The aunties: Chapter one

It was Anne Lammott who named her thighs "the aunties" when she grew weary of trying to change them. This more affectionate, gracious approach struck a chord with me, since I confess I have openly and secretly hated my thighs for way too long.

It doesn't take a whole lot of expensive therapy to figure out how we get ourselves into these culturally condoned relationships of hatred. The economy must remain viable. The magazines must sell. Every month, we want new ideas on how to pummel our bodies to better suit our impossible standards.

I'd like to change.

The truth is, its not easy. My mother hated her body. Her sisters hated theirs. I grew up learning about the value of loving your neighbor, loving your enemies, loving God. But, somehow, it was okay to hate yourself?

My fragmented, and often diametrically opposed trains of thought often collide or hold shouting matches inside my aching head. I believe that our bodies hold wisdom. That if we never read stupid articles about what to feed them, or how much, and just listened, recognized, and acknowledged our sensations, we would know how to take care of ourselves-- ALL BY OURSELVES!

But: I live in fear of becoming potluck lady.

I want to think of my body as more of a vessel, and less of a symbol.

I must tread gently. The aunties, and the colliding trains of thought upstairs, are all sending me signals that perhaps I have exposed enough of them for now. I must care for this complex vessel, learn to listen to its subtlties more closely, learn to treat my aunties with the respect that they deserve.

The aunties

The following post must be at least partially credited to Linda.

I have written many a post listing the accolades of more than one of my family members. It seems fair that I should "thin my skin" a little and introduce you to the seamier underbelly of my counterparts. Allow me to introduce: The Aunties.

The aunties are an integral part of the family. Without them, much doing would go undone, many scenes would go unseen, things would seem undeniably lop-sided. But they are that high maintenance, embarrassing, omni-present type of relative. Over time, they have been hated, cried over, abused, scrutinized, and under-valued. I have tried to change them. There were periods of time when I really believed that I had them under control. But as anyone with control issues can testify, there comes a day when you are brought to your knees and you recognize the need for genuine acceptance if you really want to live in peace and harmony.

I won't make any promises that I can't keep, but I intend to make peace with the aunties. I intend to practise what I preach about the futility of judgementalism, the healing powers of love, the decision to live fully, regardless of the fragmental, imperfect condition of living human.

This may just stretch me in entirely new ways.
Consider yourselves my partners in accountability.
Think of the aunties, and wish me God speed.

Pie Songs

Cherrypie is a sweet slice of humanity. She has tagged me to list the top 10 songs that mean something to me.

Now, I confess that this was intimidating to me. Not because I don't love music. Not because there aren't at least ten that have meaning for me. But because in typical, overanalytical, introspective, neurotic fashion, I feared what this might reveal about me.

Then I remembered: I WRITE A BLOG! ON THE INTERNET! That doesn't exactly fit the profile of a woman who values her privacy. So, bring it on, Miss Pie. However, there is nothing tidy or chronological about Mrs Blunderview, and so consider this your warning.

I grew up Mennonite. For those readers outside of the Bible belt, WE ARE NOT AMISH! We had electronics (You know, the 8 track...), we had vehicles, electricity, flush toilets, and wore relatively normal clothing. But, we were conservative, we valued family, hard work, the laws and suggestions of the Bible, quiet living. There wasn't a lot of loud music being pumped through our farm house, and if I listened to rock 'n roll, I did so very quietly, very furtively, and could rarely make out the words in the songs. Still, music was huge in our lives.

My sister was an achiever, and she took piano lessons for many years. After school, she would practise scales and complicated pieces for many hours, sometimes till she cried and felt compelled to kick at inanimate objects. I can still hear her piano playing in my memory and I can feel all my nerves and tendons cheering her on as she attempted to perfect a particularily difficult run. Many times, she would play hymns and we would sing together- she got harmony and I would sing tenor or alto and when we thought it was really something, we would perform at church on sunday morning. (The infamous "Special Number").

My brothers played guitar. When Al decided to teach himself, he would play until his fingers bled. When Ken picked it up, he played Whoa, black Betty bam-a-lam until our ears bled. Ken always got away with way more worldliness than the rest of us.....

When I was about 22, I was bored of my job as a medical receptionist and decided to move to Wichita Kansas to work for a non-profit housing company through MDS. (How stupid was that?!) The only things that got me through that blotch on my life were dating a bonehead from my team, and because that really only made things much, much worse for me, I lived for evening when I could listen to James Taylor on my walkman, alone in my ugly bedroom. Especially: "Damn, that traffic jam, how I hate to be late, by the time I get home, my supper be cold......damn, that traffic jam." It was probably just cathartic to listen to someone use a bad word...

When I was dating Brian, he wrote me a song for my birthday. It was pretty cute.
He is a very persuasive person, and a couple of times now in the past 16 years, he has convinced me to sing with him. Now, Brian is a very talented musician, which only enunciates the truth that I am not. Still, we sang at our wedding, then at my friend Danielle's wedding, then again at last year's Christmas Eve service. I love the sound of Brian's voice, singing, or not. Mine-- Not so much.

I once bought Brian and I tickets to go see Le Miserable. I love that story. I listened to that soundtrack ad nauseum.

Years later, I surprised Brian with tickets for Holly Cole. I felt a little threatened by her. She was thinner than me, and sang a whole lot better, and I had a sinus infection. I never took Brian to see Holly Cole again.

We love to go to the Winnipeg Folk Festival. Brian gets lost in the beauty of the sounds. I get lost in the crowds of people, drinking in their diversity, and enjoying the atmosphere of the park in the summer, with constant and varied music always in the background. It feeds my creative spirit, and I always resolve to make enough time one day to sell my handicrafts in the handmade village, and to revisit my dream of becoming a hippie when all the kids have grown up and are living comfortably in bungaloes with 2.5 children.

These days, one of the sanest, most meaningful, personal, and spiritual moments that I live during the week is worship music at my church on Sunday mornings. I go alone. Something deep inside is broken each time, and I drink in something pure, something holy, something indescribable. I receive hope. I see beauty in life's brokenness. I sing with my entire body-- my heart, soul, mind, sinew--- everything.

And God knows, I don't care if I sing well or not.
God knows: for once, its not about me.

That may or may not have been 10. I'm an artist, not a mathematician.
Thanks Cherry pie. I don't even feel the darkness so far today, you've given me oppurtunity to be grateful for SO MUCH.

Pawing Feebly In the General Direction of the Dark

Last night I had support group.
Actually, I met two sisters at the mall food court - we laughed, we cried, we ate, we counselled. Its cheaper than a real therapist, plus one can scoot over to Wal-Mart on the way out for milk and granola bars, fabric for Arianna's home ec, and a couple of bags of candy for my mindful eating program.
I talked my sisters out of a pricier Italian restaurant in favour of the food court since what I really wanted to do was watch people. I know I have stooped to a new low when I make a point of finding people who clearly are much worse off than me. And that's where I spawned my highly cynical, super sarcastic list of gratitudes:

My breasts are saggy, but comfortably within the "c" range. If I had to haul around pendulous appendages in the double "z" zone, optimism would seem a lofty goal. So would the hopes of my back ever feeling aligned.

I'm not exactly a trend-setter, but at least I've glanced around since 1981, and I don't sport a MULLET!! Maybe, I'm just not self-confident enough. Either way, I'm good with it.

My husband does not think of track pants as formal wear. Or casual wear. Or as something that goes with a mullet.

I was genuinely, un-sarcastically touched and encouraged by the food court cleaning ladies. They weren't pretty, or well-dressed, and I'm sure they worked very hard for very little financial return. The one lady was decidedly warty. Still, she came by our table (we stayed for hours, there didn't seem to be a "no loitering" by-law... ) and with the most pleasant smile and graciousness that would lend itself well to a better paying establishment, offered to clear our trays for us.

She didn't have to do that.
She could have been a grouch, and to be honest, I would have expected that from her. Whether she had decided to or not, this lady was doing the ordinary in extraordinary ways.

And that, folks, is some of what I learned at the food court yesterday.
Stay tuned. By late this afternoon, or tomorrow, I may be simply be reduced to reminiscing about the days when I kicked at the darkness. Kicking right now sounds way too closely related to another thing I suck at : consistent exercise.

Kicking at the Darkness

Every day, I can feel this dark cloud creeping up behind me. I already decided that I don't want to turn this trial into another one of those body image problems where I channel all my uncertainty, depression, and other messy emotions into the singular goal of shrinking my body. So, without that to focus on, I find myself dealing with: boredom, restlessness, anxiety, fear, self doubt, sadness, guilt......
Every day it feels like I need to make a decision all over again. Give in to the emotions that tell me to hide away,
that tell me its hopeless,
that tell me I"M hopeless, OR: kick at the darkness. Here is how I thrashed yesterday.
I took the kids out for a walk in the unbelievably gorgeous autumn weather. Then we came home and made ma and pa leaf people. They are ideal relatives. So unintrusive. They seem to get along with just about everyone, and they always have these smiles plastered on their faces. If I didn't like them so much, I'd swear it was an act...

