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.

Small Acts of Grace- Part I

By David Milne

I feel often that we’re losing the fight against injustice and that the force of oppression and the deadweight of apathy bury our meagre resistance. I’m tempted to quit the struggle. Why bother, I ask myself. I admit that this view reveals my egotism and the tunnel vision which accompanies it. Recently two events challenged my view.

On a cold, windy morning near the end of October I stood outside the Prime Minister’s Office in Ottawa. A group of us were concluding the three day campaign “Stop Canada’s Involvement in Torture”. I was handing out leaflets. Others, wearing hoods and orange jumpsuits, knelt on the pavement, held banners, or read testimonies over a loudspeaker regarding how the Prime Minister had failed to hold the RCMP, CSIS, the Department of Justice and the Department of Foreign Affairs accountable for their roles in rendering Abdullah Almalki, Ahmad Almalti, and Muayyed Nureddin, Canadians of Muslim faith, to torture in Syria and Egypt for up to two years. Further, the Prime Minister has defied the recommendation of the House of Commons (December 3, 2009) that the government apologize to the men and pay compensation.

A man dressed in a business suit and carrying an attaché case hurried toward me. When I stepped forward to offer him a pamphlet he waved me off peremptorily. He continued up the steps of the PMO and stopped by a key pad. My colleague Kirsten approached him with a pamphlet. I could see him dismissing her. Anger roared up in me like a geyser.

“Don’t bother, Kirsten!” I bellowed. “He doesn’t want to know! He wants to remain ignorant of our involvement in torture!” Wondering how the guard of six RCMP and Ottawa police officers might respond to my outburst I glanced over at them. They were grinning at each other: nothing like a little action to pass the time.

An hour or so later we packed up our protest. A female officer of the Ottawa police approached me. “Can’t I have one?” she said with a smile indicating my handful of pamphlets. I was taken aback and stood there dumbly. “Why does she want one?” I asked myself suspiciously. Then I thought with amazement “Well maybe she really wants to know about this” and I handed her one. By one quiet act this she removed all my anger and feeling of discouragement and left me with a challenge.

Experiencing the Divine...through another innocent child...

Happily submitted by Lenore Dixon

Christmas Eve, 21st century INCARNATION..."...the Word became flesh and came among us..."

We think of the Nativity, the story of the birth of the Christ, as "incarnation", God being visible in our lives; it is the benchmark of Deity invading our lives and reminding us that "I AM present with you."

I experienced a "living" incarnation while rehearsing a Christmas Eve Dance Devotion with Sophia (11 yrs on December 31st). I watched as this beautiful, pure and innocent child gave life through her lyrical dance interpretation of the words of a contemporary Christmas Carol, MARY DID YOU KNOW, "...that (Mary) when you kissed your little baby, you kissed the face of God...".

As she danced, Sophia gestured a kiss to a "baby" whom she cradled in her arms and then extended her arms heavenward as she "kissed the face of God".

The combination of  Sophia’s inspired dance, the vocal solo and organ accompaniment helped to create this "Godsome Moment."

 

.

January 20th 2012

Across the (Godsome) Universe

By Christopher Aiello

They say you haven’t lived until you’ve stayed up all night and contemplated the universe. For the past two summers, I have enjoyed the indescribable pleasure of working at a small United Church camp in Northern Ontario. To this day, it remains the most positive experience of my life. For nearly two months, I lived in a secluded community setting, surrounded by a most pristine lake. As perfect as it sounds, childcare, while fun and rewarding, is inevitably physically draining, and almost every night I found my self ready for bed as soon as possible.

Some nights, after our staff meeting, a friend and I would walk out to a place called Chapel Point. In the most perfect darkness, we would lie down on the benches and stare up at the stars, and, if we were lucky, the northern lights, encircled by Lake Temiskaming, the sound of the water on the rocks, and our thoughts.

