A Happy Childhood

This morning, on the way into town, I had to drive through a construction zone on the highway. They were resurfacing a portion of it I guess.

But as I slowed down and waved at the flag lady, or girl, the smell just captured me. My attention was drawn immediately to the smell. It was the smell of asphalt or tar we used to call it. Oil was certainly a big part of that smell.

When that smell hit me, a picture flashed through my mind of grandpa Thiessen. I know he used to work as a flagman on the highways, and I would sometimes go out with him on the work projects and you could smell that smell all day long.

The tar, the oil, the asphalt, and somehow in my mind it's been connected with him all these years.

But this morning was a real, powerful reminder. The image that came to me was of him. I remember smelling that in their yard as well because the Austin town streets were being recovered.

So even at their house, there's an echoing memory of tar and oil.

It's funny how that thought and that smell can be a comfort. How that terrible, nasty, gross smell can be the good thing, a blessing.

But as I thought about that, it led me to remember summers at their house. In southern Manitoba, in a small town, in a small house, on a nice green yard with lots of room to play and to laugh and to have fun. When we would go there for summers the times were special.

Sometimes we would bring a trailer and park it in their backyard and us kids would sleep in the trailer for night .

But summers in southern Manitoba are different.

The heat will get you.

The humidity is even worse.

It can be 30°+ Celsius, but when you add the humidity to it, it can become overbearing. Especially more as I aged.

But back then, when I was a kid, we just handled it. We sweat. A lot.

After hot and humid days of trying to find ways to stay cool while being very busy outside, there would come a bit of a gentle breeze.

The heat was always so overpowering and heavy and as evening would come, so would the thunderstorms. Thunder and lightning storms in Southern Manitoba are unlike other places I've ever lived.

They were stunning and dramatic, earthshakingly powerful.

The noise and the flashing lights was an amazing thing for a kid who wasn't necessarily afraid of them. But we still took wise precautions.

But after a hot humid day, the rains would pour and pour, and the lightning would flash, and thunder would roll again and again late into the night. You would go back to bed after that storm cleared and somehow fall back asleep, and soon another one would roll through.

Then, early in the morning the sun would rise and the birds would start singing. They were especially noticeable when I slept outside in the trailer.

When you left the trailer to go into the house to wash up, things felt so different. It’s those mornings I remember the most.

I remember that the air was sweet and cool.

The birds would sing happy as could be. And the whole day seemed blessed.

There was a sweet smell to the air. It was full of hope and potential. Another new day, what would happen that day?

We had made it through another storm. Everybody still alive, nothing damaged, and nobody hurt.

But I remember the breeze. The breeze would be cool because some of the moisture in the air. The humidity would be there, with none of the heaviness.


Yeah I remember the air being sweet, if that's a word I can use to describe it.

It was it was a thick, good wind because it brought moisture to the nose, to your skin, and that's always good. .


The memories continued to unfold as I remember Grandma.

In her house dress. Cooking or washing up, keeping the house going, talking and encouraging and checking on us or being out in her garden.

She was always out there early in the year, one of the first ones out on her block to be in the garden.

I remember that she seemed to love doing that, being outside, with her vegetables and her flowers, her onions, potatoes.

Yeah, she loved that.

She was a kind woman, but stern, firm, maybe firm is better.

She gave you a lot of room to be a kid.

She didn't have a great deal of high expectations.

Just behave reasonably and that was good enough.

She fed us well with fresh homemade bread. And boiled potatoes with gravy.

I remember Inside of the house was always so hot in summer. It was a small house so when three or four or eight people were in it, the temperatures would rise. So they would try to blow air through. Fans would be running all the time.

The fans and the open doors and the open windows would help that sweet air to blow into the house and help so much. I sometimes wonder how all those people made it without air conditioning in those days. How they could manage it, but they did.


Later in the morning, I would head outside to where my grandpa had a little wood shop, a workshop, built and attached to the back of the garage.

And you could go in the side door there, and they had a big counter with woodworking tools of all kinds. A lathe and saws and drills, and drill presses, and all kinds of wonderful tools to play with, and I would work and create for hours.

I would make little salt and pepper shakers on the wood lathe that I had learned how to make in school.

I would make airplanes, wooden airplanes, and grandpa would help me with that.

I remember he helped me with my first one. We made a an airplane with just two by four body and a wing that was made of, I don't know, a quarter inch plywood. Not a very big deal, maybe a foot by a foot, but a fun wonderful toy that you had built yourself, and then you would go play with it, and you would paint it, and you could put it on a weather vane if you wanted. But it was yours. You created it.