Today, after chewing my cuticles down to bloody pulps, eating pink wafer cookies that I don't really like, a handful of stale pretzels, and consuming nothing less than six cups of coffee with cream......

I sewed this bag.
There is nothing simple about the complexity of human emotion.

Maybe tomorrow I'll dig an in-ground pool.

Secondhand Smoke

Once upon a time, smoking was a sign of sophistication. Important decisions were made through a haze of grey in the boardroom. Classy restaurants, coffee shops, public transportation, even elementary education staff rooms were places to light up in. Mothers gathered in each others kitchens to encourage one another and enjoy their coffee with a smoke. Indoors.

Now, smoking has got a really bad reputation. And for good reason. We've all heard the sad stories about non-smoking waitresses dying of lung cancer, babies with asthma, and people dying of emphysema. We've come to accept the negative image associated with smoking-- poor health, smokey clothes, people shivering outside , 12 feet from the exit.... OUTCASTS!

Here's the thing though- the associations I have built around smoking don't tidily fit the I-live-for-bingo-and-I-don't-bath type of mentality. Some of the big players in my life are smart, educated, wise people who.... --GASP-- SMOKE!!

When I was a little girl, my big brother Wally smoked menthols. He was my daddy in many ways. It was always him who drove me to and from events, took me sledding at the ski run, took me to the beach in the summer, and then bought me a pizza pop and ice cream on the way home in his 70's velveteen van. I always felt safe and loved, roaring around in that ugly van and enjoying the smell of Wally's menthol in the air.

In my adult years, one of my favorite friends enjoyed every cigarette she furtively smoked as though it were her last. She respectfully hid this from her children, but when they were in bed, we would chat over the fence and I would soak in her wisdom. Lory thought out of the box. She was unconventional, gracious, brilliant, creative.

In the summers at the cottage, I enjoy watching and learning from Al as he packs and savours his summer pipe. I don't mean I learn how to pack a pipe- I mean I have enjoyed getting to know him, glean from his wisdom, watch him mellow with the years, and watch his intellect morph into something messier, something more grey than the textbooks ever taught him.

Recently, many bridges have been built with smoke. Without a bonfire to gather around, we would wheel Ken's wheelchair outside of the hospital, and although he had kicked the habit, we would light one up for him for old times sake. I wept with Ken's friends under a pergola rich with cigarette smoke. Al and I ran funeral errands in the comfortable presence of Du'Maurier.

The short answer, the tidy one, is that smoking is evil.
That nothing good could come of it.

But there's not much room for the hazy shades of grey in that.

Hi, I'm Joyce, and I..........

I have a confession to make. Its time to stop hiding the truth, and to just come clean.
I may come across as this nice, clean, well-meaning, small-town, girl-next-door type BUT I am an ADDICT! I routinely torture myself with resolutions to STOP! To think of my children! To set my thoughts and goals on higher places! To recognize the problem, and thereby to take the first step to healing and wholeness.

Ready??
I AM A COMPULSIVE HUNTER AND I DON'T REALLY BELIEVE THAT I WILL EVER GET WELL!!
oh, it starts out innocently enough with a little thought, or a good intention. (hmmm, I should slip by the thrift shop, see if they have any jars for my compulsive-salsa-canning disorder; or hmmm wonder if anyone has donated their excess garden zucchini so I can make some of that fabulous tomato and zucchini soup).
Well, like any gripping disorder, I rearrange my entire existance to fit in that trip down cast-off aisle. I peruse for old quilts, trampling hunched and grey haired volunteers in my wake. Like a greedy raccoon gone wild, I sniff and scavenge for vintage buttons, lustre ware plates, coloured bits of glass, or Christmas decor from the 50's or earlier. All my good intentions wash out of me as I barge through the doors, nose to the air, sniffing out those good finds with my killer cheapskate instincts.

At home, I lay out my spoils and secretly feel grateful that all the other collectors were responsibly staying at home that day, lovingly putting together alphabet puzzles with their well-scrubbed offspring. I carress my prized possessions, lean back in my chair grinning like the cat who snagged the bird.

Then the guilt settles on me like a dark cloak of condemnation.

HOW SOON BEFORE THE AUTHORITIES DISCOVER YOU? YOU'RE PROBABLY A FIRE HAZARD WITH ALL THAT OLD STUFF GATHERING DUST ALL AROUND YOU! YOU'RE SO ADDICTED TO FINDING OLD STUFF THAT YOU DON'T EVEN DUST YOUR HOUSE! WHAT KIND OF PERSON ARE YOU?! YOU'RE ONE OF THOSE FREAKS WHO TAKES IN ALL THE NEIGHBORHOOD CATS AND KIDS AND LETS THEM PISS ON YOUR COUCH AND EAT RAW MACARONI WHILE YOU ALL LOLL ABOUT ON OLD QUILTS WATCHING OLD MOVIES AND GNAWING ON DAY OLD DONUTS!

(wonder what I'll find tomorrow?)

Pay it Forward

I have been humbled but giddy like a school girl at all the gifts of love that have made their way onto my kitchen counter in the past weeks. I am right now being soothed by a cd of beautiful songs that Ruth (its true, sighed roo) just brought over. Not only are the sounds good, so are the smells of the nummiest looking cinnamon buns and a casserole for dinner that I didn't have to cook.

I really have NOT cooked since Ken died last Wednesday. Meals have arrived via neighbors, friends, and church folk. If that wasn't enough to make me wonder if I was coming across as entirely too needy... on Sunday after church, there were two BOXES of food at the exit that had our name on it.
"People just want to help" is all I heard.

Brian's family, living a bit of distance away, pooled together to send us a beautiful floral arrangement, and a basket full of fruit, nummies, and chocolate. I say one can never be too sad to eat chocolate.....

A new daycare family that have been cancelled more than once in Ken's last days brought me a huge basket of food, a lasagna, and a garlic bread. Talk about humbling. Am I this nice when other people are going through bad times? I don't think I've been in tune with people in grief before. I hope I learn my lesson by watching how well others have loved us in such practical ways.

I hope to pay it forward.
I hope I notice when people could use a hand up. Even if its nothing as obvious as a death. People live chronically with all sorts of pains in their hearts and
maybe a casserole and some flowers would help to prop them up.

Normal? HAH!!

Today it was back to "normal".
Everyone was headed back to somewhere- even the birds seemed more determined to get on with their lives. They busied themselves with flying south while my sister and brother also took flight - returning to jobs and family and the normalcy of routines. I resumed daycare duties, Brian returned to the classroom, and the kids headed off to school. Cocooned in my cozy little house, the hours slipped by uneventfully. I'm completely sure that events occured, but I rarely attempt to listen to the news over the sounds of "spongebob squarepants" on the leap pad.

Yesterday, the kids came home with a notice from the school office, alerting parents to the presence of lice in some unfortunate kids head. I dutifully did the checks, all the while thinking that if I had to go through that stupid crisis again, I'd likely burn the house down. Everyone came out clean, so I resumed my assumption that life would get boring and regular again. What a relief that would be, I thought, it might be nice to have a regular heart rate for a while.

But by some crazy, sadistic twist of the humour molecules in the atmosphere, there was another note brought home from elementary school this afternoon. It wasn't meant to be funny, and its really NOT, but the possibilities of DEATH, FEAR , and living with UNCERTAINTY throughout the mundane tasks of every day living just kind of struck me as ironic and funny.

All right, so its just some crazy ex-Niverville murderer. And all this time, I was worried about cancer.

Isn't that kind of funny? Or is it just high time that I got committed?

L'chayim (to life)

How much loving have you done?
How full and free your giving?
For living is but loving
And loving only giving.
(GD Johnson)

I suspect that some relatives may have left Ken's funeral a little disappointed at its lack of ritualized morbidity. But those of us who knew Ken at all, recognized that he would want the last laugh, and so through the solemnity and grief of our farewells, we celebrated. There was a party to be had.

Still, there is nothing light hearted about such a loss-- and in the living, the loving, and the dying, there was much provocative thought spawned. Who are we really but who we love? And those who love us in return? And in that rhythm, no lack is found. The wealth in caring always warms us, and opens our eyes to the hurt in others. Our loss can not be recovered. Still, we huddle, and strength is found in widening our circle to embrace every person who Ken loved.

Ken's memorium read:

Do the ordinary in extraordinary ways,
Do the extraordinary in ordinary ways.

Let this be my shrine for Ken.
May I not busy myself caring for my children to such a frenzy that I do so without CARE.
May I go about my employment as the means to living my life with fullness of giving and not to fuel the desire to GET.
May I eat to live and never LIVE to EAT.
May I be willing to stand alone.
May I not strive to make myself small and powerless.
May life and love have the last laugh, and may we have God's power in us to kick at death and darkness and wherever we go, to leave that place a little brighter.

I am reminded again of Nelson Mandela's powerful speech, and because he says it so well, I will conclude in his words, and not my own.