The stars were as dense and beautiful as I had ever seen them. After a period of thinking, we would share thoughts on what we were seeing. How big is the universe really? What is out there? Eventually we would drift back into silence, again captivated by the wonder of God’s creation, not wanting to leave. I can recall no other occasion when I felt more at peace, and in-tune with God, and the universe.

Godsome Endurance

John is visiting with his mother in the lounge of the nursing home.  I’m sitting on the far side of the room reading a book, because I find that my presence is a distraction for her.  Ruth was already living in LTC when we got married, and so she doesn’t really know who I am or why I am there.  They just have better visits when I stay out of the picture.

There is a couple sitting close by- obviously they have been married a long time.  I’m not trying to listen in, but I can’t help but overhear their conversation.   It is not an easy one.

 She came in after she had a fall, and she is staying there while she is evaluated by a specialist.  She wants out (who can blame her?), and she can’t understand why she can’t go home with him.  She suspects it’s because he doesn’t want her to come home, and she accuses him of conspiring with the doctors to keep her there.  He denies this over and over again, with as much gentle patience and good humor as he can muster, well aware I suppose that this suspicion and inability to understand her situation is part of her dementia.  He is less patient when she dismisses the competence of her female specialist doctor as a “woman who doesn’t know her head from her a**. 

“I don’t want to hear that kind of talk.” He says firmly.   His wife had been an OR nurse herself.   So strange how this kind of disease can cause people to say things they would never have said “normally”. 

I feel for this man and this woman- She is in the grip of a disease that will continue to rob her of her faculties, her memories, and eventually much of her personality.  He is watching it happen, faithful, helpless, hurt by her hard words that he knows do not belong to the woman he married.    But I don’t know these people, it’s not my place to say anything or even acknowledge this deeply personal conversation, even though he must know I can hear them.  After several laps around the same conversation she becomes really irritated and tries another more aggressive tack. 

“Well why on earth did you hook up with me then?”  She asks, her voice rising in frustration.

“Why?...” he responds, taken slightly aback.

“Why did you hook up with me all those years ago- why, tell me right now”. 

“Why did I hook up with you?”

“Yes, tell me right now, I want to know- WHY?”

“Why?... Because you were the prettiest nurse around.”  He tries to keep his tone light, but as soon as I hear his words I am instantly choked up, and silent tears flow freely down my face, hidden (thank God) behind my book.   The emotions in those six words are so bittersweet- saying so much about the love this man carries for this woman still, even as they reveal something of what they have lost, and will continue to lose as time marches relentlessly on.   I have been privileged to witness the enduring power of this love. 

So how does she respond?

“Don’t say that!”  She responds in a half horrified whisper.  “Someone will hear you!”

Someone did.  And it was Godsome. 

1 Corinthians 13 “[Love] bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things…Love never ends”

A Week of Wonders

From Joe Culp

I must say my week of working at Bridge Street United Church's Hometown Nazareth Vacation Bible School was one of the most full experiences of our lifetime. I look back at the week the Kids were really having themselves a blast through song, Music, stories and Craft Creations.   One of the best thing I saw was  everybody making up Bagged Lunches to help feed hungry people at Gleaners Food Bank and as a Volunteer at our St. Matthews Food Distribution Centre I wanna compliment them on a job well done!

 I know for a fact that our Food Bank Customers down at Gleaners Warehouse would appreciate a great meal as so many just can't afford to get out to get food in the house...as they say "There's nothing Worse than Having Food in the House" which is true indeed!!!

Now my side...one of the best thing I ever experienced at VBS is having not one...not two but 3 Jobs to do and that really made me feel like I had plenty to do there that week.  .my 3 jobs involved 1)Science Assistant in the morning in which both to our surprise that Mike Roberts and I made the Wednesday Belleville Paper!   The Children just adored the kinds of experiments we were doing that any kid could do without using Dangerous Chemicals and Bunsen Burners. Instead we used Milk, Dish Soap and Food Colouring on Monday's and Citrus Fruit on Tuesday that included Lime, Lemon and Orange We put them both in water to see which one's would Sink and which one's would Float although I won't spill the Beans on that one until someone comes up and asks me.
 
