Harapnuik Adventures

This is why you don't mess with Texas. (Black Widow)

Ok, you can mess with Texas now.

We killed 3 black widows that day. They are a very dangerous spider that even dad is scared of. These can kill you and there are a lot of them around here. Some are big and some are small. This one in the picture is one of the smaller black widows. 

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Our 1998 van served us well the climb up to 12,640 feet to Winter Park, CO. The mountains on both sides, in our eyes, are like summers before on mountains before. The richness of green, the smell of pine and cedar began the excitement of being in a space in time where Levi and Caleb could enjoy the thrill of driving their bikes down a crazy high mountain and test their skills that have been somewhat dormant for a year.

Keystone, Colorado 12,900 feet

A born and bred West Texan said to me today, “Been to Victoria and it’s beautiful, but I’d never want to live there. I’m a true Texan who loves flat: blue and brown. Green is not my color”. I laughed with him and his obvious contentment in his home.

Driving away after the 2 1/2 weeks of  the  Colorado Rockies we began the descent. I was amazed at the beauty and thought how I had missed the view of what was behind when we were working our way to the top. Looking back, we see beauty we missed the first time.

Going back to Canada I saw the beauty that I missed the many other times I’ve traveled the way.  When people in Texas hear that I’m from Canada they always, and I mean always say, “It’s so beautiful up there”. I often reply that there are parts that aren’t so beautiful. I will change that response.

Driving from BC into Alberta I could hardly grasp the beauty. I was constantly interrupting the boys with, “Look at how turquoise the water is,  look at how white the snow is, how purple and gray and ragged the mountains are, how many greens there are in the trees, how rich, how fresh, how blue, how… have I missed it all before?”.  Our God did His great work in the Canadian Rockies. Then there’s the Alberta prairies stretching like long open arms across the horizon where the blue meets the green and nothing stands in the way. Where angry skies wait to unleash their tears onto blazing yellow miles of canola held up by fragile green legs; all of this vastness making it difficult to return my eyes to the road.

My memories were not this vivid. I am reminded. How. Beautiful. Is. This. Land.

And the people. There’s something unique and deep being with people who know and are part of your history, my brother and sisters

Glen and Sarah Stuart's children

and to those whom I’ve adopted as sisters.

Jann, our lives entwined before we knew how to spell entwined and became my “RCMP friend” that Levi and Caleb know will bring with the mention a story about stealing (me, not her).

Trudy and her family, whose connection runs across growing from quasi adulthood to walking through the years of watching our babies grow and becoming people whom we admire.

Typical time with Trud...tipping a canoe

Elna, the one who never lets me off the hook and shows me my inner face and teaches me to love what’s there, cause she does and “it’s all good”.

Julie, who asks the right questions and isn’t afraid to hear the answers and listens and breathes deep sighs with me and feel the pain/joy/doubt/hope/instability. Leah, with her excitement fresh off the plane from 1/2 a world away; contagious experiences that connect across miles.

Cathleen: time stands still with her and nothing else matters except now, and I’m forever late leaving the coffee bar for there’s always more to know and ask and tell.

Joan(ie) sharing what’s new after many adjustments in both of our lives; me moving away and her moving back. She’s the owner of my most quoted quip, “it’s not wrong; it’s just different” which has taken my stubborn brain through banking, medical and grocery store mishaps in the last year and partnering in my second most quoted quip, “it’s not where you are, it’s who your with that matters”. All ladies tremendous gifts from God.

But greater still is family. The rest that comes with being with the first gifts God gave me. No fake fronts or time of hesitant eye contact to see if it’s still there; the acceptance and love and depth of understanding that I’ve come to rely on for rest. Peace.

I enjoy being in two families as a daughter and sister and aunt and cousin and niece again.

I met new babies that will be loved as I was in circle of our family.

I’m not quite sure how humans can operate without this circle. I know they do, I’m just not sure how.

Looking back to Canada allowed me to look back at Abilene. It’s been just over a year in our new home of Abilene and we drove into Lethbridge on our one year anniversary of leaving Lethbridge. It’s been a climb for me. I’m not a hiker. I’d rather sit in a coffee shop with my book and look at pictures that others took on the hike than do it myself. Last year I am in the boots sometime carrying a walking stick, but mostly not.

