Feeling Squirrely

From Lance Darlow

About a week ago, I was looking out my kitchen window that looks across the deck to my above-ground pool in the back year.  I noticed a small grey squireel had fallen into the pool and was doing, what appeared to be, the front crawl- swimming as best he could.  I knew there was no way for him to get out without my help, and if I didn't do something he would certainly drown.  I ran and grabbed the leaf skimmer net and assisted him from the pool by scooping him up.  Just out of the water, and finding solid footing, he jumped onto the edge that surrounds the pool. 

 As I lay the pole back in the pool and rested my arms on the edge, the small squireel ran around towards me and stopped- lying right across my forearm.  Resting his water soaked body and two front paws on my arm, he looked up at me for a second or two.  It was a cute encoutner, and I had enought time to ask him if he was tired before he jumped up and again, rested on my other arm.  Then he jumped to the ground. 

I thought about what I had done and was pleased to have saved this little squireel's life, but couldn't help wonder what was going through his little mind when he stopped on my arm and looked up at me. 

In human terms he probably thought "Thank God, you were here!"

Spider Solidarity

By Cathy Russell

I’m afraid of spiders.  When we were kids, I had a very conflicted relationship with the National Geographic magazine.  Each periodical was eagerly awaited, and yet flipping through them I always felt a certain level of dread, since so many issues seemed to feature a full page glossy close up of some brown or black arachnid immobilising a helpless strugglin insect in a silk cocoon, or sucking out its bodily fluids.  Coming upon one of these photos, I would generally scream and throw the magazine into the air.  Even today, I avoid bargain and toy stores in the weeks before Halloween, and find it hard to understand why any mentally healthy parent would feel that a huge ‘toy’ tarantula would be an appropriate plaything for a child. 

My reaction to spiders in real life is usually to yell loudly for my husband if he is available, or if not to roll up a newspaper and swat at the thing furiously with my eyes closed and hope for the best.

This past weekend, I was cleaning the windows of the sun porch on our cottage in preparation for applying some heat reducing film.  The porch is a great space, but with 7 windows you could roast a turkey in there on a hot summer day!

I had just begun on the third window when I saw it- a small black spider up in the right hand corner.  Although I felt the usual sensation of disgust, there wasn’t much actual terror, as the creature was only about the size of the finger nail on my baby finger.  Nevertheless, my first instinct was to reach for the broom and bring her down, and normally I would do so without a second thought.  But half an instant after I saw the spider, I saw something else- a white sack, also tiny, yet bigger than the spider itself. 

From reading EB White’s wonderful book Charlotte’s Web as a child (while holding a piece of paper over the illustrations of the spider) I realised that this was a female spider and that the little sack was full of her eggs. Interestingly, as my cleaning hand had come within a foot or so of her corner, (shudder) she actually crawled closer to this small cache, in an instinctive move to protect them from harm. 

I stood there contemplating her and her eggs, and somehow as I did so, she went from being, in my mind, a loathed member of a hated species to a... well... to a  Mother.  I found that I could not simply sweep her and her sack of babies into the next world, and in fact I did not even want to.  I left their corner of the window alone, and we skipped that window in our application of the heat reducing film. 

I know that this moment, Godsome though it was, has not cured my arachnophobia, and I doubt that the next time I see a spider the voice inside my head that usually screams “KILL KILL” will be silent.  But I was aware of a small shift in my being- perhaps as small as the spider and her brood of eggs.  Perhaps it is a sign of hope- both for me and the spiders of the world.

A Great Grandmother

 From Joe Culp

Grandma Bailey was always close to my heart. I will always remember her for when she either called me Darlin' or Grama's Little Boy as well!!!

When I had to move away fromOrrville back in October 1980 to attend a very special school in Belleville it really brought a tear to her eye but knew what had to be done for yours truly was for the good of the family and of course myself and it was!!!

When it came to coming home to Orrville for a visit she always welcomed me with open arms and the first words that came out of her if she could was "Do you want to sleep here tonight" or "Do you want to stay for supper Tonight?!!!" and of course the answer was always "A big "Yes!"

It was always nice to not only to have a visit with her but with her Brother my Uncle Russell and her two dogs Scout and Velvet at the James Street address she had always called home pretty much all her life in Orrville!!! Yes, and Grama Nellie was not only extremely devoted to us all but was also devoted to her Bible and her many Church friends including the Mennonites who always came by when I was there and always said "Joe you are truly God's Little Boy"!  Grandma Nellie is a big reason why I am where I am today. She had always taught me how to believe in myself as well!!!