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We are born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us, it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

INAPPROPRIATE & IRREVERANT Quotes

Warning to all people I love and respect: the Kehler mutated gene makes one susceptable to dark, caustic humour. If you are offended by it, my name is Joyce Hildebrand. If it makes you giggle; my name is Joyce KEHLER Hildebrand.

1) Mother, age 80:
"Cremation? Oh, the idea of that doesn't bother me at all. Its MUCH better than being
BURIED ALIVE!"

2) eldest brother Al:
(in reference to people trying much too desparately to say "the right thing").
"Oh, I am allergic to all things CLICHE".

3) annonymous:
(regarding a bench made from the remnants of Ken's wheelchair ramp)
"Hey! If we sprinkle some of "Ken" on here, then I could park my ASS on his ASH!"

Funeral Details

The celebration of Ken's life will be held on Tuesday, September 26 11:00 am at First Mennonite Church, Notre Dame and Arlington in Winnipeg. For anyone who may have read the Wpg Free Press obituaries, you may be under the impression that the service is not open to the public. This is definately not the case. Everyone is welcome, and we look forward to meeting Ken's many, many friends.

Thank you, Shelli

I'm glad I don't have to do this alone.

This morning when a little dandruff was tickling my scalp, I was reminded of my friend Shelli. That doesn't sound flattering, but allow me to ellaborate. It was Shelli who confirmed my icky fears last December when the lice invaded. She hung around, picking for nits, and when desparation descended it was Shelli who delivered clippers for the great lice eviction.

On Friday morning (Ken's readmission), it was Shelli (and Esther :) that I scooped off the street to rush over to my house and run the circus. They watched and fed the kids. They finished my four zucchini nut loaves, they even canned my infamous salsa!

Tuesday morning, all I squeezed out of my twisted face over the phone was-- "Shelli- I CAN'T DO THIS!". She came right over.

She was there when I got the phone call.

Shelli knows what its like to lose a brother. She knows that a person continues to eat, to laugh, to cry.

She knows how to say "yes" and be Jesus with skin on.

* just a note: there are many others who loved extravagantly. But today, its Shelli's turn.

Something Good

Today is my brother Al's birthday.
He was the first child born to my parents, and it would be 16 years before the eighth and last child, (me) was born. Suffice to say, we grew up in different families. Still, because life can be a ridiculous sandwhich of the unexpected, His children and mine were born within years of each other.

Al and his family live in Uganda so cousin times are crammed into trips to the cottage in Ontario where they live for 6 weeks in the summer. It is through these cabin times that Al has become my friend.

Al is intelligent, skilled in the administrative, personable, and kind. He is insightful, sensitive, caring, and comfortable with vulnerability. He knows the love of God, and is in tune with His "still small voice". He has cultivated humility. Al acknowledges ugliness and injustice, and has seen and known both intimately, but he insists on the eternal goodness of God.

Over the past number of months, Al's presence has been invaluable. Ken found great comfort in his presence, as did our parents. Al has been able to use his skills amongst the living and the dying to be instrumental in working out details of a senstive nature. He has reconciled administration with humanity-- sensibility with sensitivity.

I'm glad to call Al my brother and friend.
Happy Birthday!

We celebrate LIFE.

Ken Kehler

June 27, 1963 - September 20, 2006

May he dance with Joy.

September 19, 2006

Cholangio Carcinoma
Ascites
Jaundice
Dementia
Words- just words.

All around, the scenery has shifted.
A cold wind has blown in.
All the colours have changed now.
Winter will come soon with her killing frost.

Old men shake and tremor.
Toddlers kiss and cuddle.

There are no words.

***

Dad is 84. He has seen the better part of all his friends die. Some whose minds had died years before. He trembles now, over his young son, dying in a body aged eons beyond his calendar years. A son whose mind has betrayed him.

All those years I worked in nursing homes. I used to imagine having to care for my father that way-- guiding the urinal, rubbing his boney back. Never once could I have known how cruel life would be to a brother four years my senior.

My dad looks young to me now.
Looks like he could live forever.
And that makes this cruelty ever more austere.

Family Hotel Weekend

It's true that we didn't know what to expect this weekend. And still, it didn't go the way we thought. On Friday, instead of checking Ken into the hotel at 3:00 pm, we instead admitted him back into HSC. To honour him and his daughters, we went ahead with the hotel idea, needing to spend time in one anothers company in any case. That was healing - just being together, sharing information,some tears, snippets of conversation, food, and quite a few laughs.

Ken's symptoms now indicate liver failure, to the point of forgetfulness and disorientation. His colour is remarkably yellow. I found my mischevious mind particles wondering what eloquent name Martha Stewart would come up with for such a colour-- Autumnal Pumpkin? Ill-beyond-belief-palour? It gave me pleasure to know that if Ken were quite himself, he would find humour in such irreverence. But, as it was, the mere act of opening his eyes and whispering a few words exhausted him.

Amongst the living and the dying, there was one unifying theme: Love. And I saw many elements of how Jesus himself described love:

Love never gives up.

Love cares more for others than for self.

Love doesn't want what it doesn't have.

Love doesn't strut,

Doesn't have a swelled head,

Doesn't force itself on others,

Isn't always "me first,"

Doesn't fly off the handle,

Doesn't keep score of the sins of others,

Doesn't revel when others grovel,

Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,

Puts up with anything,

Trusts God always,

Always looks for the best,

Never looks back,

But keeps going to the end.

Love never dies.

Let's Just Clarify

Comments usually stay in their designated area, but not today.

Laura said...
If you were not already my sister, I'd probably be too in awe of you to think we could relate on the same level. I often think of people as stained glass masterpieces that come to life when the light of God shines thru them. I have seen so many masterpieces lately, including you.

************************************

Is Laura being extra nice, because I keep puking up my heart and watching it splatter against my computer screen? This comment is so kind.

Am I a walking contradiction? Or do "masterpieces" typically present bodily as F-U-B-A-R? (f*ed-up-beyond-all-repair) I am terrible to be with. I am irritable. I throw fits. I fight the urge to do something crazy enough to land me on the Dr Phil show. I barely speak to my husband. And the bit about God shining through? Gee, I like that. But that would be entirely his doing. Any preparation that I haven't done up to this point is obvious. I'm not one of those shiney people who can tell what scripture has held me up through all this. Again, I'd have to say that maybe God stuck that Healing Rain song in my head, because its there all the time, and it comforts me and I don't own that cd. I had to google for the lyrics. What about the song that came to me yesterday after I saw Ken for the first time in 10 days? That song was "Jesus loves the little children" Not because when we are dying we are symbolically childlike, and become aware of him as our heavenly father, and how our childlike faith is honoured.

No.
It's the line... "red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight". What ridiculous lyrics. I used to think-- who has ever seen a red kid on the playground?!

But yesterday, I saw a yellow man.

I like comments. No, I love comments. I like encouragement too. I like to hear that people offer up prayers. I like to know that others can relate. I love to write. I love to have an audience that aren't necessarily hungry or need a bathroom. I mean everything that I write.
I believe imperically in lots of sensible and wise things. I make an effort to live with authenticity.

But guys-- I just don't know if I'm as swell as I'd wish to be.

The Weekend

Check-in: 3:00 pm, Winnipeg Victoria Inn.
Agenda: Be a family.

Re-Admission: 12:15 pm, Health Sciences Centre.
Agenda: Whose should I speak of?

9:11 am

Four zucchini nut loaves in the oven.
One pot of salsa simmering on the stove.
Three kids taking turns down the slide.

I'm off to a good start. Will continue to work at break neck speed until 3:00 pm this afternoon, at which time I hope to be of some use to the one whose illness gives me nearly unlimited nervous energy.

Since my infancy, my family has celebrated Thanksgiving by renting cabins at Clear Lake, MB. Its a beautiful tradition. This year, no one much feels right about heading that way, and at Ken's suggestion, we will instead be renting rooms in a local hotel just so we can spend a little time together.

I pray God's blessing on this weekend. Humanly, I feel frightened. Emotions are riding high- there is potential for some healing, but there is fear of causing more pain.

God- I ask your blessing on our weekend. Infuse us with the gift of being selfless, of always seeing anothers' perspective before our own. Allow us the grace to use both ears and both eyes to their potential, and our lips with reverence and discretion. Bless us with Joy amidst agony.

You are our father. You love us, and your vision is limitless. Ours is short-sighted, and so I choose to trust your perspective over my own. Bless my earthly mother and father. Give them oppurtunity to weep openly with their precious son. Cover them with your healing rain.

Healing rain, I'm not afraid to be washed in Heaven's rain.
(Michael Smith)

I am stalked by death.
She sneaks up behind me and whispers cold truths.

I am a machine. I cook and bake and can and clean and store up for living after the frost.

I am constantly preparing for the shift in seasons.

I am unprepared.

So, I move, frantically, helplessly.

I am a machine.

Something In Between

Lest I frighten away my readership with melancholy attempts at expression, allow me to present "something in between": A post designed not to make you laugh, nor make you want to slash away at your jugular with a dull paring knife.

