Sunday’s Journey

Sunday’s Journey

Sometimes, the extraordinary comes wrapped in silence and hoarfrost. 

Fog the night before—and often it is foggy before spledour bursts—and more fog in the morning, but there was light to see, so I venture out. And the fog blesses every branch and blade with thickly delicate frost. Laden heavy with weightlessness, boughs linger gleeful for morning sun. But this moment is for me, for me to share with waiting creation. I run in the silence, the hush of this moment, and am gentled into glory. No camera, no way of documenting it, I must instead labour, to associate, to think deeper; and I must remember.

Round the lake in whispers, my breathing the only wind, my strides the only motor, I join the silent song, and let my mind grow quiet; content to praise and pant and know I am alive.

The old graveyard rests peaceful just off the path. And today I can live spontaneously, because today is a gift, so I travel up, and run along the fence, my feet leaving prints in the whitened grass. I look for his resting place, where we laid his body sixteen years ago. I’ve never visited Papa’s grave in all that time. But today is the day to live, and remember, and live deeper for the recollection. 

I find his stone by his parents’ graves. The wheat heads and wild roses etched deep and simple into granite, the plain script and humble angle—these tell his story. He worked the land his whole life, saw the shift of industry, watched the world change around him, and still he plowed and harvested. Tilling came as a curse to Adam, yet it has turned to blessing, because there Papa found his identity, and his God. And he lost nothing for bowing his head in humility, and braving death’s scythe. He gained, and we his children reap the harvest he cultivated.  

I kneel and brush a granite chip off the slab. And even our firmest edifices fade and erode, and the only things that last forever are the things we can’t see or handle. A seed in husk nestles in the etched letters. I brush it out and let it fall to the ground. And if it dies to itself, it will bear much fruit—it will not be utterly alone. How strange the paradox of grace.

I lift my hand from the stone. The moist, warm imprint echoes like a shadow: dark, yet fading. And our warmth is a shadow, a brief touch, a fragile breath. And it tells us there is better air we have not breathed, vistas we have not reached, a whole world we have not known . . . a world we were made for.

Fog recedes as sun rises. Mists lift like organza plumes. The very earth seems to exhale its first fresh breath, sighing chiffon vapours to the heavens. And I breathe, heart slowed, soul stilled. I breathe to heaven in this place, and remember that I am a breath, and Heaven gives me life, and I labour with joy to breathe its air, as the fog lifts, and the thin veil shivers and fades. 

  

This is hope, wrapped in hoarfrost.

Song of the Wind

Dear Pilgrim,

After weeks of donning light shells and thin finger gloves, winter finally settles into the neighbourhood. Everyone expected him weeks, even months ago, with the gale force tenacity he bellowed last year. But no, winter waited. Christmas passed brown and windy, the breathy exhale always accompanying the sunshine. We embraced the sun, and cringed to face the wind. The constant droning and moaning, piercing exposed sinuses, taunting the out-of-breath explorer, dismaying man and beast as it propels flames across the landscape—it grates our minds and aggravates our souls.

But if we want sunshine, we must accept the wind. The healing balm that coaxes us outdoors, with upturned faces, viewing the golden world, comes with the wind. The draining, changing, threatening wind—unpredictable, flighty, menacing—this keeps company with sunshine.

But what is the wind, really? Just blowing and blowing air, invisible, harmful only because of what it stirs up, or knocks over, or carries around. But just the wind . . . it’s just a breath. It tells us we are here, seasons change, nature’s garments flutter and flounce. It teaches us to hammer down what is important, and let the little things fly. It informs us of change or danger, blowing dust off our cars, cramming dirt into our windowsills. It gives and takes, always exchanging what it holds, never grasping it long, always taking it somewhere else.

The wind, it tells me that I too am vapour, practically invisible, a constant droning till I die away, moving things about through work, rearranging, then my body will lie quiet. The important stuff needs securing, the trivial needs shooing . . . and strangely enough, it’s the vital things of life that are invisible: relationships, looking rightly at the world, knowing why we are here, who we belong to, and where we are going. If we can’t nail these things, we haven’t much substance to carry, and will feel empty passing through the tunnel of time.