It was wonderful.

But that's how woodworking used to be. And that's how play used to be in those days. It was creative. It was fun.

I remember once, my cousin and I who lived out there, we took a 22 rifle and we laid it on a 2x 6 plank. Just three or four feet long, and we traced its outline on the wood, and then we cut it with a saw, and we cut out the shape of this gun, and we began to work it, to soften the edges, to sand it, to rasp it, to grind it into a pretty good looking toy gun that we could play with.

Those were fun happy moments. Terribly enjoyable memories for me today.

Yeah, playing, just playing.

I miss the days of playing.

I miss the wonders of the mornings and the sweet smell of the air in the mornings.

I miss the comfort and the peace and the safety in their place.

I'm glad for the memories. They are blessings to me and I want to create them for my grandkids too.

So we shall see.

Friends

There are some people in life who you can go without seeing for a year or two and you can meet up and connect and laugh and share life with and it feels like you haven't been apart that long. Funny how that works.

Two weeks ago now, (Where did that time go??) Toni and Chris came by for a few days visit. It was a lovely good time and we were able to share a bit of life together. They are friends, about our age and some shared interests, who we can be ourselves with pretty easily. I like that.

Life hasn't been particularly easy for them and their family, but they are showing me how to do it with honesty and some amount of grace. There are things that they have to teach me.

And then off they go, home to the other side of the world. And I'll have to wait till next visit.

Maybe we'll go see them a bit before their next visit here.

Speaking of Treasure

Hillary was making fudge the other day and I was commenting on it on Instagram. I love a good fudge and I think my Grandma Thiessen made the best chocolate fudge at Christmas time. She'd wrap it up in single little wax paper candies and oh they were the best.

Whenever a good fudge is eaten I think of her.
So yesterday in the mail there was a solid wrapped small box in the mail. Hillary had sent me some of the fudge. Last night was a fudge tasting night.

And since herself is a diabetic, it all went to me. :)

That was a nice treat on the week before Christmas.

It was the wedding of the year

I've been saving up my holiday time all year so that we could participate in two of the most important events in our family life. The first was the birth of our third grandchild, little Rebekah. We took time to go and meet her and to celebrate with her family in August. That was very sweet.

The second event was the wedding our our son, Thomas to Terri Lynn Paulson.

So we booked off a week to go and help them run errands, set up, clean up, provide meals, and just invest in them and their day. It was an exhausting, wonderful week. :)

And what a wedding.  People ask how it was and my reply has been that is was a wonderful day, because it was a wedding that was who they are as a couple. It wasn't a wedding based on who the parents are or what Pinterest is saying. It wasn't a day based on societies expectations of weddings or how much money you could burn up for it. It was based on who these two are. People of community, people of the table, people of simple intentional lives, people of Jesus.

An outdoor wedding in the treed church alcove, surrounded by tall trees and the wide open blue skies above. A time for refreshments and visiting and games right there after the service. Then into the church hall for the dinner and a few speeches and live music from many of their friends.

They grew the vegetables for the meal, and their chef friend prepared the gourmet meal. They chose instead of a wedding cake, a fruit and chocolate crumble sort of thing that they served themselves. They had no bridal parties but many friends. They had no flower girls but had significant people in their lives bring forward real sunflowers they had been given, during the service. She came down the aisle to him reading a love poem he had written just for her. Her wedding dress was borrowed from a friend and she was beautiful in it.

Yeah it was an amazing day.

Terri Lynn is a delight and her family were great to meet and to work with. They are good Saskatchewan farm people. :)  And I met her grandparents who are Amateur Radio people themselves, so win, I got to talk ham radio at the wedding!


I officiate at weddings for my work, and often they are about somebody else's personality, wants, and desires. I always work to pull it back to the couple and what they want, but depending on the couple and the extended family, that sometimes doesn't work.

I see thousands of dollars put into those days, and huge expectations and thin relationships stretched to the breaking point. Just to have a wedding like others have.

That's why this was so fresh and real and alive and good.

I've seen that in both our children's weddings and that pleases me more than I realized it would. That their wedding days were consistent with who they are, or were at the time. That makes me happy.

Thomas and Terri Lynn with Lauralea's parents and my mom

Turning 53

Well, turning 53 hasn't been too bad so far!
I get to celebrate it with the granddaughters this year and thats gift enough. :)

a comfort

It's nearly 6 am.
I've been up since about 2 am.
Something I ate I fear. Or maybe something I heard.
I don't know.

So I'm doing some easy work here, online.
Listening to all night radio preachers on AM radio.
Some really good speakers out there.
Encouraging, hopeful.