Allow me to be comfortably mediocre.Words that make my heart take flight: Community Yard Sale.
The day couldn't have been more perfectly autumn, with a strong flavour of residual summer.
I wound my bike round and round town and came home with: 6 cookies (fundraiser to send a youth of YWAM), a piece of green fabric, three t-shirts and a pair of pants for the kids.

I also came home with a light spirit-- I wasn't out for the bargains, really. I was out for the interaction. I came home with a heart full of love for people in my community who know how to live with love in their actions. Sunday morning, I made it through an entire church service without bawling. I know its because for the first time ever, I remembered to pack some kleenex in my handbag. Next Sunday I'm likely to remember to wear mascara, and forget the tissue, then wipe my nose and drip black smudges on some poor soul to my left.

Sunday afternooon we had an outdoor picnic and enjoyed a stream of people coming and going, munching on my fresh salsa and soaking up the generous sun.

Soon, winter will be upon us. This pretty patch of rhubarb will be four feet under, and it will seem unbelievable that kids would voluntarily throw water balloons at one another in this very same spot.

Now, I hope you feel sufficiently neither emotionally hot nor cold.

And I hope I get through the day without throwing my snotty self against some unsuspecting victem who dares to show me some care or compassion.

LIFE Casserole

The following is (at least for me) a brand new recipe, but its not a family secret.

Mix together:
*essence of death
*the smell of fear
*2-3 dashes of anger

Add to one failing liver and allow to simmer on low heat for an undetermined amount of time.
Add chunks of:
*homework that drives a child to tears
*dialogue lost in translation
*large bills, when in season.

For seasonings, toss in grass clippings and recycling, tears of grandparents and children, sibling rivalry,transmissions and wheel bearings, prayers and hymns, and a generous portion of irritability.
For a more pungeunt flavour, blend with bottled pain and/or resentment and home-grown personal truths, numbering in the tens or hundreds.

Stew all ingredients.
Add more to taste.
Keep stirring the pot.







*******I am soooooooooooooooo not a good cook. No matter how many times I try to stir nicely, there's always slop slopping off the sides. Its a mess.

Reflections

I had reason to flip through some old photo albums this afternoon, and have the oppurtunity to pause and reflect back on the past 20 or so years of my life.

That's about how long I've been trying to be an adult now. Thus far, I must say, the pictures confirmed what I've suspected all along: its been a good life. Not every picture was necessarily a party, or a really rib-tickler, but most of them have precious and unique life seasons associated with them.

The early pictures of me and Brian freely reflect the silly, free-spirited love we have always enjoyed. Not to pretend that every moment of our time together in the last 16 years has been sheer bliss, but there's no denying it-- HANGING ONTO HIM WAS A GOOD DECISION!

By the end of my short time of reminiscance this afternoon, there were two distinct photo categories: ones that reflected good choices, or had some redeeming value, and secondly, those which made me smack myself in the head and wish I could redeem time, and go back to think with the correct end of my anatomy.

This is where I like being almost forty.

I'm not delusional enough to pretend I've never done foolish things, but I am smart enough to decide not to celebrate them, not to give them a permanent spot in my psyche, or even just on my bookshelf.I took those stupid pictures, which made me feel like a stupid girl, and I threw them in the stupid garbage. It gave me a great, cathartic burst of pleasure to hurl an entire album into the trash.

And now I'm holding onto the good.

Laura

Once upon a time, there was a large family. Five daughters were born, and because mommy was quite busy feeding, clothing, and giving birth, these five learned to depend upon each other quite a lot. By the time the littlest was born, the eldest was right fed up with mommy bringing home smelly, noisey, squishy surprises, so as soon as she turned 18 , it was time to seek greener, quieter pastures. Unbeknownst to either one, these two sisters were actually very much alike, and many years and many miles between them later, they would discover with joy that they shared so much more than their biological beginnings.
This is my sister Laura. She is very special to me, and if we didn't live 15 hours apart, I would be on my way to her house right now- to share a pot of coffee, drool over her latest, ingenious quilting project, laugh at the threads inground in her carpet, and last years Christmas cards still on her piano. After the coffee had grown cold, and half a bottle of really bad, overly sweet wine was gone, we would begin to philosophize. We would laugh at the irony of turning out very much alike, although having spent most of our lives away from one another. We would pore over magazines and books about fabrics and quilting designs. Laura would get excited about buying some high tech equipment to launch her craft to a whole new level, while I would imagine thrift shopping at bag sale day to get a bunch of old aprons and dresses to repurpose into a nifty neato something-or-other.

Most of all, we would laugh.

A month ago, when Laura flew out to spend some time with our brother, we had the privelege of spending an unusual amount of time together. One night, we decided to spend the night at the hospital, sharing the dark with Ken. First we needed to make a few stops. Laura managed to spend $45.00 on snacks and a bottle of really bad wine for us to share as we wiled away the nighttime hours. She spared no expense-- even purchasing two pretty plastic goblets so that we could enjoy our beverage with some class. We giggled and whispered and slurped and smacked until Ken's roommate politely informed us that he couldn't sleep to our accompanyment. We then politely reduced our rustling to a bare minumum.

Laura is one of the most fascinating, loveliest, gracious people in the world....and one of the goofiest. She knows how to buy in bulk. She knows how to laugh at herself. She knows how to be honest- with herself, and with others. She knows how to enjoy a good book. (even if it means staying up til four a.m. and being a yawning sack of uselessness the next day) . She knows how to enjoy a good speed boat ride. She has known hardship and heartache. She has given when there was nothing left to give. She has loved without being loved in return.

Laura- May the Lord bless and keep you. May the Lord lift his countenance to you, and give you peace.

I love you.

Arianna Faye Kehler Hildebrand

Tomorrow is the first day of the new school year. It's been quite a summer of changes, and we're not through yet. Tomorrow,my firstborn is going to junior high, and it'll be another season of new beginnings. She's baby-sitting age now, and a second mommy to her little brother. But to me, It seems a lifetime ago, and just yesterday that "monkey" was her constant companion, and I still got to choose her clothes every morning.

You were the start of it all for your dad and me-- you launched us from him and me, to....... "US". We became a family. You were/are my pride and joy. I couldn't believe that you were my little girl! I so hoped for my first to be a baby girl, that I decided it was impossible, and fell in love with a boy named Graeme instead. When you were finally born, I nearly asked the Doctor to check again! When Auntie Carol came to the hospital to meet you and saw you sleeping in the bassinet (I swear the first and last time that you slept, until you were four or five.....) She insisted that you were indeed a BOY!! We had to undress you, and then there was no getting around it! God gave me a girl? I just couldn't believe it, I was over the moon with joy!
Arianna.
You have become a lovely young woman, despite the fact that you have human beings for parents. I can't wait to see you join sports teams, enjoy your friends, and make excellent choices in your current reality as Junior High School student.

I love you , kid.
xo Mom

What Not to Do

Do not forget to refill a very important prescription on the Friday of a long weekend. Especially one which within seven hours of a missed dose demonstrates itself in nasty side-effects. Do not then work two consecutive night shifts with broken and insufficient jags of sleep. After the second such a night, do not come home, intend on going straight to bed but instead begin to CAN SALSA.

Do NOT drink coffee, eat muffins and cheddar cheese, fresh pickles from grandma, a chocolate chip cookie, and a few tastes of fresh salsa while canning and feeling your head float several feet above your shoulders. And all this before 10:00 am.

I repeat. If you want to be well, DO NOT do as I do.

Beauty from Ashes

Grieving the impending death of a brother has had dimensions that I was unprepared for. We've probably all read the "stages of grieving" and other insightful reads on what to expect when facing loss. Those are not the sorts of things that I am attempting to express here.

What has surprised and sometimes shamed me has been the rising up of some less evolved "inner child" in me. I first noticed it in photos that were being taken as people gathered in support of Ken. I observed that I tended to place myself in the rear of the group, even hanging back a step or two from the others, appearing peripheral and secondary-- as though I expected at any moment to be asked to "sit this one out".

I managed to laugh out loud at myself the day Ken's professional legal colleagues congregated outside of the hospital room. We'd never had reason to meet before, and though I was sincerely interested in meeting his friends, I once again felt myself hanging back and waiting for someone else to take the initiative. The exchange went sort of as follows: (well, its actually ridiculously paraphrased, to reflect the dysfunctional inner workings of my mind).

Lawyer guy: "Hi, I'm Ken's friend Mr so-and-so. This is my lawyer wife. She's as brilliant as she is physically beautiful and we just flew in from Ottawa, between extremely pressing and important meetings to spend some time with your brother."

My brother (not the sick one): "It's nice to meet you. I'm Ken's brother, and I just flew in yesterday from Central Africa. I'm smart, well-read, but also sensitive and kind. Most of the time I solve problems for the U.N., but I'm not just booky and beurocratic. I'm also a really great guy, and I have a close relationship with my sick brother. He needs me."