Because one day there won’t be wind, we won’t be scurrying. We will know what is truly valuable. And we’ll either love it, or shrink away from it forever.

God, help us now to love Your reality, Your unchanging nature, Your faithful hand, wherever You lead us. Because You are good, and want good for us, help us trust Your heart, and not chase after the empty wind.

Final Dance

She lets go her yellow sash, he throws red ascot to the heavens, she steps out of golden ballgown, leaving it in heaps on the ground. Underneath, stark, bleaching, boring brown emerges.

Why do they de-robe, when everyone else clamours for layers? How can they stand there, exposed and chilly, tossed about by fierce icy-breathed winds? Pine and Spruce snuggle into their green jackets, and standing near them, the Pilgrim feels safe, protected, and warm. Pine breaks the winds bellows; Spruce bids the whistler hush, and all breathe relief in their shadow.

But the others: what of Lombard and Ash and Manitoba Maple and Poplar? What of the bushes and ornamental trees? They look so lonely, so abandoned, the first raid of Winter leaving them poor and helpless. How will they survive the coming struggle?

The hermit forest, even now they gather into themselves, away from us, away from each other, into lone silence. I hear her groan as she recedes into her core, bidding me and all the beautiful days of summer farewell. Mute, except for moaning and scratching when the wind blows, they stand braced for fury.

Spruce and Pine cheer us all year round, consistent, quiet, calming. They seem comfortable, and comforted, and make us feel at ease.

But these deciduous ones, their fate upbraids our sense of dignity. Shockingly bare, helpless in the face of forces beyond their strength, the only way they can live is to nearly die.

Spruce and Pine grow constant; always there, we soon forget to look and appreciate their progress.

But these hermits, we cheer for them. We dance in their shed dresses, and glory in their diverse wardrobes. We breathe deep and happy when light green buds appear, because warmth comes to stay then. We picnic and walk under clapping emeralds in summer’s days. And we crunch and race through golds and ambers in autumn’s rhythmic celebration. We mourn their death, and revel in their resurrection.

We wouldn’t love life of Spring so much if we did not have the near-death of Winter. For whatever reason, we watch and glory and marvel more after pain and silence and isolation. So the autumn flurries do not dizzy us, the winter gales cannot dishearten us, the brooding muted months cannot hamper us, only deepen our delight.

We must dig deep for life now too. And we would forget to . . . if not for the trees.

Bombardier Tales Volume II

Bombardier Tales Volume II

I step and slip my way down the laneway. If I can get past the slick packed snow of the yard, I can make my way on the open road.

A motor revs in the distance, siblings on the ski-doo. I told them to go without me, that I would clog up the fun by weighing down the machine, that I’d go for a walk by myself instead. The toboggan passengers aren’t fifteen and five anymore; muscled young people replace rubber-limbed children. The ski-doo pulls up alongside me, my brother driving invites me to jump on behind him. I hesitate. I’m afraid: of not being fun anymore, of diminishing their fun, of making them feel obligated to ask me. But they all affirm that I am welcome, so I climb on, ashamed of my own silliness, and glad in a girly way to be wanted.

The machine groans as we embark, the smooth packed snow compensating our combined weight by making toboggan glide effortlessly. Our passengers grit and sway and balance with arm outstretched, attempting to stay on the sled. Someone’s rear end slips off, deadweight against the motor’s pull. Swerving the other direction arights the load, and we head to the open fields.

Agility, not speed, is the new game we siblings play. Swirls and curves and meandering lines scratch the field as we progress into the unknown. The riders grunt and crunch core muscles. Littlest brother loses his footing, and boots bigger than mine flail and flap beside, then behind the toboggan, as he falls off and rolls in the snow.

We turn a big curve and pick him up, him waving his finger in playful warning. Now he takes the front, and sister locks herself behind him. Off we go again, driver and I laughing at the antics of the riders. I let out a great whoop, throwing my legs into the air, and driver bellows in surprise. He did not know that I was holding the strap and thought I too was falling off. Poor fellow.