I follow the path, looking down to make sure I don’t stumble over rock or root. I miss the excitement of the top, the details on the side, the beauty on the way. I only notice the obstacles that trip me or make me work too hard to avoid, or fight too hard to get over.  But God in His grace gives me a second look and a second chance. I see what we have become. I hear the boys say they miss Abilene. I feel a draw to return to our home. And when we land, I know we are in the right place. I know that the climb has been hard, but when turned and looking  back, it is beautiful and awesome and good.

God knows what He is doing, not letting us know the future. We would run from it, hide, lock ourselves away. We would never know the beauty of looking back because we would never move forward. We would never know how good He is if we didn’t trust in His goodness. He gives us spiritual markers, “a ha” moments along the way to remind us how far we’ve climbed. Stop. Turn. Look. The climb is part of the journey. Even if it’s long and high, the beauty that it’s grown in you wouldn’t there if you didn’t take the steps forward, in trusting it’s where He wants you.

(verses from a quilt hanging in the Gleaners lunch room).

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My lovely uncle passed away this week. Another lovely uncle has been given 2 years to live. And I mourn with their families. The thought of saying goodbye, the gaping hole in lives left behind…why, oh why?

A small, casual church in the mountain village extends a hand to our family in welcome and worship. A church family in another place. The pastor speaks of the “worth-ship” of God and His glory. He says something I have not considered before.

When Adam and Eve sinned in the garden, God determined that we should not be tied to sin for eternity. He allowed our physical lives to become temporary so we would still live eternity in perfection. So death is not so much a punishment, but a release to the way we were created to live; eternally without sin.

Death is only the door that leads to being with our Creator.  Death, in itself,  is a gift to the one who dies as a child of God. But not us that remain without them. The true act of selflessness is to rejoice for my uncle who is right where he belongs; perfect and at the feet of his Lord. But we ache for the loss in our lives. We weep for the daughters and son and brothers and sisters and all the loved ones that are staring into the hole that is left behind.   My God, though, is so happy to see one of His sons is back home.

And us wounded ones who have lost parts of ourselves in the battle, who walk around with gaping, bleeding emptiness, who feel the longing for something we have lost but can never seem to find, who yearn for a home that always seems to elude us and a wholeness that is never quite ours, perhaps that aching is itself an answer from God?

That our craving for Him is a way of experiencing Him. And in our hungering for God, we are slowly healed by God . Ann Voskamp

www.aholyexperience.com/2010/07/letters-to-wounded-when-you-wonder.html

Someday we’ll understand. Someday the emptiness won’t be there. The hole will be filled. We will be made perfect.  It will be as it was intended. Walking with Him in the garden.

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As I stroll around a mountain village, I regret the person I never was. I always pictured myself as someone who was a little off kilter, drawn toward a simpler life and a bit renegade in my way of doing things or living. I regret the fact that I haven’t lived that way, truly.

Sure I recycle as much as I can, but I still buy the silly things in the packages that need to be recycled. Sure I homeschool, but I don’t take advantage of every opportunity for learning, especially the simple small ones that would be a natural outcome. I tend to latch on to the big ones that inspire a lecture instead of small statements of fact and insight. Yup, I try to buy local, but I’m continents away from the 100 mile diet. And yes, we did drive a “Jesus” van for a few years, but truth be told, I was a little embarrassed about it being parked in front of our house.

I don’t have dreadlocks, have never pierced anything and my Birkenstock have long been donated. So as I stumble into these fabulous coffee shops and bookstores where the customers linger over art or discussions in their fisherman’s sweaters that hold cable knit stories of their lives, I feel a bit fake; like I don’t belong, yet I’m trying to fit in. Guess it’s the age old struggle of humans. Wanting to fit, but not sure if I’ve quite made it.

I walk through another part of the village where wine and cheese tents are set up for tasting and buying. I hear conversations of “oaky, deeper, clairvoyant, smokey” and I go, “huh”? It kinda makes me feel like an idiot; as though I deeply know nothing. I know I like ice wine from Germany and Asiago from Costco but the descriptions fail me. To me they are just yummy.