Joyce: "Hi. I'm a little girl in a woman's body. I've never known what I wanted to be if I grew up, so I'm mostly angst and I'd really feel better if you told me how much you like me, and how valid I am, even if I run a daycare in Niverville and don't even like flying".

(Okay, that was mostly just indulgent, please forgive me! But it was FUN and CATHARTIC to be irreverent and not so serious for a moment.)

Back to the point of being surprised about ugly lies and fears from the past who have also come around to visit at this time of meeting and gathering. I have done enough healing to know that I have a place on this earth, and that I don't need people to constantly remind me of my validity.

Still, I would be kidding myself to pretend that I don't appreciate validation and sincerity. I made a point of not actively seeking it out though, not wanting to feel selfish and narcissistic while the real issue is that of my brother falling terribly ill. This is not about me, I tell myself time and time again.

Which is why I wept all the harder when I met Ken's friends and found them to be among the loveliest, most authentic, and fun-loving bunch around. They were easy to like. They were the farthest from snobbish. They were unconcerned about titles and degrees and accomplishments. Meeting them has introduced me to a side of Ken that makes me sad I can't get to know him better, hang out with him and his friends, share more meals, more bottles of wine.

Which is why, upon receiving the following e-mail from a close friend of Ken's, I felt the tears of a small girl mix with those of an older, wiser, and stronger woman.

"Joyce, I am sorry that I have met you in this sad time, however I think I am going to take it as the good thing in all this "shit" because I find you quite an interesting, complicated, tormented, and beautiful woman. Your insight into your struggle and your comments that first day I met you when we talked about "body image" and our daughters, left me thinking for many days.

You are always welcome at my table. "

Unexpected pain. Unexpected pleasure.

Thoughts on Judgementalism

I have met a great many people whilst living on planet earth. Although there are many, many who I love, trust, and enjoy, there is not ONE with whom I agree whole heartedly. Being in relationship requires a certain amount of "majoring in the majors, and minoring in the minors", and at all times, making love your greatest aim. Does that mean that we should keep the peace at any cost and never risk confrontation? Not if we desire authenticity, and at times, not if we truly (with a heart full of love) want to warn a friend of heading into potentially dangerous territory.

Having said that, there are times when I have observed confrontation, and sensed the underlying attitude to be one of superiority, or fear. Fear that one's own belief system is being challenged. Fear that if we don't all think in the same way, that some of us will be horribly, dreadfully wrong- and that with dire consequences. There is a sense of urgency- that upon closer observation, appears to be clothed in impatience, irritation, and even anger.

Love, on the other hand, is patient and kind. Love withholds judgement. Love looks beyond the immediate, and searches for deeper meaning, different motivation. Love waits for an oppurtune time, a ripe moment when the Spirit whispers and one can speak into the life of the one you love, without the complication of a personal agenda. Love listens first, fully engaged, with both eyes and ears open. Love is just as interested in what the transgressor thinks and believes as they are passionate about their own belief.

A heart full of love breaks and aches at the thought of hurting another. Pain is not the intent, or the desire. There is no satisfaction in being right. There is humility in place of superiority.

When a person changes, or turns away from something destructive, I rarely hear of them commending the condemner, or crediting them with being the impetus for change. Again, I am not suggesting that we confront people, or urge them to pursue change so that we can later feel vindicated and appreciated. What I am suggesting is that true and lasting change instead grows from seeds of kindness, from a willingness to hear another as much as we desire to be heard, from a desire that was birthed out of a love that casts out fear.

Meeeeeeeee--OW !!!!!!!

Buttocks lift? Hopeless. Silicone implants? WAAAAAy too much loose skin to fill. Liposuction? Forgot to clean out our central vac system. How about we just punch a few holes?


I have had four epidurals, this should be a snap. After, I'll still be able to sleep through the night.

My new body piercing artist. (Like I've ever had one before!) Stacy Klassen; PussyCat Piercing (And no, I'm not kidding!)

(It was easier to hide the truth from you readers than it will be to hide the truth from my mother...)

Hmmmm Jane, how about for your eleventh birthday we get you this cute tattoo of a froggy? Or how about this one of a dead guy?

Like Tits On a Bull

I may as well move to Uganda with my big brother; that's about how useful I feel with this whole brother-dying-of-cancer ordeal that is constantly in my face.

It would FEEL so much better if I could reassure myself with thoughts of how helpful I'd been to Ken, or how many meaningful times and conversations we'd had as brother and sister, or how I'd taken care of his kids and bills so that he'd have more time to spend with his wife.

But, this is so very humbling. It just hurts, and there is no immediate balm to soothe the rawness.

There is no lack of love, no lack of true hope, of tears, and of good intentions.
But in my humanness, it just feels about as useful as tits on a bull.

What Did Me In

It wasn't :

*the 20 yards of sand tracked in from the sandbox
*the state of the kitchen and bathroom sinks (and floors,walls and towels) after millions of killer water balloons were manufactured
*the nerve of those who dared to utter those two EVIL words (I"M BORED)
*the diaper explosion that warranted a heavy duty gas mask
*the requests for clean, dry towels after exactly two minutes of pool use
*the amount of bird seed that was eaten by toddlers before our feeder craft was completed
*the tattling, the pettiness, or the volume

.....of the children that was my undoing.

It was mean-spiritedness that did me in this morning. Kids excluding others. Kids teasing in that awful sing song way. Kids racing to be first- which can only mean that someone else will come last, or not at all.

I know what it feels like to have that ugly meanness inside but it seems particularily cruel and painful that children come to this entirely on their own.

Choose

grey haired preacher pair in matching lilac

people saying Jeeeee-susssssss, yesssssss Lord;
not bothering with embarrassment

bad sweaters on lumpy bodies

soft babies who crap their drawers in worship service

weird people

the foolish things of the world to shame the wise

the lowly and despised things nullify the things that are

Judging others and sitting in places of superiority will find the one judging to become poor-- the loss of oppurtunity to learn from and be enriched by such rich diversity.

Pride only breeds quarrels, but wisdom is found in those who take advice.*

(*Proverbs 13:10)

HOPE

Head aching.
Eyes burning.
Spreading cancer
careless words
splintering relationships
Hope deferred.

Surprising love.
Unexpected sources.
the broken
-offering tools for healing.

Real. Raw.
Baffling. Beautiful.

Why I'm Ready for September

If I were as lovely as I sometimes pretend to be, I would be feeling sad about the change of season in the air, and the inevitability of school mornings to come. I would be dreading sending my beloved flock out the door when they'd rather be at home- blessing me with their presense, filling the air with song and laughter. I would be bemoaning the fact that my handsome life partner will get out of bed in the wee hours of the morning and speed off down the road to impart wisdom to his eager classroom full of school children.

I would smile benevolently each morning as my wiser-beyond-their-years offspring roll out of bed with touselled hair, schlump past the daycare kids (who came tidily dressed and already fed, probably something nutritious) on their way to the kitchen. There, (somewhere between 8:00 and 10:00 am) they will ever so independently prepare their own breakfasts- (from the three food groups, namely: chocolate milk, bread and nutella). Being creative and artistic by nature, they will unashamedly leave interesting trails of crumbs and splashes in their wake. Sammy's current form of artistic expression involves driving various small toys through the leftover milk on the bottom of his cereal bowl, then testing to see how the milk tracks vary when the toys drive across the table top. The various cups, drinking straws, bowls and spoons that the older children tend to leave on horizontal spaces (not limited to the table) are then very effective for creating that bold splash of colour that we hear so much about on popular home decorating channels.

I would be so appreciative of the helpful tidbits that my husband gives me when he pops into the house from working hard all by himself in the garage all day. I would nod and smile at the notion that the silly baby is headed towards the toilet again because I just haven't been paying attention (must have had my nose in a book again.....) I would leap at the chance to help move some heavy furniture out of the garage- what a blessing to spend just a few moments with an adult! I wasn't doing much of anything anyhow- just chucking a roast into the slow cooker for dinner that no one will be surprised will be ready at suppertime, just sweeping up 50,000 fridge magnets that mysteriously fell onto the floor, just fetching the laundry off the line before it starts to rain, just preparing grilled cheese sandwhiches for a crowd, setting the table for lunch, pouring drinks, serving lunch, then throwing half of it into the trash can...

Gosh, when they are all off at school, who will ask the question, "MOM! What are we doing today? We're BORED!", while tripping over $50,000 worth of toys, and glancing unimpressed at the trampoline, sandbox, and pool in the backyard. What will I do with my time without 12 pool towels to wash, dry, and fold before the next half hour when they all decide to go swimming again? How will I keep my conflict management skills sharp without Hildebrand sibling rivalry to manage?

If I were as nice as I wish I were, I'd be wiping a tear or two off my face on September the sixth. I'd be walking my little angels back to school and smothering them with hugs and kisses right at the school entrance. I'd reinterview all the teaching staff to ensure their qualifications for shepherding my tender sheep. Home again, coffee in hand, the house would feel hollow and echoey, and I'd have to take some time to redefine my role in the universe.

But I'm really just not that nice.

