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)                              

WHEN THE BIG CHIEF OUTDID HIMSELF

LORD, WHAT WILL I DO?

 

                                                  LORD, WHAT WILL I DO?

Rien left for the garden every morning at eight o’clock.  His work of training three young men to grow vegetables for profit, thus bringing agricultural economic development to the reserve, was the main reason we were there.  Yet I, too, had committed to being a voluntary service worker with the Mennonite Central Committee on the reserve.   We would both try to make friends and live out our faith in a positive way in the community, and I was involved now in the Cape Croker United Church Sunday School.  Yet, as I sipped coffee one morning after Rien had left, I wondered whether I would be doing anything more.

“Ri-i-i-n-n-n-g!”  My co-worker Gwen was on the phone, telling me about a meeting of the community ladies about starting a nursery school for the three-and-four-year-olds.  There had been one before, called “Playschool”, or “Babies Playing” in Ojibway.  Kindergarten tables and chairs had been donated by a United Church, but for some reason the Playschool had stopped, and the ladies wanted to start it again.

I cared very much about giving preschool children a good preparation for school, and I thought it would be doubly important here.  So I enthusiastically attended the meeting.  I had no idea that they wanted me to be the teacher!  My teaching credentials had again opened doors for me. 

I was excited.  What could be more important than teaching preschool children songs and stories to increase their vocabulary and concepts; to teach them number and language readiness, science and art; to get them used to being in a group and following routines; to help them with creative play, fine and large motor skills; to just plain love them and have fun?

But what amazed me was the way in which God had prepared me for this work. Unable to find a teaching job at first, after graduation, I had worked both in a daycare, then in a nursery school for underprivileged children run by the Family Services Agency where I was shifted around among three city locations, thereby learning three times as many songs, ideas and approaches as I would have learned in just one.  This work with early childhood professionals helped my kindergarten work greatly when I did get a teaching job.  But now I was totally ready to become the Playschool teacher and fulfill my passion for helping the reserve children get a head start.  God had prepared me for His purposes on this reserve long before I ever knew that we would be coming here. 

Again: All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.(Psalm 139:16 NIV)

DON'T GO WITH THAT PALE-FACED LADY -SHE EATS CHILDREN

 

                 DON’T GO WITH THAT PALE-FACED LADY –SHE EATS CHILDREN

Winkie the Bear peeked out of my bulging tote-bag of teaching materials.  I had a cute flannelgraph presentation ready for teaching the three-to-five-year-olds a lesson about creation.  Earlier in the week, the pastor of the Cape Croker United Church had telephoned me and asked me to teach that age group during the service.  The class would be held next door, in the manse basement.  We had attended the church only once, and had been on the reserve for only a week and a half.  Long before we had arrived, however, the “moccasin express”(word of mouth taken-oh so quickly- to reserve residents via walking to each other’s homes, to stores and meeting-places) had gone ahead of us to spread the news about the new “Mennonites”: that Rien was a market gardener and I an elementary school teacher.

I could see a family in one of the back pews: the father silent and unsmiling; the mother settling her three children, shushing, warning, handing out snacks and crayons; the youngest girl, about three or four, pressed tightly against her mother, looking around shyly with dark eyes from her safe and comforting shelter.  I could hear the bustle of families settling into their seats, smell cheap floral perfumes and the polished wood of the fine old pews. I saw neatly combed hair, clean jeans and shirts, little girls’ pink plastic purses.   I sensed reverence.

“Dis?”

“Thank you!”

One-and-a-half-year-old Curtis was trotting back and forth handing out hymn books, taking them back and trotting off to someone else, as toddlers like to do.

Pastor Cliff began the service:

“I’ve asked Mrs. Van Mil to teach the three-to-five-year-olds during the service.  Sunday school will be held next door at the manse, in the basement.  Frances, you may take the children now.”

I stood up, beckoning the children and smiling encouragingly.  Children usually trust me and are never afraid of me.  Yet on this occasion the children simply stared, clung more closely to their mothers, and, if prodded, began to cry, balking, refusing to move.  After all, I was an adult from a different race whom they had never seen before.  And I would be taking them away, not only from their parents, but to another building to do who knew what to them?  Finally, the parents told the older brothers and sisters to take the little ones to their class. A long line of children, each preschooler surrounded by several older siblings, began to wend its way to the manse.  Once there, the older children, after settling in their little brothers and sisters, settled themselves as well, permanently, it seemed.

Shuffle!  Scrape!  Move the tiny kindergarten chairs around to accommodate all the children.  Thank heavens for a few adult chairs.  Solemn eyes staring at me: some three-year-old eyes, some six-, eight- twelve-, fourteen-year old eyes and everything in between.  Toss Winkie the Bear.  Introduce myself and ask the children’s names.  Take out my guitar and teach the children some action songs.

 Laugh like circus clowns:

“Ho-Ho-Ho-Hosannah!

  Ha-Ha-Hallelujah!

  He-He-He-He saved me,

 Now I’ve got the joy of the Lord!”

Hmmm-mmm! Musical group. That was fun! Now, divide the children into two groups.  This side, stand up and sing “Hallelu-, Hallelu-, Hallelu-, Hallelujah!”

Now, sit down, while the other side stands up quickly to sing ”Praise ye the Lord!” Up and down, up and down, merry confusion when the word order reverses; laughter, fun. The ice is broken.  Now to an impromptu lesson:

“Who made everything?  Who made the stars and the trees, the oceans, giraffes, flowers?”  The Bible starts in Genesis with God as Creator.  It seems a logical place for me to begin.  The children discuss their favourite things in nature.  I take out crayons, and have the children draw pictures and help the little ones write their names.  It is the best I can do for the older children with no notice.

Someone comes to tell us that the adult church service is finished.  The children run off with their families.  I plan a full flannelboard presentation of creation at the primary-junior level and a fun nature plaque for next week. 

 Now, what just happened? I wonder.  Apparently, the older children find Sunday School, under the guise of helping their little brothers and sisters, more fun than adult church.  So now I have ALL of the Cape Croker United Church children in my Sunday School class.  I can only say, “Thank You, Lord!  They are Yours. Help me to be faithful.”

Years ago, when I left a stable job to attend Teachers’ College at age twenty-seven, I felt that the Lord was going to use this training for His service. Of course, teaching in elementary schools is service also, but on the reserve, I really felt that I was fulfilling a missionary calling. I believe that He had already planned that I should teach the whole Sunday School, and brought it about as only He could.

All the  days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.(Psalm 139:16 NIV)