2) Helping with Great Activities at both The St. Thomas Anglican Church Parking Lot and the Nicholson Field where the former BCI(Belleville Collegiate Institute) once sat and From Monday's to Wednesday’s and Friday's I was Randy Reid's assistant. The kids sure had a Blast on the kind of Activities we did including Hockey on Monday at St. Thomas and Water Balloon and Sponge Toss on Wednesday's.  Later that same day the youngsters were treated to a waterslide and they enjoyed that a lot!!! And on Tuesday's and Friday's at the Northeast and Southeast Nicholson Field I had to run back and forth from one field to another to keep track of the activities. 

Thursday we didn't do activities as kids visited both the Bridge Street Retirement Residences and Quinte Living Centre so I got to stay at the Church and Chat with those I haven't yet met and give my reflections on how much I was really enjoying my helping out at Hometown Nazareth.  Of course Randy Reid and I go a long ways back...Randy was my former School Teacher at Bayside Public and who knew that one day I would wind up going from his Student to assistant eh?!!! And I ask myself how good does that get eh?!!!

Another great task I had was having to be the Front Door Man Warming up Hearts and welcoming not only the Youngsters In to Hometown Nazareth but the Parents as well and I had the Huge responsibility to remind them to make sure the kids were taking to their Groups and signed in and to make sure no Kid walked out.  That task was courtesy of the Reverend Dr. Bill Smith Minister at Bridge Street  

Unfortunately like all great things our Program like all the other VBS and otherwise has come to an end but as I always say their is plenty of Opportunities to look forward too down the road and as I say in our Minutes of Missions ending "MANY HANDS MAKE MANY MISSIONS" and I do strongly encourage anyone out there to Please do get involved cause we can't do it without your Help and it's more than just 2 Hands to complete a mission!!!

 And in the end I want to say "You know what this combined Vacation Bible School along with College Hill, Bridge street and us at St. Matthews was one of the greatest experience of my lifetime but the only problem is I'D LIKE TO DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN"!!! Thanks be to God Amen!!!

A Steaming Cup of Justice

Towards the end of Sept., my Dad and Stepmom came out for a visit.  We went up to Tweed and had a look around, taking in the Lakeside Park and the United and Catholic churches."  (I know, I know but Dad's a preacher, I'm a preacher's kid and my Stepmom's the daughter of missionaries so what do you expect? ) Then it was time for a coffee.  The local coffee shop on the main street is a pretty hip place- the store window is tastefully filled with ecclectic objects from Afirca and other coffee growing parts of the world, there are plants and magazines, and computers for internet access.  

The shop offers organic and fair trade coffees and teas- and they are robust and delicious.  Fair Trade means the owners make a committment to giving farmers a decent gauranteed price for the coffee they grow, rather than leaving them at the mercy of commodity prices. This married couple relocated from Toronto eight years ago, and love living and working in this new and very different part of the world. 

My Stepmom is a friendly and curious person and has the gift of being able to talk to anyone.  She asks about some slips of paper with names on them which are taped to the wall behind the counter.  The owner smiles and says "Oh, those are our wall coffees".  "What's a wall coffee?" we ask.

"Well, a lot of people who come in here are on social assistance or disability and sometimes they don't have the money to pay for coffee.  So when that happens we just write it down on a piece of paper and we stick it up on the wall to keep track, and then when their checks come in at the end of the month they pay up.  People will come in and say 'I'll have a wall coffee', and we just right it down and up it goes."

"Isn't that great!"  Says my Stepmom.  "And do people pay what they owe?"  The owner nods and looked very serious "Everbody always pays- we've never had any problems at all.  Come the end of the month, everyone's caught up."

We thank her, not only for the wonderful coffee, but for the story of the wall coffees as well.  And I realise that this coffee shop is serving up justice, for far away farmers and local customers alike, one warm mug at a time. 