If you Build it, He Will Come

This afternoon, a couple of little kids are going to enjoy their dad's company in the comfort of their own home. That may not sound miraculous, but that's not the way I see it.

Thank you God, for all your goodness. You have given my brother the gift of more time. I cried out to you at times- reminding you of your sorrow when Lazarus' body ceased to function. You too have felt the pain of living on while someone you love dies. You heard us, and for that we are grateful.

And only You know where we will find gratitude and joy in the days to come, but in that , we trust You.

*Brian and two guys built that ramp- isn't he cute AND amazing?!

I Need a Thesaurus

First clue:
Joyce: "Hey, look! there's a tractor!"
two year old: "Uh, Joyce.... that's a backhoe."

Second clue:
Joyce: "Are you okay?"
three year old: "AArrrgh!! My brother keeps 'tangonizing me, even though I tell him not to!"

First Impressions

It's back to work around here, and we started out with a bang- well, with a sparkly candle actually. There is a sweet, chubby baby to add to the throng this year and on his very first day, we got to celebrate his birthday!

Jane and her friend rode their bikes to the grocery store to buy a cake mix and some blue icing, then whipped up this fine "marble" cake. (Okay, it was as HARD as a marble, and they mixed all the chocolate and vanilla up, then slopped most of it on the sides of the pan, but I was right proud of their independence and thoughtfulness...). We added some sparkly birthday sticks, decorated paper crowns with marker and foamy dinosaur stickers, then Jane and friend served up slabs of marble with ice cream for afternoon snack.
I think the little king was pleased.

Yup, That's Weird

Brian: "So he's going to have a blood transfusion, then you'll pick him up from the hospital and bring him home for his day pass? Doesn't that sound weird?"

Joyce: "Yeah, the whole thing is weird."

Micah: "What's a blood transfusion?"

Brian: "That's when they hook him up to a machine that sucks the blood out of him, cleans the blood, then returns it to his body."

Micah: "Oh! Kinda like a Brita!"

Near-Immersion Therapy

Spending lots of time with my family of origin has gelled my theories of rampant hereditary mental health issues. Few are affected sufficiently enough to be hospitalized, and no one has had the good fortune to experience electric shock therapy, although I must confess, I've done my best to achieve that goal, hoping that it would jar both sides of my brain into communicating with one another. Shy of that dramatic a treatment option, some family members have opted for a more conventional idea: therapy.

This is an approach that I heartily endorse, especially if you have bags of disposable income cluttering up your family room. However, if you find yourself and your wallet squeezed between your clamouring, hungry children and a cluttered house that insists on being paid for, then allow me to present to you a treatment option recently discovered by my big sister and I.

August long weekend is traditionally "Kehler" weekend at my brother's cabin in Lake of the Woods, Ontario. My brother is a mature professional who spends 11 months of the year solving real global problems, at times drawing on his original training as an accountant.

Then he goes to the lake.

Which brings me back to the idea of treatment options. While more sensible, better councelled, more medicated family members lounged responsibly and age-appropriately on the dock, my middle-aged sister and I boarded a speed boat with our brother at the helm. I say who needs shock therapy when you can let a repressed accountant let loose on his 5 weeks of holidays and blow about fifty bucks in fuel and three quarters of the ozone layer zooming around in circles on the lake then speeding recklessly over the ridges created by the wake.

Yes, indeedy. My sister screamed every offensive and anxiety provoking thought and feeling out of her bouncing body until we heard them ricochet off the surrounding woods. She laughed laughs never heard before this side of eternity. Every syndrome, disorder, and maligned thought pattern swiftly and succinctly healed by the catharsis evoked in that speed boat.

Near-immersion therapy.

Summer

It's been an unusual kind of summer. Having four children has kept me firmly planted in the land of the living- me: half-baked; and them: full-throttle. We've managed to enjoy a number of lakes between quick visits to the hospital. The "Florence Nightengale" dream of being super supportive sister has been nearly drowned out amongst the screaming needs of my own family. My mother keeps telling me to put my children first, and how they need me right now to be with them, and not to burden myself with unnecessary guilt for what I'm NOT doing these days.

I swear I'm trying to believe that.

It has been with mixed emotions that many glorious summer days have been spent with dear people during these unforgivingly hot summer days. Elaine and I go back since we were squalling babies in the church nursery, and "neighbors"- only two and a quarter country miles between our farms. There are few things as soothing as an authentic old friend's company when the familiar earth beneath our feet seems to shift unexpectedly.

It doesn't feel good. Still, I pray for healing. For him, for me, for us.

Last Week's To Do List:

1. Grieve for a brother, who by all accounts, ought to be on the other side by now.

2. Get the kids and me ready for camp. The oldest three are registered in the same week, and I am scheduled as a cook. That expectation has graciously been reduced to "Whatever you can, or can't do will be fine, don't worry about it".

3. Drive the husband to the clinic for minor surgery on his absessed knee, then 15 minutes south to another community every day for a dressing change where they stuff the open incision with sterile gauze while Brian digs holes into the stretcher with his fingernails.

4. Scratch. My body, not sure how to deal with the whirlwind of emotion and stress thrust upon it, has ever so helpfully broken into hives. These insanely itchy little nodules travel from face to limb, not wanting any part of me to feel less cared for.

5. Drive 3.5 hours to camp, move the kids into their respective cabins, and me into the cooks' quarters. My preoccupation having been largely on the children, and other life events.... I opened the rear of the caravan and had a bit of a giggle. My week's worth of camp supplies are sensibly packed into one rough tote for ease of transfer. Unfortunately, the bin is still at home, and it looks as though moving in this year will be exceedingly easy. After scouring the van's interior, I came up with a few items to make my stay more comfortable.

* a tea towel, aka a swimsuit top, change in underwear, or simply, a towel.

*a running magazine, complete with info on how you really only need a little black dress. (too bad I grew out of, and forgot said necessary item..)

*Spongebob tin, empty- no mood stabilizers, inflatable t-shirts, or toothbrushes.

*a few odds and ends: a plastic arrow, lipstick, coffee creamer, melted chocolate bar, sample of cream to rub on stretch marks, and some tylenol.

I'm grateful now, in unexpected ways:

That I spend most nights having nightmares about putting metal bowls and babies into microwaves. I don't think the flow of the dream will be overly affected by my attempting sleep on a bare, blue plastic mattress.

That I hate hygiene anyhow. I hate getting wet.

That I get a free staff t-shirt (oversized), that will double as a nightshirt, and forgivingly cover my generous rear end when I resort to borrowing my 10 year old daughter's "stretch" capris.

That my friends, and fellow cook-ies see the light side of life, and I get to fall asleep at night on a borrowed pillow and sheet laughing, and dreaming up new and innovative uses for a handbag filled with useless things.

Everybody is dying a little bit.
Everything is changing colour.

Yet, the mind refuses to stop grappling, to stop trying to process the unbelievable. A mind untrained in untimely endings.

Witty; gone morphine-muddled.
Desirable; gone swollen-gaunt.
Cynicism melted into teary vulnerability.

Sweet sadness, kissing this man, and carressing his dying hair.

Then the bright sunshine, where the earth's cracks ever widen, begging for rain.

Perspective.

The human body- so intricate, functional, miraculous; really. Capable of moving, lifting, breathing, weilding strength, growing soft. Can these miracles be carried out in bodies outside of the BMI charts, in bodies missing limbs, or in bodies that popular culture would deem repulsive? Do acts of love and selflessness come in size 00 to size 3, but lose their value in dimpley cellulite or bulging rolls of fat?

Neither hangers, nor mannequins, these bodies are capable of tremendous good-- a calling much higher than what we've been duped to believe. Periodical navel gazing and critical evaluations of our physical selves will likely plague us here below, but lets agree not to be defined by it. Would we spend motionless hours in our cars and vans bemoaning the lack of leather, the loss of "new car" smell, or the tiny specks of exterior rust? How ridiculous it would seem to spend life in the driveway, wishing that there was something prettier to drive us to our destinations!

Let's slide into the end of our lives, battered, rusted, dented, and grinning ear to ear. In the words of Erma Bombeck: When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say ‘I used everything you gave me.’ (thanks, Ruth!)

Gratitude, not Attitude

Life is a little like a thrift shop bag sale-- Here's your sack- fill it up and do with it what you can. This morning, I rummaged around and dug up a well worn item called gratitude, and here's a little patchwork quilt that I'm going to make with the bits.

scrap #1: My parents. Although by the world's standard, they are undeniably OLD (mom just turned 80, and dad 84), my parents have got to be among the most gracefully aging pair in the bunch. Where one expects age to cement "getting set in your ways", they have proved to soften with grace and mercy with each passing year. Never known to meddle, they nonetheless offer support, love, and acceptance to their eight offspring in more than one heartbreaking set of circumstances.

scrap #2: Nature. I don't begin to understand the mysteries of God, and don't like to dwell on the big, huge, "WHY" questions. But when I see the prairie ditches swaying magically with bullrushes that no man planted there, I watch the bizarre beauty of backyard campfire turning dead wood into uncontainable dancing colour, when I watched flawed humanity act in selfless and loving ways, then I can't help but be grateful for my big, mysterious, creative and loving God.

scrap #3: Cheese. Have you ever gone to the grocery store and indulged in picnic food like olive spread, baguette, camembert, cheddar, Boursin, and maybe some pastrami or shaved turkey? Oh- but you should!! It's remarkably easier to be grateful when you have savoured the sharp flavours of cheese with a little red wine to wash it down.