They are here in the middle of the night, when people like me can't sleep.
And it is a comfort.

Nice.

Upon a Winter's Night on the Prairies

Upon a Winter's Night on the Prairies

I awake. 

Suddenly I'm trying to recognize the blackness of my room. Where am I? 

I smell
zest soap and old polished wood and a musty couch.
Ah, I am safe in my grandmothers livingroom.
I feel her comforter tucked up beneath my chin
and the quiet, moonlit street outside the window
reminds me that I am safe. 

Then, it comes again,
the sound that woke me.
The sound of the locomotive horn,
charging through the frozen, December night air,
into my safe, warm refuge - so sharp and clear
it's as if I'm standing right beside the track.
I hear the wheel's - metal on metal - running hard
on the frozen track. Past the elevator, past the
Gulf gas station, along the highway, heading to Winnipeg
and Thunder Bay and Toronto. 

Then suddenly, as quickly as it came, it's gone.
Silence envelopes the night, filling up the space that the train left empty in it's wake. 

It's quiet and dark.
The moon glow reflects off the cold snow into the window
and I pull the quilt up even tighter beneath my chin
blissfully unaware that for years to come, whenever
I hear a train in the night, I will feel safe and warm and wonderful. 

Blessings.

A Retro Christmas Gift for the Readers of randallfriesen.com

randallfriesen.com is so long in the tooth that it was eleven years ago when I provided the readers of this space with the Christmas Gift of some hand made Christmas wrapping paper.

You can see the original post here.

I thought that I'd bring that old school paper back, you know, for me who lives half an hour from a Walmart and we've run out of paper, or those who are minutes away from an office Christmas Party and you don't have time to run out for proper christmas paper. Just download, hit print, and wrap.

"Handmade, from the finest of software. Created by a pastor in the Northern Wilds of Canada, as he lay in bed, unable to sleep."

"I got out my Ipaq and created four distinct, yet lovely designs. A lit up Christmas tree, (My favourite), a decorated present, a variation on Snoopy's decorated home, and a festive red and white striped paper. They are done in a patchwork style, on white background. One paper even has all the festive images included!"

"Each paper is created in pdf format, so simply download the wrapping paper files to your computer, load it up and print it off. If you're giving items bigger than jewlery this year, you may want to tape some sheets together for your larger gifts."

Some of them are dated and hand initialled, but that can add to the festive atmosphere, and retro is all the rage now.








The Christmas Tree  (400 kbs)







The Present (683 kbs)









Snoopy's House  (390 kbs)









Christmas Stripes (800 kbs)





And Here you can download the paper with all the images combined. (526 kbs).

So there you go. Enjoy your gift giving knowing that randallfriesen.com has done it's part to make Christmas a bit more special this year.

Merrrrrry Christmas.

The comfort of the known past.

Tonight I am safely tucked away in one of those classic old prairie town basement bedrooms. You know the type, the ceiling filled with white tiles, one brown rectangle vent for the warm air, and a single bulb in the center. The walls a light shade of mint green with a window up high that is open just a crack to let in some fresh air. There is a well worn carpet on the floor.

My single bed is soft and holds me well, like a welcoming cocoon. Herself is in the matching bed across from me with a bedside table between us. On the table is a lamp and my small transistor radio which is quietly playing the hits of the 70's from 800 AM CHAB.

It's like going back in time. Like going back to a time that was safe and known. A place where the sights and smells, and even the sounds are known.


I really feel like I need that safety for a while.
Maybe regain some strength and focus. Get some of my marbles back.

We'll hide out here for a bit. Soak in the blessings of the quiet past so we can move into the future again. Maybe we can be a blessing again to people.

And, just like 1979, there is no Internet here.
To make that happen, I need to stand on a chair holding my mobile just right, and use it as an access point. So don't feel slighted if it takes time to reply to your contact.


I am on holiday, and as Meatloaf sings about how you "Took the words right out of my mouth," it seems as though I've gone back to the safety of the seventies for this break.

I'll see you again in 30 something years.

Picking Rocks

I had a talk with another pastor this morning.
They live in another part of the world.
But the work there is hard too.
The ground is dry and the work that they do just doesn't bring enough life
for it to continue growing.

She said she feels like a good part of her work these days is just removing the rocks from peoples lives.
Rocks that get in the way of living.
I told her maybe she's there to remove the rocks.
To break up the fallow ground, and help hardened people face their rocks.
She wasn't impressed with my encouragement.

Then I told her that out here the winter frost pushes up previously unseen rocks
so that you need to go out each spring, and move the rocks again.
She was surprised by that. She didn't know that happened.
She was even less encouraged.

