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)