It goes without saying that there are heaps more scraps. But on this particular bag sale, these are what I've made use of.

Cancer Chronicles

It's funny what cancer does to people. Funny-strange, not funny-ha-ha.

My sisters are teary, kind, helpful, innovative with problem solving, selfless, and positive whenever there is an appropriate oppurtunity. My oldest brother (due back in the country next Saturday) is concerned, not only for Ken, but also our aging parents, and is willing to fly home at a moment's notice if anyone deems it necessary. My other big brother is diving ever deeper into a blurry liquor-induced version of his own reality.

My family members still seem capable of decision making, doing things that make a difference, hugging people compulsively.

I, on the other hand, fight the ridiculous urge to take up smoking and drink black coffee until I rupture a spleen. Or running myself through a paper shredder.

Out of Context

I've spent some years working with geriatrics, and an equal or higher number of years working with children who have moderate to severe disabilities. I know what to do with a man or woman who has the smell of death clinging to their greyish skin. I know how to comfort them, sing to them, rub their arm or back. I know not to correct them when they speak of the baby they brought home yesterday, and the barn chores that have yet to be done.

I can cradle a child born in a body with muscles that refuse to cooperate to the requests of her mind. I can stroke her hair, laugh with her, feed her gently. I can scoop her up in my arms and place her in a wheelchair effortlessly, then fasten all the straps and velcros without giving it any conscious thought.

I'm less sure, and seemingly less competent with a youngish brother whose hair has taken on a somewhat geriatric look (flat in the back, wild on the top), whose skin colour can sometimes rival the grey streaking through his hair, who breathes heavily with the effort of living with his pain.

It's out of context.

Arianna's twelfth birthday

I'm a boob when it comes to electronics, and I still don't know how to use Brian's handy dandy digital camera, so I've no photos to post of Arianna's fabulous 12th birthday party at Caribou Lake. I'm feeling a little like road kill that semis, vans, and sportscars insist on backing up and driving over again and again, but I want to write a little about the event, since my memory is so undependable. If its not in written word, then by tomorrow I'll be saying- "Huh? someone turned twelve? How nice!"

The two hour drive into Ontario was effortless between the cookies and cream chocolate bars, and the portable dvd player that the girls hovered around, and my own indulgence- a waffle cone with the best- in- the- world vanilla ice cream. The girls were down the hill and in the lake within minutes of arriving. I don't know how anyone can run off a dock clutching a floaty noodle and dive into ice water without dying of cardiac arrest, but either they were faking it extremely well, or they really did think this was the greatest thing ever.

After a screechy, dramatic, girly response to the outhouse, and all the bugs it attracted, the girls got jammied up and pulled out the hide-a-bed and snuggled in for movie time. They watched "Aqua Marine" and consumed enough salt and sugar to nearly topple the food pyramid. I caved before the girls, with strict instructions that they go to sleep after the movie as the next day promised to be 30 degrees and I didn't want them to spoil their day being grumpy and sleepy.

Auntie Carol (my faithful sister who joined us, knowing that I shouldn't be left alone. At the best of times, my brain operates like day old donuts, and after a stressload day trying to imagine life with cancer, the old noggin had clearly slipped a few cogs. I had no idea how to run the dvd player, get the canoe in the water, find the keys for the cabin, or flip the breakers. If it wasn't for Carol showing up, we would have spread our sleeping bags on the deck, survived on melted ice-cream, and stared despondently at the grounded paddle boat and canoe.)

As I was saying, Carol, Jane and I headed off to bed. Theoretically to sleep, except that Jane spent the night having night terrors- sleep talking, and walking. I swear she got up 10 times. She actually walked out of the cabin and down the path to the outhouse FAST ASLEEP and if it weren't for my sharp mother-spider-senses, she might still be wandering around sleeping in the bush to this day.

Next day was bright and hot, and after a feast of crepes, chocolate milk, and fruit salad, we were off to the lake. They lived in that water. Between the canoe and paddle boat, and hunting for minnows, or screaming at fat bellied spiders, naming two bothersome flies "winky" and "twinkie", I hated to think that we weren't staying for days on end.

Arianna had planned the menu, so we ate corn on the cob and tasti taters for lunch. The girls loaded up their plates on the paddle boat to eat out on the floating dock. (sure would have been a bright idea to bring a camera.....) a few million more dives into the lake, and it was time to pack up for home.

I'm proud of my kid. She has chosen really neat friends- well mannered, fun loving, active girls with a great sense of humour. Its going to be fun to watch them grow up, drive them to sports events (they pride themselves on not being girly-girls), see how they grow into women.

I like to remind myself that in six short years, Arianna will be an adult. God help us do our best by her. May she always feel safe to tell her parents anything, ask any questions, and feel sad when she disappoints us. May we respect her individuality, while guiding her as best we can with what we know, and be honest about what we don't know at all. May we remain humble, and grow together.

And the Sun Insists on Rising and Shining

Yesterday was my brother's forty-second birthday. I imagine he had plans to celebrate with his many friends, his true love , and his too-cute-to-be-true daughters.

Yesterday, my brother was hospitalized and diagnosed with a rare cancer.

Blogger Bonuses

Today I had an unexpected pleasure. A brown paper package tied up with pretty pink ribbon, containing...... (wait for it, wait for it!) A NEW TOWEL!!! I won't have to get remarried after all.

Blogging has brought with it some unexpected pleasures. The first was Brian and I thoroughly enjoying reading each others' writing. ( Makes sense, in retrospect. That's how we first fell in love- they were called letters in the olden days. ) That has blossomed into a friendly rivalry ie: "How many comments did YOU get?!", or "Yeah? Well, I'm being read by a PUBLISHER!" or, "My friends started reading my blog, but they found yours and like it better!"

Second pleasure was additional human contact, since I work at home with approximately 62 pre-schoolers. Along those same lines, come pleasures numbered three, four, and five.
3. Esther: a sweet gal who logged on, and also lives in my town. What fun to meet, then discover she has actually been having coffee with me for months, unbeknownst to me!
4. Janice: My sis-in-law of 14 years. What a flattery to discover she enjoys the twisted honesty of my "private" (bah, ha, ha) cyber space gab spot. What a privelege to get to know each other better.
5. "towel lady" aka Ruth: another hometown gem. Turns out she stumbled upon my blog- and darn it, she too knows all my irregularities and arythmias. Still, she brought me the gift of a towel, having not only read the NEEDS (see prior post) but CARING ENOUGH to MAKE A DIFFERENCE!! Now, should my children go naked, Ruth will have clothed them. Should they become hungry... I don't know, but I'm sure Ruth has something to do with it. Should they become imprisoned.... (Okay, Joyce, we get the point.....)

These are all unexpected pleasures. I accept them with joy and gratitude.

Why its Time to Get Re-married

The bath towels are wearing out, and quickly being recycled into bum-wipe rags.

I never did get a toaster or one of those pop up garbage cans.

I think a few hundred extra people snuck in the first time. There is no possible way that we could actually be related to so many people. (many of which I don't know if I've seen since.....)

Now that all the awkwardness is out of the way, I can really see the value in taking a honeymoon.

And, boy oh boy, could I ever use that presentation money now!

I am, I want, I wish, etc.

I am bored and incredibly content, all at the same time.

I want to spend a lot of someone else's money ordering really neat organizing stuff from IKEA or Lee Valley and organize the garage, the garden shed, the basement, the inside of my head....

I wish for all people to learn to be less petty, more gracious, less judgemental, less afraid. (including myself)

I love vintage. I love finding an old dish, linen, card with a meaningful message in it in someone's handwriting. I love the fur on a cat's face, right up to its funny little mouth, and all around the eyes. I love toddlers when they learn words, and start to stick them together in unique ways. I love old wood, old picket, old buckets, old pots. I love enamel, china, quilts. I love people. I love the prairies.

I miss Rosa, Pam, and Lory so much that it physically hurts. This is joyfully painful because even three years after moving, I can't believe or forget how much they mean to me, and how I want to be in their presence, how I want to watch them raise their children, tend their gardens, hear them laugh, learn their wisdom.

I wonder why I feel confused much of the time. I wonder why I was chosen to have such a blessed life- decent parents and siblings, a secure childhood, a safe country, a loving husband, beautiful, talented, and whole children.

I regret all the time I've squandored believing lies. Lies about who culture says I should be, what I should look like. I regret all the energy I have spent either trying to become the lies, or trying to talk myself out of wanting to become the lies.