Then I told her about my son who is built for removing rocks.
He is hired out and goes out to help pull rocks from the fields.
I told her that I don't think he always does it for the money, or because he likes hard work.
I think he sometimes does it because the farmer walks alongside him, and together they gather stones and put them in the tractor trailer.
And as they walk, they talk and enjoy the day and the company.

I think my son does it because he loves being with people and he can spend the day with another person.
Talking, thinking, picking up stones.
And if you would see him, you might say he loves picking rocks.
But he doesn't.
He loves being with people.

My pastor friend was quiet for a while, and then in a soft voice she said
I like that. I can do that.
There are things in her work that she loves doing, and she could reflect on those things on days when she was rock picking.

I could hear her smiling as she said, Now that is encouraging.

Some reflections on Celtic Christianity

One of the reasons of interest in celtic christianity for me was to explore how a country, (Ireland and Scotland) which weren't conquered by Rome, saw their faith and belief in God expand. I mean would their priorities and preferences be different? Would some of their theologies be different? And how would they be different. Well, they are different.

I wrote;

I've always thought of my soul in terms of dungeons and basement rooms. Full of cobwebs and damp, uninhabitable rooms. A space where, with God's help, you carve out room to live and grow.
But one morning during prayer, I had a picture of my soul, and it was more like a huge open expanse. A place of hills and valleys, streams and forests. A place where God moves into, if we let him. And his presence in the space begins to turn it green and makes it come alive, producing all kinds of fruit.
He might be over in this area creating a shady green valley with a brook running through it. Or he might be over there creating a building structure in which we will house memories of close intimate times. He may be at work rooting out some nasty weeds or some underbrush that has taken over an area that He wants to turn into a lovely park.

I've limited the description I've included here for space considerations, but the picture is still so clear in my mind, and it's an image I've come to see as a very Celtic way of understanding God and myself.
There have been two profound shifts in my thinking as a result of the study on Celtic Spirituality, and though I am not yet settled in one camp or another, I have come to love the different expressions
that the Celts have brought us.

The first is how they have come to decide what is at our core as human beings. For me and my training and personal experience, what's deepest within in me is my sinful nature, -original sin. I have been living with a deep sense that at the heart of my being is a nature that is broken and sinful, a dungeon if you will that is vile and dirty, and well, just sinful. As I read the books and prayed the Celtic Office day after day I began to notice that their approach to what was the core was different than mine. Celtic Spirituality is marked by a belief that the deepest part of us isn't sinfulness, it's the image of God. That deep in there, deeper still than original sin, is this sense that we were created in the Image of the Holy One, God Himself. They refuse to define themselves by the ugliness of their failings, and choose rather to define themselves by the beauty of their origins.

It doesn't necessarily disagree with scripture, but it is a different way of thinking of oneself. I like that it sets God back at the core of things, not my evil nature. I like how it doesn't allow me to blame my evil nature when I fail and sin, and without wanting to shift responsibility, I like how it shifts the story from my absolute weakness, to God's absolute love. There is something to that, and as I've allowed myself to explore the effects this understanding may have on my belief system, I find a greater appreciation for Gods love, growing in me. It's like, He didn't create me evil, he created me after his own heart, his own image. That subtle shift is profound and it works itself out in hope filled ways.

The second shift in my thinking has come about as I've read of the Celtic tradition of the belief in the essential goodness of creation. Not only is creation viewed as a blessing from God, but an expression
of God. It's like a communication to us from God, and often in Celtic literature it's referred to as the book of creation. What this does in effect is to merge the sense of that which is spirit and that which is matter. For the Celts it was all one anyway.

Whether I realized it or not, my training helped to establish within me an understanding that physical things, fleshly, earthly matter has a brokenness about it. At it's heart its evil and groaning under the
weight of existence. While things of the spirit are holy and of God.

In our desire to separate spirit and matter we have distanced the mystery of God from the matter of creation. Again it goes back to the fall of humankind. Something God created is now not to be trusted, because mankind sinned. The Celtic understanding does away with the notion that the things that are Spirit are good and the things that are physical and made of matter are evil. This allows humanity to celebrate and be thankful for the gift of creation, and how beautifully it was created.
Again this subtle shift has far reaching effects.

It makes me concerned with how this world is cared for, and how we treat it. It removes the sense that it's evil and broken so who cares how it's treated. It causes me to look closely at the delicate beauty of nature and the language of love God communicates to me through it, and I respond with praise and gratitude for His great love for me. Even the fact that he allows tremendous beauty to exist where no one can see it just confirms to me again the greatness of God.