Now not only Grama Bailey is moving into her new home along with Grampa Orland and her siblings My Grama Orla, my Aunt's Edie, Carol and Doris but Uncle Gerald as well up in the High Heavens but she will now be living right next door to my Mom Laura, Grandmother Annie and my Grandfather Clarence Tuck who are with no doubt giving her a welcome wagon Heaven style!

Until we meet again I wanna say this to her GODBLESS YOU GRAMA BAILEY LOVE YOUR DARLIN' JOE!!! xxxx oooo

Gracias A Dios

The following is a reflection offered by young adult Jon Marsellus at Iglesia Bautista Immanuel in San Salvador, at the end of a United Church Mission Awareness Trip to El Salvador, in March 2012.

By Jon Marsellus

My grandmother who lives in Toronto has always been an advocate for social justice. Concerned with the lives of those less fortunate than herself, she has taken many international trips in her retirement. One of those trips was to here in El Salvador.

My grandmother found a spiritual hero in Monseignor Oscar Romero and his message of liberation. She has told me his story dozens of times at home, from the assassination of Rutillo Grande, to Monseignor's fight for peace and freedom, to his death in 1980. When I told her that I was coming here she was ecstatic. She sent me tonnes of information on El Salvador.

 None of it could have prepared me for my arrival here. Entering Monseignor Romero's room was awe inspiring, compelling me to remove my hat. Stepping on the ground of the martyred Jesuit priests brought me to tears. Presenting the 13 brand new laptops to the school in San Salvador was a true joy.  Working with the people at the school in San Rafael and building the fence was more satisfying than any work from home. Seeing the memorial wall filled my heart with terror and pain and sadness. Being here with you brought me hope. My soul has been fed.

 Gracias A Dios.

Finding Joy In An Unlikely Place August 26, ‘09

By David Milne

Workers in cars and pickup trucks lined up on the road near the gate. A few opponents of the dump site heckled them from the south side of the road, the non-injunction breaking side. John, an older local settler, stood in the middle of the road blocking a worker’s vehicle, but without support he’d soon move out of the way. It was 6:20 in the morning, Monday, August 17.

As I stood on the south side of the road, opposite the gate, I asked myself “Well, David, what are you going to do?” In recent months I’ve felt adrift, unsure of my calling to Christian Peacemaker Teams. In my prayers I had petitioned God for guidance but the Creator either hadn’t answered or I hadn’t heard. When I joined CPT’s Aboriginal Justice Team outside Dump Site 41, forty kilometres north of Barrie, I told myself “I can just go to fulfill my commitment to the organization and not get too involved.” But I did get involved.

While at the site I took part in healing ceremonies and prayers with Anishinaabe elders. The women, ‘Protectors and Keepers of the Water’, told me their visions about this place. Elders explained the significance of the lodge, the Sacred Fire and the Grandfathers, and I marvelled once again at their appreciation of the whole of Creation and man’s humble place in it. Over the days the mounds of dirt being dug out for the dump grew higher. I pictured lines of trucks emptying loads of garbage into that hole while under that hole sat an aquifer, an underwater lake of pure water. At some point I realized “God is speaking to us through these people”.

In a few minutes the security guard would open the gate. The workers, foreman leading, would drive through in a convoy. Soon the clatter and rumble of bulldozers, trucks, and diggers would trouble our ears and our spirits for a second week. Since the arrests of ten blockaders a few weeks ago and the raid by the police a week ago last Friday, no one had tried to block the gate.

I walked across the road and stood in front of the gate. Immediately Jenn, a young woman, came across too. Bruce came running up the road to me. “I had to park so far away I was afraid it’d be over before I got here!” I laughed despite the scowls on the faces of the workers and the approaching plainclothes officers. Rick, Pat, and John joined us soon after, in all three First Nations people and three settlers.

The public relations team of the O.P.P. wanted us to move “so no one would get arrested or hurt” but I replied “No one here will hurt anyone.” There was much palaver until we stated our terms. “We’ll leave here if the workers will go home and not come back until after the Council votes on August 25” said Jenn. “I can’t negotiate that!” exclaimed Heidi of the PR team.

So we sat in the warming sun waiting to be arrested. Jenn and I read prayers from CPT’s worship book and sang a few hymns. Then Jenn and Pat chanted an Anishinaabe prayer and Pat came down the line with a smudge pot and her eagle feather; we cleansed ourselves in the smoke and with prayer. At one point I asked myself “How am I doing?” I felt puzzled for a moment. I felt joyful and peaceful.