Praying Standing Up

From Cathy Russell


Friday Oct 7 12:15-12:45pm


John, Ruby the dog and I arrive at Kingston City Hall at about 12:10.  We are met by four others.  The provincial election was just yesterday which may explain the small turn out today. We are told that last week, on the eve of the vote, there were well over 100 on the hall steps, many of them holding or wearing signs calling on politicians of all stripes and at all levels to take growing poverty seriously. I know that the Anglican Bishop and former rector of Christ Church Belleville, Michael Oulton has stood here himself.

The fact that these loyal few have still turned up today demonstrates that this vigil is no passing fad.  In fact, this silent half hour vigil has been taking place on the steps of Kingston's City Hall every Friday since 1995- that's 16 years!  The vigil was begun and continues to be supported by the Sisters of Providence of St. Vincent de Paul.

All of us choose a sign from the large number printed with slogans and covered with plastic to protect them from the elements. 

We gather in a small circle and offer the words of a prayer printed on small paper flyers. The flyers also ask questions like "Should Canadians working full time for a full year be living in poverty?  Millions do."

After the prayer, we stand and face the street.  Two of the group hand out the flyers to anyone who will take one.  Lots of people stare- it's a beautiful day and the end of the late summer tourist season.  Some people walk by and avoid eye contact.  Some people stop to chat and to share their own disastisfaction with the growing gap between rich and poor.  One of these is a man in a wheelchair who collects disability.  He is also a local published author. 

 As I stand with this small group I feel a warm sense of peace in my heart.  It is good to be here with these faithful souls, to be witnesses for social justice in this moment.  John and I are here somewhat by chance, but their level of commitment in this one simple peaceful act of solidarity makes these folks heroes in my eyes.


I look out at the sparkling water, and I am reassured that God does work all manner of things for good, and that even if I am not around to see it, God's purposes of right relationship cannot be undermined forever.

Below are the words of the prayer offered at the beginning of every Firday vigil for 16 years.

We long for a world
that respects all humanity
and all the earth,
And so we stand in silent,
non-violent solidarity
with those affected
by government and corporations
that put profits before huan kind
and indeed before all Creation.

Together in this vigil,
we bring before us
injustices affecting our world
In gentle awareness
we present these concerns
to the Divine Light
which permeates the universe.

Thus, we stand in hope.

Unto Us A Son is Born!

From Margaret Rice

September 16^th 1955. 

It was a nice sunny afternoon, I was cycling home from visiting my Mother. My thoughts were on my friend who was expecting her baby that day. Suddenly the thought flew into my head., ‘My baby has been born’.  We were in the process of applying to adopt a baby, but we had not been accepted at that time.

I got home to find a message in my door to say the friend’s baby daughter had arrived, her name was to be Lynne and I was asked if I would be Godmother.

With all the red tape involved in adoption, it seemed to be such a long waiting time.  It was not until February of 1956 that we heard there was a baby boy for us- about five months old.  We had to go to the east coast of England to see him. It was icy cold, ice formed on the edge of the beach were the tide came up.. We were allowed to take the  baby for a walk along the sea front. As he was sickly, and being treated with antibiotics, we were not able to take him home just yet.  

Two weeks later…Mothering Sunday (UK version of Mothers Day) in the Church calendar…we were able to bring him home.  The day was nice and sunny, so different from our first visit.

Now that I have had surgery, my son is taking care of me until I am fit enough to look after myself.

And the wonderful message I received 56 years ago about the birth of my baby turned out to be right.  My son’s birthday is 15^th September 1955.

A Godsome Sign

From Sandy Darlow

In 1999, after a job loss due to lay-off, my husband, Lance, decided to obtain his AZ license to drive transport truck internationally throughout Canada and the U.S.  Except for an occasional short trip during his 17 year career with the Canadian Armed Forces, he had never been away from home for extended periods of time and the thought of him being gone for two to four weeks at a time filled me with anxiety. 

