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.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
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.
“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.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Elusive Treasure
Elusive Treasure 13 July 2010
Space, time to enjoy, this notion of savouring life, haunts and taunts the mind; its mysterious nature bids us subside our activity, while it simultaneously whisks the prize out of our reach, making us rouse and chase it once again.
Flitting, floating, darting in graceful swoops, it flutters in and out of our periphery. Pursuing, calculating, manoeuvring, we try to outwit, anticipate, and capture the treasure. Gasping and desperate, we tumble headlong, tripping over our weary feet. Sprawled and pretzled, our winded gaze skyward, the refocusing eye catches glimpses of moving colour. The quested object lands on our nose, smiling down at us.
Or perhaps we do not stumble. Perhaps precision and endurance gain us advantage, and we capture the fluttering trophy. But what do we do now? It tickles our clasped palms, then stops moving. Have we suffocated it? Cracking cupped hands open, light rays reveal the reward, placid and peaceful. No signs of exerted breathing, no damage incurred from the chase. Palms unlocked, sun shining, the world stops for a moment, and we try to understand what we have attained. Then the prize walks decidedly to the end of a finger, and flies comfortably away. And we are none the wiser.
The elusive dream delights and crushes. In all the activity and projects and deadlines and needs, my heart is haunted with the prize. I suppose it’s like someone running a race, who can’t just stop once they cross the finish line. They must stagger and sway and lose rhythm and flay arms while the heart slows and adrenaline tapers. Desires actually accomplished leave me feeling, what next, what now?
And in the silence of the moment, the horrible indeterminate pause where we inhale, exhale, and wait, the prize comes, but in a form we never expected.
And so it was today. I lit candles, I dabbled on the piano. I ran errands. I did research. I boggled my mind and overwhelmed my heart with all the new to-do lists and all the possibilities of an unborn tomorrow. I tried to calm, tried to trust, tried to preach truth to myself. I tried not to do what I can’t help myself from doing: worry. Circumstances seem too simple to warrant worry, but too unknown to navigate without it. I want to be busier, but yet, can’t find the time for the things I really might like to do.
And in the music, and the moment, it comes. It washes over me, engulfing me in a moment. Rest.
“And He said to them, ’Come aside by yourselves to a deserted place and rest a while.’“ Mark 6:31
The place is deserted and quiet. I have been brought aside. My heart must now come aside. I cannot come, or rest, or stay a while; I can do nothing without Him.
And maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s the treasure after all. Maybe it’s not even in holding the prize of rest. Maybe it’s knowing that He is holding me.
Space, time to enjoy, this notion of savouring life, haunts and taunts the mind; its mysterious nature bids us subside our activity, while it simultaneously whisks the prize out of our reach, making us rouse and chase it once again.
Flitting, floating, darting in graceful swoops, it flutters in and out of our periphery. Pursuing, calculating, manoeuvring, we try to outwit, anticipate, and capture the treasure. Gasping and desperate, we tumble headlong, tripping over our weary feet. Sprawled and pretzled, our winded gaze skyward, the refocusing eye catches glimpses of moving colour. The quested object lands on our nose, smiling down at us.
Or perhaps we do not stumble. Perhaps precision and endurance gain us advantage, and we capture the fluttering trophy. But what do we do now? It tickles our clasped palms, then stops moving. Have we suffocated it? Cracking cupped hands open, light rays reveal the reward, placid and peaceful. No signs of exerted breathing, no damage incurred from the chase. Palms unlocked, sun shining, the world stops for a moment, and we try to understand what we have attained. Then the prize walks decidedly to the end of a finger, and flies comfortably away. And we are none the wiser.
The elusive dream delights and crushes. In all the activity and projects and deadlines and needs, my heart is haunted with the prize. I suppose it’s like someone running a race, who can’t just stop once they cross the finish line. They must stagger and sway and lose rhythm and flay arms while the heart slows and adrenaline tapers. Desires actually accomplished leave me feeling, what next, what now?
And in the silence of the moment, the horrible indeterminate pause where we inhale, exhale, and wait, the prize comes, but in a form we never expected.