As much as I feel a bit out of it, I am enjoying our mountain experience. I love hearing the guys talk about their day, seeing their smiling, yet sweaty, muddy faces. I love the cool air, the green, soft grass, the friendly people, the lovely little condo we found. I even enjoy cooking the meals with whatever the SAFEWAY (yes, I’m excited about safeway, though still too expensive, it’s a safeway) store in town inspires. I love the dry air, though the hands and lips need lotion and I’m experiencing static cling again. It’s crisp, and clean, and smells of the mountain. The sky is brilliant against the green and grey of the elevated 12,000 feet. The flowers are exploding everywhere. It’s a lovely place, so much like our Rockies. I’m so thankful to be here.

I know I wasn’t meant to be like someone else. God made me me, and though I can admire others who are more like I want to be, I am thankful for the place I am at and definitely thankful for the people I am with; for the place we have come from, for the place we are going to, for the many people that God has given us to learn from and enjoy from Alaska to Texas and all the homes in between.

If I was a elephant, I’d thank you Lord for my fine trunk,

if I was a fuzzy, wuzzy bear, I’d thank you Lord for my fuzzy, wuzzy hair,

and if I was a crocodile, I’d thank you Lord for my wide smile,

but I just thank you Lord for makin’ me me.

For you gave me a heart and you gave me a smile.

You gave me Jesus and you made me your child.

So I just thank you Lord for makin’ me me.

Perhaps it’s that simple. An attitude of gratitude instead of regret. For if I did live another way, I wouldn’t have lived, or be living, this way. And, oh God, I am so thankful for what you’ve given me in this way of my life.

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We drive through New Mexico, and we comment, “this reminds us of Kamloops”. We walk outside on a warm, humid morning in Abilene and I hear, “this reminds me of Florida”.  We drive through Southern Colorado with the Rockies on one side and the flat land on the other and I say, “boys, look, it’s like driving from Fernie to Lethbridge”. We drive through Colorado Springs and it reminds us of, well, Colorado Springs since we had been there before . We drive up to Winter Park and it reminds us of Bragg Creek, Banff, Whistler… Every where we go, I hear that refrain, it reminds me of…

I mentioned it to Dwayne that we seem to always be reflecting our new observations back to something we’ve seen/experienced before. My learning theorist reminded me that that’s how we learn. We hang new things on things we know already.

It makes me think of how people see Father God. I remember a question an atheist friend asked, “How do you picture God?” There’s never been a choice for me. I have always seen Him as a pair of strong and gentle hands.

I know some people see Father God as a stern judge, harsh and cruel instead of loving and kind. Perhaps it’s because of their remembrance of the only father they had; their earthly father. Perhaps a movie, or a sermon, or a threat that painted a picture for them.

But I see strong and gentle hands. Probably because my earthly father’s hands are strong and kind. One of my many memories growing up were of  them reaching out and grabbing me as I walked by to go upstairs to bed. He’d be sitting in his creaky easy chair by the stairway and I’d end up in his lap with a kiss on my cheek and a “God bless you, sleep tight” in my ear.  Those hands fix thing I never think can be fixed, medicate calves that refused to be medicated, were always pulling and building and digging and moving. Not often, but when necessary, those hands smacked my butt for lippin’ off, stealing from my mom’s purse or whacking a sibling without cause.

I can understand how some would struggle with their image of  God if they had an absent, evil or destructive father.  That would change my image as well. But I guess that’s where truth wins over transference. We find the truth of Father God in Scripture. He is strong and gentle, firm and sure. He grabs us to hold us, heals us when we don’t want His help, is always pulling us closer, building us up, digging to our core and moving us forward.

So we continue to build a true reference of Father God, so that when we see Him in another detail of our life, in creation, in someone else’s life,  He reminds us only of  Himself.  We’ve seen Him before.

I will not forget you. See, I have carved you in the palm of my hands. – God – Isaiah 49:15-16

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The two ladies sit across from me at a table in the middle of a gaggle of playing children.  I ask a question and the story begins.

A life unfolds:  herstory. Young, newly wed, a son newly birthed, 10 days from the hand of God into this young family then from the touch of a doctor, to the arms of a nurse, running across a parking lot into a hospital, passed the nurses stations directly into ICU.

“Don’t expect your child to live”, she’s told. He does, by the grace of God, and over 18 months the young mom and dad push back the covers in the middle of the night and clock 3 other times during the day to wake their child to feed him the medicine to keep him on this side of eternity.  A historical operation and he thrives and we watch him saunter past in his cowboys boots and hat in his 14 year old body that is energy and strength.

“He is a special one, that boy”, she says.

