United Church Women’s Bible Study with prayer.  Lizz’s toddler Beverlee roamed around the living room, waiting for Mommy to take her home for lunch.  Someone asked a question about how God speaks to us: does He thunder out His will, invade our thoughts, speak quietly within, or what?  The discussion delayed our closing, as people gave their opinions, experiences and Scriptures.  The question hung in the air.

            Just then, a booming voice coming from right behind us made us all jump.  Beverlee had inadvertently leaned against the power button on the big stereo, which was at full volume.

            And you say the Lord has no sense of humour?  Sometimes we are too serious for our own good.

A happy heart is good medicine, and a cheerful mind works healing…(Proverbs 17:22, Amplified)

…for the joy of the Lord is your strength. (Nehemiah 8:10 NIV)

 

 

                                                        MY DADDY

            The visiting minister at the Cape Croker United Church was attempting to demonstrate faith.  Calling our five-year-old son Stephen up to the front, he set him up on a platform, and told him to jump down.

            “I’ll catch you, don’t worry,” he said, holding out his arms.  Stephen hesitated, then found the courage to jump, probably because his own Daddy had caught him many times.  The minister duly caught him, and all was well.

            “We have to trust God in every situation in life,” the minister was saying.

“He is strong and able to ‘catch’ us.  He is our loving Daddy.”

Just then, three-year- old Grace, our daughter, piped up clearly enough for everyone to hear:

 ”My Daddy has big muscles!”

Smiles and warm laughter spread through the little church.  Well-known and liked in the community by now, both for his help in the garden training project and for his up-beat personality, Daddy Rien certainly did have the well-developed muscles of a man who had done physical work all his life.

Would that we all had such child-like trust in our Daddy!

Trust in the Lord with all your heart…(Proverbs 3:5 NIV)

…I will never leave you nor forsake you. (Joshua 1:5)       

 

MY DADDY

                                      INDIAN SUITCASE

 

(a fictionalized account, in order to make a point, and introduce the lingo)

 

“Whatcha got dere?” asked Rien, gesturing towards Bobby’s lunch. 

“Oh, just some ol’ Indian steak, that’s all,” replied Bobby.

“What in the wurrld is Indian steak?” asked Rien.

“Oh, hee hee, just some ol’ fried baloney, that’s all,” said Bobby. “Only this is cold.” All three trainees chuckled.  “That’s what we call it- closest us ol’ Indians get to real steak, hah!”

“And by the way,” put in Philip, “Why do Indians have high cheekbones?”

“Don’t have no idea.  Why?”

“From sitting like this,” Philip rested his elbows on the table, with his hands on his cheeks, ”Waiting for the cheque.” A chorus of guffaws and chuckles followed this.

“You guys don’t t’ink much of yourselves, do you?” asked Rien.” Well, you won’t be sittin’ around waiting for no cheque when we get done here!  And I’ve eaten a heck of a lot of “Indian steak” myself.”

 

Tears came to Rien’s eyes. Dear Lord, help me to show dem dey can do anyt’ing they set their minds to.  Show dem what a beautiful people dey are, and how much You love dem.

 

“So, are we going fishing tomorrow?” asked Philip.

“Ja. Let’s do daht,” said Rien.

“Well, don’t forget to bring your Indian suitcase, then.”

“And what is daht, may I ask?”

“An ol’ green garbage bag.” Another chorus of titters all around.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                              For you created my innermost being; 

you knit me together in my mother’s womb.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;

your works are wonderful,…(Psalm 139: 13, 14 NIV)

A CHILD HAUNTS MY HEART

 

                                            A CHILD HAUNTS MY HEART

            The sweet three-year-old boy reached up silently through his tears for a comforting hug.  Something within me knew that he was crying because of his home situation – a situation I knew nothing about, nor had the authority to remedy.  All I could do was to convey through touch that I cared.  Would that be enough to carry him through whatever grief he was carrying?  Would the memory of my empathy and motherly hug help him to heal and trust as he grew up? 

            The little boy’s older brother was adopted by a loving Christian couple on the reserve.  My heart was screaming, “Why can’t you adopt his brother, my darling little Playschool child, too?”  People can do only so much.

            I never saw the little boy again.  Over the years, I have never stopped praying for him.  When I shared the story with someone, she reminded me, in her practical way, that the child for whom I was grieving and praying did not exist any more, since it was now thirty years later.  No, but what kind of person did he become?  What kind of life did he lead?  I pray for healing in his life, for loving, Godly, positive parent figures to help him become the adult he was meant to be, for protection from harm, from addictions, from bitterness, from a criminal lifestyle, as these can result from hurts in early childhood.  I pray he will find his best friend Jesus, who loves little children, and is close to the brokenhearted.  I pray he will find happiness.

            I still picture that little three-year-old boy when I pray, perhaps because he represents all the brokenhearted children on the planet, whether they lack food and shelter, or are abused, or simply lack love.  Many, many children haunt my heart. Sometimes we can be Jesus’ hands and feet to help them, sometimes His heart.