I am not book smart. After a grade 12 education majoring in the humanities, and a history minor at University, I only remember that there were a couple of big wars that killed a lot of people. And I still don't understand it at all.

I dance so badly, that I no longer pretend that its something I could learn to do. It all got repressed out of me at a very young age, and the only sort of dancing I aspire to do for the rest of my life is some lovely romantic ballroom with my very graceful and coordinated husband. That way I can just follow his lead, blame him with things go badly, and enjoy that earthy smell of skin and Hugo Boss on his neck.

I sing with great enthusiasm. When I sing in community I am whole. It gives me hope for humanity.

I cry ever so easily, whenever I feel passionately about anything, or anyone.

I am not coordinated. No one with any sense wants me on their team.

I make with my hands: lots of peanut butter and nutella sandwhiches, pillows and quilts, children's clothing, ecclectic backpacks and handbags,and great, sweeping motions.

I write because I am. It clears my mind. It makes me laugh.

I confuse most things. I get confused about theology, about human nature, mathematics- any numbers, in fact.

I should be more anal. I should set the table for breakfast, know what the after school snack will be, know where my keys and wallet are. I should be running again. What little muscle mass I had acquired below the belt has sagged back into ripples and dips. I should accept myself anyway, just the way I am and be a little less cruel to myself.

I finish my son's drippy ice cream cones instead of ordering one for myself.

How about you?

Running Myself Ragged So I Can Go Relax

This is the weekend of the Manitoba Marathon. Now, judging from the title, one would think that I am preparing to go and run myself silly on the streets of Winnipeg. No, leave that to my husband who had to fill his free time with SOMEthing, so has been hard at work training. I, on the other hand, run out of necessity- usually from the fridge to the table, from the washing machine to the clothesline, and at night, from bed to bed (I'd hate to lose my momentum, and then notice that I'm so tired I can't run anymore, then people around me would begin to drop dead, and it would be my fault since I stopped running their lives for them).

So, husband's running partner's wife and I (do you follow?) decided that since they'd be having so much joy skipping through the city's streets, that we should be supportive by making their weekend as stress free as possible so as to avoid possible distraction from their goal. What better, more relaxing idea than heading out to the campground? I mean, we are two adults, and there are a mere eight (delightful) children between the two of us.

We plan on crossing the border into North Dakota. I realize that we may look like terrorists, so set myself running about the house locating something resembling birth certificates for my four clones. Apparently they've never been born. I know this because I spent three days overturning every shred of paper in this squalid place. I eventually located three carbon copies of "registration of birth" that we must have signed in order for them to kick us out of the hospital. Someone is going to have to tell Sam though-- HE HAS NEVER BEEN BORN! Although he looks exactly like his father, and versions of his siblings, he may actually be a figment of our imaginations. There is no legal documentation of his entry into this world.

I did find a picture of his sonogram. There is clearly a few round sections in there, and a few sweepy, grey parts. On the top, it succinctly says "Baby #4" in black ink. That's good. Right above the swoops and blobs it says "joyce kehler-hildebra" which is obviously someone sort of like me, although my name is not actually hyphenated, and has a few more letters trailing on the end of it. Still, this looks convincingly official, it is a sheet of paper, (officials like that sort of thing), and the blobby bits look quite a lot like the back of my leg.

I hope the guy at the border crossing is not frightened by my harried appearance. I hope he forgot his glasses at home. I hope he is impressed with my collection of carbon copies and sonograms. I hope we have an incredibly relaxing time watching eight kids in a pool.....

Just Crazy

"I don't know why the most we can hope for on some days is to end up a little less crazy than before, less down on ourselves."
(Anne Lamott; Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith)

Is feeling down on oneself a close cousin to the Biblical idea of "confessing our faults to one another"? Is this a good time to just come clean on some things like:

I don't always wash my hands after taking the kids to the bathroom because I just don't feel like it, its boring.
Sometimes when I drop off stuff at the thrift shop, I'll "trade" for something someone else has left.
On the outside, I look like a pretty average woman, but on the inside I'm morbidly obese. I just dress cleverly and hide it.

What's supposed to happen now? Does confessing some of my faults to cyberspace count? Do you think there are any people in the world who just wake up consistently knowing their place in the world, do it well, (without feeling crazy) and don't have as one of their top three goals to just effectively move through the motions of life without landing up in a straightjacket screaming obscenities and insults at themself? (while methodically bashing their head into a 2 by 4?)

As for today, all I can hope for is to maintain or decrease this level of craziness, and possibly within the next millenium, be a little less down on myself.

Maybe Anne Lamott will have the answers for me, but somehow an aging rastifarian in shitty sandals doesn't look much like an angel of mercy to me.

Sometimes, I Amaze Me.

I may be getting a little cocky, and quite possibly developing a slight swagger. I am tempted to suggest that I am just a few degrees shy of the "who-needs-a-man club". (Except that I'm really not into the washing machine on the agitation cycle idea).

Not only am I adept with the drill, and so have managed to spruce up the exterior of the home with the powerful beast in hand..... I now have another achievement to share with you, my viewing audience. Yesterday, I got out the extension ladder ( that Brian picked up for a song at an auction- mind you, he sings rather well.......but I digress.) As I was saying, I had noted a tree growing in the eavestroughs, and though I was fascinated by the determination and resiliency of the thing, I had to question how well the rain water would make it to the downspout whilst flowing through a miniature forest.

My plan was thorough. Position the ladder, scoot up, (don't look down), grab sloppy hands full of composting leaves and tree seeds and raunchy rain water, hurl it down to the ground, all the while minding that no children or small animals become the inadvertent target.

By the time my man came home that afternoon, I was gloating.

He's just lucky that he's so cute and sexy, and that although I may not NEED a man, its no fun without him.

Why I will Quite Possibly Drive a Fork through my Heart

There is a child who has come into my care every day, monday through friday for nearly a year now. EVERY SINGLE MORNING he tells me (the very moment his eyes open) that he is a little hungry, and what he would like for breakfast. EVERY SINGLE MORNING for almost a year now, I have explained that first, Joyce makes coffee, then Joyce makes breakfast, and there is no possible way that you will spend the morning WITHOUT breakfast; that its not very good manners to TELL your babysitter WHAT to make for breakfast, and that it's good manners to wait until you are presented with your breakfast, at which time, you are to say, "thank you."

This is brand new information for him, EVERY SINGLE MORNING.

Bigger and Better

The other night, four people showed up at my back door weilding an upright vacuum cleaner. "Oh, no!" , I thought- "they've got to be those desparate door to door sales people who manipulate their way into the home, then subject their victems to hours of "free" vacuuming, and so much irritating propoganda that you actually purchase the darn thing, just to make them go away." My second thought was- "Should I try to be polite, so that I don't have to deal with my own guilt later? Or, should I pretend that I didn't actually see them through the six foot window beside the back door?"

I knew that we had obviously seen one another, so I got my sorry, resentful butt off the couch and made my way to the door. Maybe this would be one of those trials designed to hone my character.

Their pitch was an unexpected pleasure. "We're from 4th Avenue Bible Church Youth Group, and we're playing a game called: Bigger is Better. We started at the church with a paper clip and have been going door to door around town, trading for something bigger and better. We now have an upright Dirt Devil vacuum cleaner. Do you have anything bigger and better that you would like to trade for?"

My heart skipped a little beat. I had just closed the garage door on a very minimally successful garage sale that the kids and I had set up to make some money for our upcoming town fair. I had (once again) attempted to sell an oven that had followed us from our prior home, but had sat in the garage and collected dust for some three years. But would they think that was better?

Their faces lit up like July first fireworks at The Forks.

There were four happy campers romping down the street, stove in borrowed wheelbarrow as I clutched my beloved vaccuum and ran down to the basement to try the thing out.

The scavenger in me grinned. I had cleared a large, heavy, unwanted item from the garage without having to pay anyone to haul it away. I also had in my possession a perfectly good vacuum cleaner.

Maybe next year I could sell it at a yard sale, and make a fortune!!

Let's Talk About our FEELINGS.

Sometimes I really "hate" feelings.

Wouldn't it be tidy to just be able to carry out the necessary functions of daily life without constantly evaluating, identifying emotions, analyzing the origins of sadness, happiness, melancholy, anger,.... (and the list goes on).

As a woman, I've got a multitude of factors to deal with. There is the inevitable cycle, with its teary and irritable dips and then peaks of "normal" happiness. There is the manic nature of life, with the mommy-nurterer in me running around, ensuring everyone's life is running relatively smoothly. There are the cultural pressures and lies, suggesting that if you only looked a certain way, drank enough water, and "put yourself first", you would find everlasting happiness and contentment.There are the genetic factors: an olympic size gene pool swimming with a variety of interesting diagnoses of depression, anxiety, manias, obsessive compulsive disorders, and quite possibly the odd psychoses thrown in for variety.

How's a gal to know up from down, and be aware of how to compartmentalize the range of emotions she feels in her mind and heart, morning, noon, and night?!

Some days I just hate it. And that makes me mad.