One afternoon, while he was gone from home, I was feeling particularly anxious about his absence and decided I should sit down and talk to God about it.  I asked God, in my prayers, to please give me a sign that my husband was okay and that He was watching over him. 

Later, that evening, I was collecting clothing items for the Diabetes Association and after getting them ready I started towards the door to take them out to the front step for pick up the next morning.  As I began to open the door I saw a sparrow sitting on the front step.  I expected it to be startled and fly away, but it didn’t.  I opened the door all the way and stepped down.  The bird didn’t move.  I thought maybe it was injured or resting. 

When it still didn’t move as I walked right up to it I decided to bend down and extend my hand, palm facing up.  To my surprise the bird jumped into my hand and looked directly at me.  At that instant I recalled the prayer I had offered up to God earlier in the day and the words, “I am your sign” echoed in my head.  I brought the bird up to eye level and said, “Thank you God”, and the bird flew away.  I felt the burdensome worry lifted from me and replaced with a feeling of peace.  The proof was in the pudding, or in this case, my hand.  God had sent me a wonderful little messenger to tell me He had heard me.  For years afterwards whenever I was feeling anxious or unsettled I would think about that moment when God extended His awesome grace to me.  Thank You God!

That Godsome Voice

From Margaret Rice

When I got married in1950, my husband asked me if I would consider coming to Canada. He wanted to ever since he was left an orphan at the age of 12. I, on the other hand had a very close loving family, the thought of leaving them I could not contemplate. Being the patient kind man Frank was he understood, my parents had almost adopted him as a son, he became my sister’s big brother.  Frank also has a very good job with a lot of future ahead for him. [We thought].  We adopted two children had a lovely home and all was going so well for us.

In 1965 the company that Frank was working for was being taken over by another company, his job, Company Secretary, was on the chopping block there was no need for two people to hold that position, the other company had a Company Secretary who had a lot more superiority, and years in his background.

What to do was our dilemma. We began to talk about moving to Canada again. In some ways I would be leaving a lot more behind me than Frank was. He left the final decision to me. We packed the children up and went to spend a week by the sea.  Hastings Sussex to be exact. The weather was lovely we played in the water and built sandcastles. We also did a little exploring, so many old historical places to visit. For those who are historians you will recall Norman the Conqueror  landed in Hastings in 1066. We went to one of the first churches to be built on a Bay close by.  I asked Frank and the children to go for a walk or find somewhere to play. I wanted to go into that church alone. It was tiny and smelt of old wood, salty from the sea, it was dark inside as the windows were not big. I knelt and prayed for guidance.  A lovely deep mellow voice answered me, “Go to Canada”. From then on my mind was  firmly made up, that voice and those words kept me focused.

My life in England was easy, I had people I loved all around me for support if I needed it. Life in Canada has not been so easy for me, but because of that voice I have not regretted the move. My children have done well and have lovely families. Maybe I should have said ‘Yes’ in 1950... if I had I would not have had the family I have now, and the support I get from them. I really believe it was God’s will.

Unforgettably Godsome!

From Cathy Russell

Recently, I was priviliged to attend the birthday celebration of one of our most senior members.  Carl's 90th Rocking Birthday was one party I will never forget. Along with the standard birthday accessories, there was a karaoke singer crooning Elvis and Sinatra tunes in black tie, a granddaughter in a 1970s Elvis outfit complete with sequence jumpsuit and black wig, Carl's wife in a feather boa. 

Carl is a veteran of the Canadian army's gruelling Italian campaign during WWII.  I know Carl must have seen some things and done some things at that time that none of us, including him would ever choose.  The amazing thing about Carl's eyes is- that no matter what ugliness they may have witnessed, they are the warmest, the sweetest and most expressive pair of beautiful browns I have ever seen.  I can read so much in Carl's eyes, a warm greeting, serious attention, laughter, affection, even mischief! 