I confess this approach is a much more wholesome one than I've seen in many western churches and Christians who consume without thought, feeling that the earth is damaged goods anyway. I don't like how easy it is to say "This thing that God created was good, and this thing that God created isn't good because we messed it up!"

These two small shifts are effecting how I and God relate, and how I care for his creation. From the guy across the street to the lawn I get to mow, I'm seeing with different eyes. It's also begun to shift how I picture my own soul. The picture I shared earlier is for me an image infused with the sense of Celtic faith. That new image of my Soul gives me a lot of hope. It will effect how I care for others in foundational ways.

Boston Pizza and social media

You might recall a few weeks ago we went to a local Boston Pizza place and we had a less than positive experience. While we were leaving the place to head over to A&W I Twittered about the experience.

Well, someone over at BP's was monitoring the feeds and within a day or two was at my site leaving a concerned comment. He also subscribed to my twitter feed. I emailed him and within about five minutes he replied to me and had cc'd the Guest Services Manager for Boston Pizza. Long story short, this morning I received in the mail a gift card for $25 to use at any Boston Pizza as an invitation to try again.

I know some companies have struggled with how to handle the social media and the ongoing conversations of the internet, but here is one company who seems to be making an effort to harness the power of social media and use it for their own good. The willingness to use the internet to listen to what's being said about your product shows a real edge in the market that some other companies are afraid of or simply unwilling to do. (You may remember our Pizza Hut experience of May 2008, Here and a follow up here. to date there has been no further contact from Pizza Hut.)

Managing your good name out here in the wild west of the internet is something that small and large companies can do with relative ease simply using the technology to work for you.

So well done Boston Pizza for listening to the crowd.

Thinking about forgiveness

I've had a couple of people from the area ask if they could get a copy of this talk i gave a couple of weeks ago, so I'll make it available here.

Some of my words throughout the talk get mixed up and are embarrassing, but the gist of it is real and true, and have been quite helpful for me in the past. Forgiveness is often misunderstood, but when you experience it's powerful effects in your life, wow it can really help you to be free again.

Anyway, here you go. thinking about forgiveness.

http://randallfriesen.com/sermons/refJUL5-0996.mp3

Kissing Lauralea

26 years ago tonight on a campus park bench was the first time our lips met, and it was good.

That junior year in college I was the class president and Lauralea was the chairperson of the decoration committee. The main task of the Junior class was to pull off an amazing grad banquet, so there were committees for everything, and being the class pres, I had to meet with them regularly. That work with Lauralea really cemented our friendship, and it brought everything nicely into focus for that chilly dark April evening there on that park bench.

Earlier that night I had been ready at the girls dorm door, waiting to pick her up for the banquet. Nervously waiting, shivering in the cool early evening breeze, and she came out of the door in a blue twirl, showing off the dress she had made for the occasion. She looked beautiful there on the step in that dress. Her shoulder length hair pinned back on one side, smiling with her mouth and her eyes. The light blue dress with the tiny white dots, shoulders visible through the clear material which she thought would be so risqué there at that prairie school. She wore those tiny five inch black heels that would lift her to the hight of 5' 3". She looked amazing there, I'm sure I smiled.

Lauralea in our yearbook

After a year of working together in committees and growing as friends, we headed off to the graduation banquet to celebrate the accomplishment. I remember as we entered the gym and separated to begin to fulfill our different responsibilities for the night, that it was ok, good even, that we could be together even when we were apart.

I remember that after the supper and speaker, I gave her a yellow carnation that I had purchased earlier that afternoon, because a carnation didn't say it all like a rose would have. It said I care and I'm glad we're friends and you look amazing. It was enough. It was good.

The Banquet was a success and we helped organize the cleanup. Before too long the place was like a gym again. Decorations and tables gone. The punch fountain we had worked so hard to find and rent, was safely boxed up again, and we as a class decided to get changed and meet at a teachers house to celebrate our victory. Curfew was extended because classes were over and we were into grad weekend now.

I dropped her at her dorm and ran to mine and changed quickly. I remember that the realization of the accomplishment was settling in. We had done this huge thing that had kept me up many nights and working hard all year, it was now done. I slumped to the bed and took a deep breath. Still to this day that happens to me when I accomplish something that has made big demands of me for a long time. I slump down into the cavity of the space the task had taken up and ask, now what?

I began to wander down to the park bench where Lauralea and I were going to meet, then walk over together. I arrived before she did and sat there and pondered the year, the accomplishment, the hard work. And I though of us, her and I, and the fact that we would need to separate soon.