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted…(Psalm 34:18 NIV)

Let the little children come to me…(Matthew 19:14)

 

                               GOD SPEAKS THROUGH THE INDIAN CORN

            Many years after our time on the reserves was finished, I was placing a sheaf of Indian corn on our wall for a fall decoration.  How I loved the rich harvest colours:  deep yellow, orange and wine red!  As I arranged the stalks, I had an overpowering feeling that God was trying to say something through the symbol of the Indian corn.  What I felt Him saying was that the rich, unique colours of the corn, altogether different from ordinary corn, signified the uniqueness of the native people themselves and the richness and creativity of their culture.  The longstanding growing of the Indian corn represented their ancient relationship with the land.  As I and others love the special qualities of the Indian corn, so He, God, has a great love for the special native peoples He has created.

It is best to come humbly when trying to teach agriculture to a people who have  such an age-old connection with the earth.

O praise the Lord, all you nations!  Praise Him, all you people!  For His mercy and lovingkindness are great toward us, and the truth and faithfulness of the Lord endure forever. Praise the Lord! (Psalm 117, Amplified)

 

 

A CRY -A MISADVENTURE - AN ANSWER

 

                            A CRY - A MISADVENTURE – AN ANSWER

Oh, the excitement!  It was time for the annual school trip.  Rather than the usual educational trip by one class to a museum or farm, the annual school trip was more like a community event.  All year long, families saved up and planned for the day-long trip to Canada’s Wonderland, near Toronto.  Children whose parents could not go were assigned to another parent, usually the parent of a friend, so that they would have companionship.  Once there, the families were on their own, needing only to return to the bus by a certain time.  To disadvantaged children, as some were, it was educational to leave the reserve and travel to the Toronto area, to see new sights.  And it was fun!

Rien and I were unable to go with Stephen one particular year.  Judy, the public school principal, had put Stephen with one of his best friends, in the care of his father.  In the back of my mind, anxious thoughts were nagging.  The father was immature and used drugs.  I did not want my son in his care, yet, as a guest on the reserve, I was reluctant to complain.  At least I could pray.

One evening, our family attended a community potluck.  Standing in the food line, I was talking with Betty, a warm, middle-aged grandma who walked with a distinct limp.  She looked after her grandson Johnny, a somewhat slow boy a little older than Stephen.

“Can’t find Johnny anywhere,” Betty was saying. ‘I wonder where that boy could have got to.”

I could not help thinking about the dangerous Georgian Bay waters.  And all the other dangers any adult worries about when a child is missing: was Johnny hurt in the bush somewhere?  Had some stranger kidnapped him?

Knowing Betty had no car and could only get about slowly, I offered to drive her around to look for Johnny.  Quickly telling Rien where I was going, I grabbed my car keys and drove off with Betty.

“Where did you see him last?” I asked.  “Where did he play today?”

“Down by the beach, I think.”  Betty, growing more and more agitated, ran her arthritic hands through her hair.  “But he always comes home for dinner,” she moaned.

            We drove along the road by the water, and, fairly quickly, found Johnny asleep in a boathouse.  What a relief!

            “I’m just going to get him changed for the potluck, then we’ll be there,” Betty said, her face a wreath of smiles. “Oh, and I’ll take your boy with us on the school trip to Wonderland,” she said, eager to repay me.

“Oh, thank you, Betty,” I said.  “And thank You Lord,” I said silently

            Stephen would still have fun with Johnny and be safe with Betty.  I could have peace of mind about the school trip.  God had answered my prayer.

 

Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you (1Peter 5:7)

           

 

 

 

 

 

                                                            FITTING IN

            “Don’t underestimate the value of just being on the reserve as a traditional family with a father, a mother and children.”

These words from our volunteer co-ordinator came back to me as I saw little girls patting our wedding picture; as many little girls and boys related to Rien as a Grandpa figure, or Dad, finding in him a safe male role model, one possibly missing from their own lives.  Perhaps my nurturing and handing out of after-school snacks played a part as well as the wholesomeness of our two children.

            Normally, we would have attended an MCC gardening orientation in Manitoba.  MCC sponsored summer gardening projects all over the north. Because we arrived in April, the gardening season, however, we could not take time to attend an orientation.  Our training consisted of books and papers arriving by mail:  Defeathering the Indian by Emma Larocque, a bitter Metis woman, bitter with good reason; the repentances of Father Rene Fumeleau, who had been giving his northern native parishioners only such menial responsibilities as laundering the church linens; the sharing of experiences of other VSrs in newsletters; personal visits from staff; learning from our co-workers Ken and Gwen, who had been on the Cape for two years already; learning by our own experience; and later, workshops with MCC’s Native Concerns Director, the one-and -only Menno Wiebe.

            I felt a bit awkward at first to be known as a Christian volunteer – what if I did not live up to it?  We were there, not only for the garden project, but also to break down walls, be peacemakers, be a Christian witness and relate to the people in our own way.  There was much discussion in MCC about “word and deed”: whether to witness verbally about our faith in Jesus Christ, or to witness by our actions.  Considering the damage done in the past by white people, often in the name of Christ, especially in the residential schools, as well as the ongoing prejudice, it seemed wise to simply show love.