Another life unfolds: herstory. First child, 3 years old has a sore tummy. Cancer. 1 1/2 years later she is ready for the other side of eternity, but waiting for daddy to come home from work. She raises her head from his chest,  “Jesus loves me, this I know. For the Bible tells me so”, and she passing into sleep till Jesus takes her home.  “We had the chance to teach her about death”, and while they weep their loss her younger son says, “It’s ok, you still have me”.

Herstory, yourstory, history is waiting to be written for others to hear. What a gift to the children to know the steps that moms and dads have taken: the darkness, the burning questions, the doubt, the nervous twisting of stomachs. The steps that move us forward or sideways and sometimes backward.

My grandma died just before her 102 birthday. Someone had interviewed her about her life for her hundredth birthday and I remembered my eyes widen and respect grow and breath catch many times in the telling of herstory. In her broken English she spoke of her life in Germany, marrying my widowed grandpa at the age of 4o, but being so torn about the decision not knowing if her first husband was still alive after being exiled to Siberia that she attempted suicide.

Her dna doesn’t belong to me, for she was embraced into a family already formed. A family with 8 children and adults who desperately need her to mother them and their father in the time of the dirty thirties. A prairie farm took the place of the woods of Europe and she worked alongside her husband and children. My mom grew through her teens with this lady, and though genetics never played a role in her influence, I’m sure I do some things the way I do, because my mom did things the way grandma did and so on and so on.

A mom, preparing a Sunday ham, after cutting of an end, puts it in the roaster.

“Why do you cut the end off, mom?” asks her child.

“I don’t know. My mom always did”. She calls her mom.

“Why do you always cut off the end of the ham before you put it in the roaster, mom?”

“Cause grandma always did”,  she said.

She calls up grandma, “Why did you always cut off the end of the ham, mom?”

“I cut it off so it would fit in my roaster”, she replies.

They trickle down, these movements, or language or words, that make no sense to anyone else. They may not even make sense to us when we stop to think about them, but they are part of ourstory.

When I think of the two boys of the mothers who have lived a hell that I could not imagine, what a gift it would be to offer them the stories of their histories. To know part of who they are is part of who their parents were and the days they filled and the experiences that shaped their personhood. These boys may not care until they have a wife and some children who would, someday, want to peer into the lives of those who have gone before and shaped their lives by little brush strokes many years ago.

Oswald Chambers wrote:

If you cannot express yourself on any subject, struggle until you can. If you do not, someone will be the poorer all the days of his life. Struggle to re-express some truth of God to yourself, and God will use that expression to someone else. Go through the winepress of God where the grapes are crushed. You must struggle to get expression experimentally, then there will come a time when that expression will become the very wine of strengthening to someone else… Try to state to yourself what you feel implicitly to be God’s truth, and you give God a chance to pass it on to someone else through you.

The lines of yourstory need to be written, or told and retold, so someone like me can sit across from you and hear of the grace, strength and mercy of our God.  It’s living and telling ourstories that His – story flows on.

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Last night I handed a little grey box to Dwayne and asked him to do me a favor. He said, “but what if you say no”. I told him he didn’t have to ask me, just to put it on my finger. He opened the box and slid my engagement ring back where it belonged. It is so beautiful.

One year ago as I began packing our boxes to move to Abilene, I kept catching my diamond on the sides of the boxes and I was a bit afraid I would wreck it, so I packed it in my jewelery box along with my 40 birthday locket with pictures of my 3 favorite people in the world. Yesterday, I unpacked them and they now rest in their intended place.

I don’t care to wear much jewelery. I like it on others, but I’ve only wanted three jewelery items my whole life: an engagement/wedding ring if I was to be married, a locket to carry the pics of loved ones and a pearl necklace. I’m still waiting on the last one I have missed this sparkle on my hand. It marks the beginning of our adventure together as a couple. My nervous revelation that he had asked and I had said yes and my 31 year old life was about to change. A man like him and a girl like me loved each other. He’s the only one who I ever really trusted to stay when he saw the real me.

I have a favorite quote:

“Love is not blind. That’s the last thing it is. Love is bound; and the more it is bound, the less it is blind.” Chesterton.