She came bouncing around the corner, she was always so full of life and mischief. I plodded along, she bounced. That's how we were and that's what I've always loved about her.

Where the bench was

She sat down beside me sensing my thoughts and drawing them out of me like an expert counselor. Telling her my feelings and fears was easy and she listened and pointed to God in the process, in my life. I'm not sure but maybe that was when she became my pastor, in a good way I mean. But we talked and it was good and I became lighter and lighter and I turned towards her face and leaned in and kissed her warm lips.

And there on that park bench nothing else mattered, not the past, not the future, nothing. Except her and me and our lips touching.

To this day the brush of our lips makes me shiver, and comforts me, and causes my spirit to be at peace. It's the best place to be, even after 26 years, kissing her on that park bench on a dark night in April.

...then we got up, hand in hand and walked into life together.


Where the bench was.

Something near the front please Lord.

I suspect and hope that when The Day arrives and we get translated to Glory, that some things are to be expected. I mean, knowing Christ's priorities for the little and the least of these, over and above those who just talk a great deal, should result in people like Lauralea getting a good seat in heaven, something near the front.

You see, I can carry on at great length about how to live and love and care for others. But Lauralea does most of her talking, in this regard anyway, with her actions.

This morning I awoke and upon entering the kitchen I discovered she was icing a cake she had made. It was a simple 8 or 9 inch round cake with lovely icing on it and four intersecting hearts made in various shades of colour from sprinkles. It looked lovely.

It seems she had made it for a young girl who occasionally comes to our church, by herself. She remembered this girls birth date from when the girl used to attend our church kids program, and she had decided to make her a cake for her 13th or whatever it was birthday.

She does things like this quite selflessly, and without motivation other than love.

I replied that she might not be at church, but I knew this wouldn't slow her down any. She finished her task.

And wouldn't you know it, while we were at church the young girl came too, and looked up Lauralea just to say hi as she always does, knowing Lauralea will talk to her like a caring friend.

Lauralea presented her with her gift and a happy birthday. The girl smiled, and laughed just like she always does whenever she's talking to Lauralea.



So much to learn. So little time.

Surprised by joy

A couple weeks ago at our small group meeting the people were engrossed in some deep conversation or another, and my eyes were captured by a picture on the far wall. It was Vincent Van Gogh's "Starry Night over the Rhone."

As I said it captured my attention and at a distance I watched it unfold before me. It became like a small movie and the town lights reflected in the water almost began to shimmer. The clear cool night sky with the Big Dipper shining brightly, the two older people walking home after a full night, and the soft breeze blowing all served to capture my spirit unlike anything "art like" has ever done before.

It was a strange moment when a painting captured my heart. I can't even explain it properly, but it feels like joy. Deep inside there, even now when I see it my heart feels full, and good and alive.

Now when we go to the small group gathering I always sit where I can see it, and I do stare at it catching new things I hadn't seen before. It's like we have this secret relationship, this picture and I. It makes me smile whenever I see it, and I still don't completely know why.

Van Gogh was quite proud of the piece which he had painted in Arles in 1888 that depicted stars reflecting in the Rhone River. And I have always felt a bit of an affinity for him.

Vincent was a preachers boy who was a quiet child with little if any attention spent on art or artistic interests.

He got work in the Hague gallery which transferred him around a good deal. He was on his way to becoming an art dealer when he suddenly lost interest in the work.

He redirected his life towards ministry preparation, to evangelize the poor. But eventually his frustration and inability to progress in school saw him leave to go and care for miners and their families. He ended up in Borinage working at the evangelization of the destitute miners. He found he was able to identify with them, their lifestyles and families quite well, but it was very frustrating work for him.

He was with them a while, then left the ministry to "work to leave something of importance behind for mankind." His brother Theo pressured him to become an artist, and he did.

His mind was sick, and he struggled so deeply with mental illness not understood in those days.

Vincent viewed his life as horribly wasted, and himself an impossible failure. On July 27, 1890 Van Gogh attempted suicide by shooting himself in the chest. He survived, but died two days later from the wound.

His brother's widow collected the majority of Vincent's work. She took the collection to Holland and dedicated herself to getting the now deceased Vincent the recognition he deserved. She published his work and Vincent became famous nearly instantly. His reputation has been growing ever since.

During his lifetime, he sold only one painting.

Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and gray
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul...
Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colors on the snowy linen land.

Now I understand
What you tried to say, to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free:
They would not listen; they did not know how --
Perhaps they'll listen now.