            We were warmly welcomed.  We were temporary guests on the reserve, respected because of our involvement in the economic development project, and because we led constructive lives.  We soon became part of the community –as much as non-natives can.  Rien really fit in with his dark hair and eyes and tanned skin, as well as his personality: sometimes people would forget that he was not native, and ask him what reserve he was from.  He always replied, “I’m from the Dutch reserve.”

            We could only be ourselves.

We soon adapted to the new culture, attending fundraisers, potlucks, wakes and weddings, making friends and learning unspoken native protocol.  

            …let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in Heaven. (Matthew 5:15 NIV)

                    

 

           

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WHEN THE BIG CHIEF OUTDID HIMSELF

                                    WHEN THE BIG CHIEF OUTDID HIMSELF                                

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      I’m not the boss, you’re not the boss, the plants are the boss. (the late Rien Van Mil)

           

The plan was to develop an economic development project which would provide income and employment on the reserve, and, with training and simple technology, be sustainable after all the VSers(Voluntary Service Workers) had left.  A cow-calf project had already been established, supervised by experienced Mennonite farmers from St. Jacob’s.  For two successive summers there had been a community garden with two VS couples, one young and one older, to supervise it in turn.  Although the gardens were popular, and the couples so well-liked by the community that their good will paved the way for acceptance of the current two couples, the Schlichtings and us, Ken Schlichting, in charge of the project, said that the garden must become economically viable or it would have to be scratched.  Rien’s job as a professional market gardener would be to establish a successful commercial market garden and training program.

Funding for five years was in place. There was a budget for wages, equipment and the three greenhouses Rien had approval to put up.  Finally, the right trainees were selected:  Philip Jones, Chris Solomon and Bobby Nadjiwon.

 

“I’m not the boss, you’re not the boss, the plants are the boss.”  Rien was humming and singing as he walked up and down the aisles demonstrating how to use the watering system in the greenhouse. The eager trainees had already learned the basics of planting and transplanting, and were now learning how to water the thousands of trays of seedlings which filled three huge greenhouses.

                    

“Do ya think anybody’s gonna buy these veg’tables off us, once we’re done?  I mean, who’s gonna buy them from us ol’ Indians anyway?  They think we’re just a bunch of drunks.” This came from Bobby, with nods of agreement from Philip and Chris.

                     “Oh, ja, dey will, don’t worry.  I’ll help you find the markets when we’re ready.  Don’t forget one t’ing: it’s all in the hands of the Big Chief.”

                    

                     Over the summer, the young men became competent, confident in their new skills.  They planted, weeded and expertly handled the lettuce, cabbage, tomato, onion and cauliflower plants, as well as the begonias, dahlias, marigolds and portulacas. They learned how to operate the combination oil-and wood-heated greenhouses; also how to cut cabbage and cauliflower in the seventeen acres of sandy loam soil in the garden. Plans were to supply local flower and vegetable markets, thereby providing fresh, local produce without the shipping costs from Toronto. The future goal was to raise 10,000 lettuces, 20,000 cabbages, 500 cucumber plants, onions and year-round tomatoes. Three more greenhouses would have to be put up.

                     Rien was in his element: doing the gardening he loved and teaching three young native men, as he had taught his own three older sons, how to do it.  The love he had for aboriginals had always been there from the time he fell in love with a two-year-old Inuit child cared for by his late first wife at the Hamilton Sanitarium, a tuberculosis hospital. There was just a connection.  And there was a special personality bond with these three hardworking trainees:  outgoing Philip, a fisherman –now the designated sales person; personable Chris, husband and father; and shy professional fishing guide Bobby, famous for his “Vanishing Lake” story in which he played a trick on critical American tourists by placing fish in a flooded farmer’s field, “guiding” them to them, then watching them try to find the “lake” the next year.  Rien and the three trainees were often seen driving together to get supplies, investigate a problem or check out markets.

                     Before long, the band was starting to sell their produce to local stores.  They supplied Vince’s Food Market in Owen Sound.  Now A and P Stores was making inquiries.  The band was getting a good name for delivering top-quality produce on time.  The whole community began to hold their heads up high.

                     The cauliflower this year were huge, creamy, flawless and almost twice the usual size.

                     “Ja, the Big Chief really outdid Himself, this time,” said Rien.

                     “Could I buy one of these cauliflower, Rien?” asked our coworker Gwen.  Rien, standing beside a large truck filled with vegetables to go to the stores said,

                     “No, ja, these are already counted,” and offered her one of the “seconds” left in the field. The Cape Croker Market Garden was not just a small-time operation, but was doing real business now.

 

                                 For “The Rest of the Story” – folks, I just cannot steal the climax of the book, so you will have to wait to read the book to find out what happened with the huge, creamy cauliflower!

                    

                   Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine ,according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory…(Ephesians 3: 20, 21 NIV)