I still treasure this experience despite facing a mischief charge.

Canadian Identity-On Ice!

By Cathy Russell

Every New Year, I promise myself that  I will increase my level of exercise, with varying degrees of success.  Towards the end of 2011, I was looking at the community recreation calendar to see what might fit into my schedule.  Committing to a regular weeknight is tricky given my schedule of meetings- one week I'm busy on a Tuesday, another on a Wednesday, and then there's choir practice every Thursday. 

That's why noon hour adult recreational skating lessons caught my eye.  I took two years of figure skating after we moved to Canada when I was a child.  It was not a happy two years, expecially for my poor feet which did not take kindly to those gleaming white insturments of podiatral torture known as girls' figure skates. 

This time, however, I invested in some of the newer, 'relaxed fit' recreational skates, and signed up.  The skill level of the class is pretty varied.  There are some who have been taking lessons for a year or more who can skate backwards and cross their feet over with their eyes closed while whistling the Hallelujah chorus.  I am not one of these.  In fact, I am towards the very bottom of the group, although I am improving...slightly. 

The most intriguing and intrepid member of the group however is a woman well into her 70s.  She is what you would call an absolute beginner.  She emigrated to Canada decades ago, and though all her kids were signed up for skating she herself never learned.  Given this belated start, during her first couple of weeks of lessons she could barely move herself around the ice.  Her motion was more akin to ice limping than skating.  While the rest of us are now working on specific skills- stopping, gliding on one foot, tracing edges, turning around, she just keeps working on going around and around the ice, doggedly trying to improve her balance and fluidity.  And slowly but surely, as the weeks progress, so does she.  I know she is really afraid of falling- she's told me so, and I don't blame her.  The spectre of a broken hip must be ever before her.

But she also told me the reason she is taking the lessons, the reason she is working so hard week after week, just to get a down a decent 'push and glide' form.  "I just want to be able to skate with my grandchildren."  She says simply.  My helmet is off to this courageous grandma, and I hope the younger generations appreciate her efforts.

We hear all the time about how hockey is an integral part of Canadian identity.  There are multiple reasons why I'm not sure I embrace that notion, most of them having to do with violence and a seeming  indifference to the risks of brain damage and paralysis that comes with it. 

But I would agree that anyone who wants to understand and expereince something of what it means to be Canadian could do a lot worse than to lace up a pair of skates and spend an few hour-long sessions in a cold arena, (or outdoors)  working your  leg muscles, improving your balance, overcoming your fear of falling, breathing in lungfulls of frosty air, and every once in a while feeling that wonderful uplifting sense of freedom that comes from gliding smoothly across a great white frozen surface. 

With or without grandchildren.

Small Acts of Grace- II

By David Milne

On the first Sunday of Advent our congregation holds a special service, “The Hanging of the Greens”.  Church members read short stories which tell how certain ornaments such as angels, stars, and bells came to be used as ornaments. Members carry ornaments to the tree at the front of the church and decorate it. In between we sing carols and pray.

I had volunteered to tell a beautiful legend about Christmas Roses. Nonetheless, I was wishing that I’d stayed at home.

In past years the service has included a legend of how Christians came to decorate evergreens. In this legend Saint Wilfrid cuts down an oak tree, sacred to the Druids, and finds a fir tree growing inside. He announces to the assembly “This shall be your symbol from now on.”

I hate the destructiveness and triumphant attitude of this legend. It reminds me how we oppressed First Nations people by obliterating their spiritual symbols and outlawing their ceremonies. I’d been hoping that no one would choose to tell this legend but there it was on the order of worship.

Last year I spoke with our minister and asked him to address this matter after the fact. He did so. However, he’d later gone to another church and we hadn’t found another minister. Moreover, I had the chance to pick this story for my part and I’d avoided it. I had only myself to blame.

When it came to the legend of the Christmas tree Dona, secretary of our pastoral charge, stepped to the front. She’d shown an interest in right relations with First Nations but I didn’t know what she’d say this morning.

 “Christians have been decorating evergreens for hundreds of years” she said. “Evergreens hold their needles and their colour all year long just as Jesus loves us all year long.” Then she sat down. I almost wept in gratitude.

The sense of justice can burst forth in the unlikeliest place. An act of healing can come forth at the most unexpected time. I just need to be open to see and hear them.  

Peace and blessings of the season to you.