For they could not love you
But still, your love was true
And when no hope was left inside
On that starry, starry night
You took your life as lovers often do--
But I could've told you, Vincent:
This world was never meant
For one as beautiful as you.

Now I think I know
What you tried to say, to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free:
They would not listen; they're not listening still--
Perhaps they never will.

Vincent
Don McLean

On people who don't let you grow up

Alright my children, here is the lesson for the day.

There are times in our lives when we leave our normal routines and even our physical locations for other places and during those times away we really experience growth and personal development. Then we return to our normal circumstances, with our old friends and family.

We come back significantly different people than when we left because we really are bigger people. We've experienced more, we've been shaped and honed and learned a thing or two along the way.

As we return we find that some of our old friends are excited for us and are pleased with us and who we've become. But more difficult and sad is that there are people who are not ready for us to have grown. They don't give us room to be who we've become, but rather continue to try to restrict us into old spaces and ways we used to be. That is unfair.

They treat us the same way they used to treat us, and expect us to respond in the same old ways. But we aren't the same people we once were. We have grown and are internally pleased with that growth, as we should be. So when an old friend refuses to recognize how we've developed, it just really hurts inside and we don't know what to do.

For some, it just takes a bit of time and readjustment to the new you. If they love you then they will work at creating space for you to be who you've become.

Maybe you are reading this and you've changed for the better, but some of your friends don't get it, yet. Patience grasshopper. Don't sell off the new you because your friends or family can't process it quickly enough. Give them a bit of time to process the good changes you are living into. And keep living into the better you. The temptation is sometimes there to give up on who you've become and just revert to the old, lesser you. That's not good, because it just isn't. So don't do it.

Or maybe you are reading this and your friend has changed a lot, and it seems they have changed for the better, but you miss the other person. Maybe they used to behave very poorly and now they don't and they want to show you that they have changed. Or worse yet, perhaps you liked them the way they used to be because they were worse than you were, and now they are not.

Let. Them. Be. Changed.

Create space for them to be different. Don't try to impose your yesterday's understanding of them today. Don't try to force them into a mold they no longer fit. Be gracious. Celebrate with them. If need be, grow up yourself.

Of course they are not perfect and they will occasionally slip back into old ways as they are learning the new ones. But if you are their friend or family, you want for their best anyway, don't you?

Personal development is tough enough without having people in your life who you thought cared for you but now they don't want to give you room to be yourself.

We all need people in our corner who care about us and will support us and give us room to grow

Lets be those people.

Nine years ago, this holiday monday

...my dad got the phone call his life depended on. A new liver had been donated and his flight was leaving in a few moments for Edmonton where he would undergo an all day liver transplant surgery.

Every year around this time I get to thinking about the family who lost their loved one, and had the courage and forethought to make their loved ones organs available.

After Dad's transplant, the organ donation team offered to give the donors family a letter from us. Dad asked me to prepare one and we sent it off.

I found it today, and all the memories came rushing back.

I am a grateful man for those extra years my Dad had with us.

Here's to those who sign the donor part of their health card. It is a gift of life that we offer.

Thank you.

________________________________________________

Dear Donor Family;

My father was a recipient of your loved one’s liver, late in May of this year. I have wanted to write you for some time to thank you for this gift of life. I guess I kept putting it off as dad has had a long series of setbacks and struggles that have brought him near death a few times. Right now he seems to be doing well - more good days than bad, and I need to express to you my gratitude.

Dad began to get sick over three years ago. He was informed that he had a genetic disease, and that his liver was dying. Since then we have watched him deteriorate, month by month. He lost his health, his business, his savings, and some days, his hope.

For he and my mom, and us as kids, the one thing that got us through was the hope of a liver transplant. How we clung to that hope, when everything else seemed hopeless. We waited and watched as dad got sicker. Many times we wondered if he was too far gone, that the Doctors would give up on him and send him home with no hope. Our Faith, usually strong, was tested deeply those days.

One weekend this spring, my wife and I and our four kids went to see mom and dad. We wanted to spend a little time with them, and get my kids a few more memories and pictures with their “Papa”. As we drove home that evening, my wife and I talked about “what if”: what if there wasn’t a liver for him? What if he would die? Shouldn’t we start saying our goodbyes, rather than living like “Everything will be ok WHEN we get a new liver?”

We spoke our fears till late into the night. We talked about the gap he would leave behind if he were to go; about my Mom’s and siblings needs, about possible funeral arrangements, and finances. We slept restlessly that night.

Early the next morning the phone rang. It was dad. He said that Edmonton had called and they had a possible liver. He would be on a plane within the hour. The next two days were an emotional roller coaster ride as we waited and prayed, and waited and prayed.