Round and over and through we go, skidoo exhaust filling our lungs, soaking our clothes, permeating our skin. Light fades and we head towards the house, just in time to see oldest sister, now a Mummy of two, daintily treading down the drive, about to walk on the road. This is our cue. Younger sister and I hop off our respective vehicles, find our land legs, and join sister, as planned. New freedom and zest empower the men, who head off for a wild last ride before dark. Down into the dugout, capsizing the sled, twisting and turning and speeding along, the last gust of boy-man energy echoes like a final hurrah through the fields. The sound follows us as we walk and talk into the setting sun.

How much has changed these past few years! How different, and how the same, we became, home is, fields are. Ever-changing, ever-constant, our lives ebb on and on, twisting, turning, scratching the fields, marking the years. And the journey marks us, changes us, makes us different. And in our combined, separated stories, we hear the echo of a grand and glorious story, one told by our Maker, shaping us into His glory, telling His legend to us and through us.

Glory haunts our silliness and simplicity, and makes sense of our meandering trails, and that is the happy ending of bombardier tales.

Bombardier Tales, Volume I

I’m waiting for siblings to dress in overalls, boots, and scarves so we can hit the fields with bombardier and toboggan. But he’s waiting for me. I step out, fill the interim with some movement, and he greets me, “What took you so long?” He’s been waiting a while. And I thought he was taking those short spins just for his own pleasure, but really, he was waiting for me.

“I don’t want to drive,” I say as I approach. He’s perched on the back. What girl wants to drive when there is a man with you? So he takes the driver’s seat. I grab the strap with one hand and his waist with the other.

We go: him, the retired Mountie, a man grappling with aging, a man so alive, with ever-increasing constraints and limitations on his life. And me, the girl-woman, coming home for Christmas to a place crammed with memory. Each activity thrusts another ream of “remember when” across my mind’s eye. Old pains, joys, fears, and hopes surface in the simple pleasures of a Christ-tide holiday.

So we travel on, south. The open fields crusted by Chinook winds, the stubble-preserved snow, the mild calm before the storm. “Should we go all the way to those mountains?” he asks, the revving motor matching his rising excitement. No matter that the Sweetgrass Hills are in Montana: soul and mind have space, and can dream fabulous, hilarious ventures.

We swerve and turn and drive over the wind-carved jumps, laughing and whooping our way through the fields. Back into the yard, he asks, “Enough?” and I answer, “Sure.” But he’s not ready to quit. He needs to taste it again, that freedom of wind in your face, cold air freezing your skin, thumb vibrating with throttle’s heartbeat. “How ‘bout over that way?” So we head West, pinking sky ahead.

We swerve and meander to the standing rock, our own “Ebenezer,” where we stop to look. “I’ve never been out to this rock,” he says, and we’ve had it standing more than seven years. So I show him the cultivator indentations on the upper face, where shovels bounced and scraped and jabbed year after year. Flying geese, a flock of jagged “Vs,” travel across Ebenezer’s face, weathering it with their rusty wrinkles. But he stands unashamed, unmoved. The rock towers over our heads, though we can reach the top and brush off the hawk and osprey lime left on his crown. We talk about how Dad drug Ebenezer to this high spot in the field, pulling him with borrowed cable and our strongest tractor, from down in the dip to up on this ridge. People we’ve never met drive by and can see the rock, and we, sitting round our kitchen table, can see it through French door, beyond barn and shed and granaries, there at the swell in the field.

I restart the machine, and we head back, exploring, cheering, laughing, riding the bumpy ridge in the shelterbelt.

We come into the yard the front way, and siblings pour out of the house, ready for their own adventure. He isn’t ready to stop, to concede, to quit. I tell him to go, so he straddles long limb behind the younger man, and they take off, pulling a toboggan of fun-loving adventurers.

We remember, and live truly. We recall the past, and thrive instead of exist in the present. We re-visit, and explore history for the first time, and come away ready to live. Looking back, we see glimpses and glimmers of what makes us fully alive. And our hearts yearn with happy sorrow to be more than we have been, do more than we have done, love better what we have cherished little, and aspire for our true destiny.

He returns a hero, laughing and triumphant. And that’s just how he should come home.