And so it was today. I lit candles, I dabbled on the piano. I ran errands. I did research. I boggled my mind and overwhelmed my heart with all the new to-do lists and all the possibilities of an unborn tomorrow. I tried to calm, tried to trust, tried to preach truth to myself. I tried not to do what I can’t help myself from doing: worry. Circumstances seem too simple to warrant worry, but too unknown to navigate without it. I want to be busier, but yet, can’t find the time for the things I really might like to do.
And in the music, and the moment, it comes. It washes over me, engulfing me in a moment. Rest.
“And He said to them, ’Come aside by yourselves to a deserted place and rest a while.’“ Mark 6:31
The place is deserted and quiet. I have been brought aside. My heart must now come aside. I cannot come, or rest, or stay a while; I can do nothing without Him.
And maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s the treasure after all. Maybe it’s not even in holding the prize of rest. Maybe it’s knowing that He is holding me.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Worship, A Sunday Reflection
4 May, 2009
Gravel scuffles and scurries and scuddles under my feet.
Why is it when you want the world to be quiet that it reverberates and magnifies its noise? Crunch of loose rocks, tubular draughts of air from the pursed lips of wind’s face, and muted bird songs paint the background of the evening.
My flustered heart doesn’t know how to pray; doesn’t know what I want; doesn’t know what to expect. Half the walk expires in bursts of insipid supplication.
Then I turn.
Into the face of the gusting giant, all other noise sinks in the drowning power of wind’s voice. Demanding, constant, impossible to ignore—all the way home he talks. And I fall silent.
Home again: caragangas divide the power of the wind and split the blaze of evening sun. I and the world can be quiet together, and hear the songs of worship.
Red-winged blackbirds practice their marshy songs, while visiting neighbours tune their instruments; and together they hash and jam their evening away. And it is worship.
Tall young man confidently strides in musing pleasure, searching for treasures, capturing worth, exploring beauty through his camera lens. He sings as he walks; a deep, smooth, young song to his God. And it is worship.
Gravel’s noise exchanged for grass’s rustle; exercise exchanged for meditative strolling; bustle exchanged for calm caresses of the golden night. Goal and discipline of the road exchanged for budding tenderness of the yard. And it is worship.
Coming from the west, another traveller approaches the home quarter. Beautiful, slim mother nears from her walk of prayer and unwinding. And it is worship.
Topaz lighting fades gloriously into sapphire; afternoon’s heat gives way to evening’s chill. Beauty’s painful peak glides into sunset’s soothing embrace. And it is worship.
My heart is quiet.
And it is worship.
Gravel scuffles and scurries and scuddles under my feet.
Why is it when you want the world to be quiet that it reverberates and magnifies its noise? Crunch of loose rocks, tubular draughts of air from the pursed lips of wind’s face, and muted bird songs paint the background of the evening.
My flustered heart doesn’t know how to pray; doesn’t know what I want; doesn’t know what to expect. Half the walk expires in bursts of insipid supplication.
Then I turn.
Into the face of the gusting giant, all other noise sinks in the drowning power of wind’s voice. Demanding, constant, impossible to ignore—all the way home he talks. And I fall silent.
Home again: caragangas divide the power of the wind and split the blaze of evening sun. I and the world can be quiet together, and hear the songs of worship.
Red-winged blackbirds practice their marshy songs, while visiting neighbours tune their instruments; and together they hash and jam their evening away. And it is worship.
Tall young man confidently strides in musing pleasure, searching for treasures, capturing worth, exploring beauty through his camera lens. He sings as he walks; a deep, smooth, young song to his God. And it is worship.
Gravel’s noise exchanged for grass’s rustle; exercise exchanged for meditative strolling; bustle exchanged for calm caresses of the golden night. Goal and discipline of the road exchanged for budding tenderness of the yard. And it is worship.
Coming from the west, another traveller approaches the home quarter. Beautiful, slim mother nears from her walk of prayer and unwinding. And it is worship.
Topaz lighting fades gloriously into sapphire; afternoon’s heat gives way to evening’s chill. Beauty’s painful peak glides into sunset’s soothing embrace. And it is worship.
My heart is quiet.
And it is worship.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Life
There are things you will only be able to learn by the weakest among us.
And when you snuff them out, you are the one that loses.
It is the mercy of God that sustains you, even when you hate Him.
My whole intent in living here is to make God smile.
Gianna Jessen, abortion survivor
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