Since that week there have been many up’s and down’s, but we are grateful for each day we have with Dad. My kids have been able to go and stay over for the night at their house, and they have enjoyed it so much. Papa is better and their prayers answered.

On behalf of my wife and our four kids, on behalf of my three siblings, my mom and dad, on behalf of myself and many, many friends and family, we want to thank you for you’re your act of love, and your gift of life. Your loved one’s donation continues to give life, and all that comes with it, to my father. We will be forever grateful.

Also know that we are praying for you, especially during the times of year when the loss of your loved one will be brought into sharp focus. As we are preparing to spend Christmas with my parents, please know that your gift has made the difference. Thank you.

Gratefully Yours
Randall Friesen

R.I.P Northern Lights

Not "The" Northern Lights, but the radio program by the same name that runs on CBC One every evening at 11 pm.

There was always something warm and gracious about listening to beautiful music over the AM radio on the prairies. The static and noise always added to the reality that you were out there in the west some place, sometimes a very uncivilized place at that. But there would come this wonderful music from different times than your own. And it could sooth your spirit.

CBC One was where I first discovered "Classical" music, (Whatever that means). In my bedroom, late at night I cultivated an interest in things Beethoven and Chopin and Mozart-ian.

CBC One went with me to College and was one of the things I had in common with Lauralea. I recall dreaming with her late one night that when we got back to civilization we would get dressed up in our finest and go to a concert of wonderful music. We did.

Then it went with us to Southern Ontario, and it was with me in the back of that semi-trailer I would be loading on the night shift at the insulation factory.

Now CBC One is going mostly talk and news and information. Which is fair I suppose.

But how are the young ones out in Cutknife Saskatchewan ever going to experience good classical music?

I wonder.

A Single Rose

The night air is turning cool here on the prairies. We sleep with the windows wide open, so the single digit cold air is still welcomed here.

I can tell it's September because the other night, late into the chill, Lauralea got up and pulled down the big quilt. She loves this part of the year, so I think she's trying to hurry it along. Tonight I'm writing from a refreshingly cool bedroom.

Today is our eldest child's birthday. Johanna has officially turned 19, and if she lived in Saskatchewan, she could now drink legally, which certainly doesn't seem to be a problem in Switzerland.

We had two girls born with nearly a year between them. And I was surprised how much I enjoyed having little girls in my life, they were fun, mostly.

I would load them into the car when their mom needed a break, and off we would go for a Saturday morning, exploring the countryside.

After a couple of years I would pick them up and take them out for lunch at McDonalds. They were trustworthy girls. I could seat them at a table and go off to order lunch for us. Of course I kept one eye on them, but they always sat still, without going exploring. I could trust them, and I liked that allot.

Some kids you could never take out without them being a huge problem and taking the fun out of things, but not these girls.

I loved being their dad, I was always so proud of them. I wanted to do something for them that only their dad would do for them. Some kind of father/daughter connection thing.

So, early on in their little lives, I started buying them a rose on their birthday. Just one, and a variety of colors.

Every year, on their birthday, I would come home with a single rose for them. It was something I wanted to do, as long as I could.

Cause daughters grow up, and things change. Relationships ebb and flow, but I wanted them to know that, even if life got hard, or they considered me a problem father (which they have, and still do...occasionally) that they could know someplace inside that I still loved them.

You do your best, but life isn't easy all the time. Occasionally they have hated me with such a depth that you wonder, I wonder, who we will be to each other when this is all over.

Still, every year through thick or thin, I go in search of a single rose.

This year the search was much more difficult, because Johanna is living in Switzerland. 7000 km's is a long way to get a single rose to travel well.

So, off we go to the Internet. Lauralea's highschool french comes in nicely at this point. She found a florist right in the next town, who delivers to Cernier, and they have a phone number posted on the site.

It took Lauralea a day to screw up her courage and think through some of the words she would need to use. But this morning (Our time) with the flower shop ready to close in an hour for the evening, we placed our call.

I am here to tell you I was completely amazed as Lauralea spoke clear french to the shopkeeper. Well, clear enough to order what I hope was a single rose, delivered tomorrow, to Johanna, living in Cernier, Switzerland.

She was speaking french like a sailor, a french sailor mind you, but it rolled off her tongue like an old hand. She's been holding out on me that's for sure.

And all that to say, I think that one single rose has been ordered for Johanna, in Switzerland, and in the from space it should say, love dad.

Now, I think I'll time this to be posted just before lunch her time, so the surprise isn't spoiled when she reads this post.

Happy Birthday Johanna.

Love Dad.