I don’t know the history behind the words, but to me they are so true. Dwayne and I have been married for 17 1/2 years and though we’ve often disagreed, hurt each other, struggled with understanding and frustration, I never for once doubted his commitment to our oneness. I always wanted him to see me as adorable, lovely and fascinating. You know how long that lasted…didn’t even make it to the altar before he knew better.

As time and experience are added to our relationship, I know that the love and commitment has bound us tighter together more each year and he sees me more clearly every day. He is not blind, but I wouldn’t want him be towards my fussiness, anxiety and anger. As much as I’d like to be seen as perfection in his eyes, what a lot of fakiness I would need to live.

As I type this, I see my rings. They hug me a bit tighter than 17 1/2 years ago, but they are a symbol of the covenant we made. One which I would say yes to if he ever felt the need to ask me again. I am bound to this man in love.

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Okay, I’m feeling nostalgic. Levi’s birthday today brought back memories of the night he was born. Dwayne and my excitement/terror that we were soon to be parents. One month before we were ready, the crib not put together, no hospital bag packed and what?? we weren’t ready.

Just like today. I’m not ready for Levi to turn 14. Maybe because my 14th year is a bit embarrassing to me: first boyfriend (how stupid was that?, not him, but boyfriend??) being rude and ignorant to my mom, dad, sisters and maybe even brother. No, probably even my brother. Ditching my best friend for another new one just cause she was as tall as me and that made me feel fine. Yuck, kind of a yucky year. I told Levi tonight about a few of my stupid actions and prayed he would make different mistakes that wouldn’t embarrass him 30+ years later.

I think he had a good day. 2 1/2 hours of airsoft in a lush green heavily wooded area (yes, in West Texas) loaned to us for the night. 5 other guys and Dwayne all dressed in camo doing what camo guys do. Caleb bought him a GI pinata and filled it with candy. They took him on easily as target practice and he ended up empty of his treasure. Birds chirping and ra-ta-ta of bbs firing. No injuries of consequence.

I not only love Levi, I really like Levi. I know he’s my son and I’m bias, but he really is a joy to be around. I love his sense of humor and the way he can turn a tense situation into a smile just by cracking a joke. I love his artistic eye with the camera. He can see things through the eye of the camera that I don’t see with the ones God gave me. I see young children comfortable around him because of his gentle, quiet ways. They must have a sense of acceptability: “I was scared cause he is so tall, but after a while I wasn’t”. One 5 year old at an activity says to his mom, “I’m bored”. Are any of your friends here? “Yup, my friend Levi, but he’s busy right now, I’ll wait till he’s done”. Later he’s running next to Levi on the way to the bowling alley, swinging his tiny bowling shoes. I love the way Levi just accepts people, especially our family. We bug each other, wear on each other and nag at each other, but he still loves us and listen and obeys. God bless him.

So he’s put on another year and I look forward to the many more in front of us. I pray grace upon him as he grows, learns, discovers, makes mistakes, listens, obeys, disobeys, ignores and learns all over again. Just like the rest of us. Happy birthday, son.

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Preparing for Levi’s 14th birthday and fulfilling Caleb’s food science requirement, Caleb wanted to bake the cake. It’s taking a bit longer than normal because my scientist child has to taste, measure precisely, check out the air pockets in the eggs (what are they for?) and return again and again to Preston’s Madagascar vanilla container to nibble away at the yummy stuff (alcohol free). Maybe by lunch we’ll have it in the oven. Brother serving brother and loving it. I think he’s ready with the beaters, so I should go.

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I love book sales and there was a great one this morning. I hiked up the stairs to an art studio where a former home educating mom and art teacher was selling out. Book after book I stacked on my pile and excitement poured over the stories we would soon be curled around on our beds or couch or chair.

I love book sales and this was one of the grandest I had ever seen. How did she know I needed those two science text books for the next two years that are way too expensive online and though a friend had offered to loan hers, I much prefer to drip experiments and highlight ah-ha moments on our own.

Stacks of men and women of history that I’ve only glimpsed into their character and experience, like watching a movie sideways, are now on a pile on our bedroom floor. Where do we start? Modern Mother Teresa, or St. Augustine; William Tyndale, or Mary Jemison…anywhere we want. History unfolds in the life of the people who lived it.

I count them:30-4 text books=26/4 months of the summer = 6 1/2 books a month as we gobble them down. Or should we chew on them and enjoy the flavor? Give them time to digest and feed our lives? Either way, I am armed and ready for the adventure.

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