At one point during Carl's birthday party, the karaoke man began a rendition of that beautiful standard "Unforgettable" made famous by Nat King Cole.   Without giving it a lot of thought, I stood up and said to Carl- "Shall we dance?"  Those wonderful brown eyes lit up as I took his hands in mine.  And so we danced through the song, me standing, and Carl in his chair, gazing into each other's eyes, sharing something more than a song and a dance, something difficult to put into words, something deeply human and deeply holy.  I sensed that we were connected at a deep level, and not just at the end of our finger tips. 

The song ended, the moment passed, and after a brief visit with Carl's wife Audrey I took my leave.  On the way home, I passed Bridge Street United Church, just as the bridal party of an afternoon wedding came out onto the front steps.  As the bride and groom kissed each other, and their friends cheered and applauded, I reflected on the fact that Carl and Audrey have been married 64 years.  May those newly weds be so richly blessed, and may they always see love in each other's eyes.

Where Faith meets Food

From Cathy Russell

Being involved with kids' programs always renews my respect for teachers.  Being with a group of kids all day, teaching them, helping them, settling their disputes, focusing their attention and shaping their behaviour for six hours a day is stimulating, rewarding and EXHASUTING! 

Last week, I was helping at Bridge Street United Church's Kids' Camp- a Christian day camp program.  The theme this year was Hometown Nazareth: Where Jesus Was A Kid.  It was a fabulous program, well organised and run by terrific volunteers.  The front of the sanctuary was transfromed into the front of a typical home in Nazareth Israel, the gym into a Market Place complete with wool shop, bake shop, olive oil shop wood shop and stable.  Every day the kids heard a different story about the young Jesus- a boy who was at once just like them, and also the Son of God.  There were wonderful crafts, catchy songs, fun games and interesting science experiments, all of which reinforced the theme.

Bridge Street Kids' Camp also includes an element new to my experience of these programs- community service. Part of each afternoon was dedicated to "doing something while getting nothing in return" as my young friend Isaac said.  One day it was visiting seniors at a retirement home.  One day it was picking up garbage outside in the neighbourhood.  And one day it was making bag lunches for the local food bank.  Each group of kids contributed something to these lunches- the four year olds decorated the brown paper bags, others made rice treats, others filled small bags with raisins, others spread egg salad and tuna salad on bread to make sandwiches.  My group's job was to assemble the completed lunches, ensuring that each bag had a sandiwch, a rice treat, a bag of raisins and an apple.  It was chaotic at first, but they really got into it after a couple of minutes.

In fact they did so well, that I wanted to congratulate them later on in the afternoon.  So I told them "You guys I was so proud of you this afternoon with the way you worked together to get those lunches ready.  You did a great job and the people who get those lunches are really going to be happy to have them."  One child asked "Who did we give the lunches to again?"  "The Gleaners" I said, naming the regional foodbank for our area.  At this another child piped up innocently "We go there all the time with my mom."  I looked at this child seriously and said "So you know how important it is."  "Yeah"  the child said.  "We don't have a lot of food in our house.  We have like, less than ten food at home."  

Less than ten food.  Do you know how many 'food' you have at home?  I have no idea, how many we have, but I know for sure, that even when I haven't done groceries for two weeks, even when I think to msyelf "There is no food in this house!"  if I were to open the cupboard I know that I would find far more than ten food.  In that moment, it occured to me that this child must have COUNTED all the food items in the house- the cans of soup, the packages of pasta, the tinned tuna.  This child has counted them and has not got past ten! 


When we give to the foodbank or to any program that works with "the poor" we often think they are like an alien people- we don't know them, we have no contact with them- they are not like us, they don't look like us or act like us.  This child in my group at kids' camp looked no different from any of the others- you would never have known that this child and the child's family  had to go to the food bank "all the time".

This Godsome Moment reminded me once again, that the neighbours who need us are closer than we know, closer than perhaps we would like to think, and that Jesus calls us to reach out to them in compassion and friendship- to honour their stories, and stand with them in their struggles. I am greatful for this Godsome reminder.