Holding my own new-born babies was a thrill not equaled in any other human experience, but to hold the Son of God? That’s powerful. That’s profound.

But today it’s about Joseph, the man chosen by God to be the earthly father of His son, Jesus. There is not much information about Joseph housed in the pages of Scriptures, but we can make certain assumptions, knowing that God would want to place his son with a man who would be a role model and would offer love and protection for this baby. Let’s visit the stable again where we left Joseph and Mary asleep.

Joseph

Joseph opened his eyes, aware of movement. For a minute he wasn’t sure where he was, then it flooded his mind. The stable, of course. Why couldn’t I find a better place for Mary? She’s so brave. He shook his head in wonder. He reached over to touch her, but his hand found only empty space.

“Mary.” He whispered her name into the darkness, sitting up and rubbing his head.

“I’m right here, Joseph.”

Her voice was close but seemed to float in the stale air. “Where are you?”

“I’m just sitting on the saddle for awhile.” The words came slowly, like tiny puffs of air. “Go back to sleep, Joseph. You had a hard day.”

Joseph struggled from a sitting position and felt his way until he found Mary. “What’s wrong, Mary, I can hear the strain in your voice.” He crouched on his knees beside her. It was so dark in the stable that he was unable to see her outline.

Her hand reached out and caressed his head. “It’s nothing really, I . . . I couldn’t sleep, that’s all.”

“Mary, tell me what’s wrong.” Joseph felt his heart begin to race.

Instead of an answer, he felt Mary tighten, and heard a tiny gasp escape from her lips.

“Mary, what is it?” He could feel panic grip his body as he reached out to grasp her arm. In response she leaned against him.

“I . . . I think, maybe . . . the baby . . .” Another gasp followed the first one and this time she grasped his hand and squeezed.

“Oh Mary, not here.” He stood and lifted her in his arms, cradling her head against his shoulder as he moved to place her gently on the makeshift bed. “You can’t have the baby here.” He adjusted the pile of hay to make it more comfortable for her.

A little sniggle of laughter came from Mary. “Joseph dear, babies come when babies come.” Her hand found his and gripped tightly. “Just don’t leave me Joseph,” Mary sighed.

“Mary, I promise you, that I will be by your side through everything that this night brings to us and as far into the future as we walk together. Before God, you have my promise.”

“You’re a good man, Joseph. God chose well.” Her hand caressed his face as the two awaited the birth of the Son of God.”

What an amazing night for these two ordinary people, chosen by God to be part of an extraordinary historic event that changed the world forever. May the spirit of Joseph; loving, serving, caring, obeying; be in your hearts this Christmas.

Just the usual monthly duty . . . but no, not this month. It’s December: Christmas is coming. Coming to Earth, coming to my house, already singing in my heart. Carols have been drifting through the rooms for many days and my thoughts are turning to family events, gifts, decorating, baking; all the things that bring joy to my home. But I paused as I viewed the scene, giving thanks to God for His coming to Earth, for His gift.

Somewhere in my thoughts, I realized that I wanted to revisit the scenes of the first Christmas for a fresh look at the people in the stable that night. Today, I bring you Mary. I want to try to bring her to life for you.

People in the Stable: Mary

A young couple approached the opening to the rough stable, ducking their heads so as not to hit the dark wooden cross pieces. Inside Mary paused, resting her hand on Joseph’s arm.

“I’m so sorry Mary.” His voice was a whisper as he laid his hand over hers.  Her head dropped to his chest feeling the coarse fabric of his robe.

“Don’t be, Joseph.” Her face lifted to his and soft lips stretched to reveal the smile lurking there. “God is already here.” She moved away from him, lifted her arms to the roof and slowly turned in a circle. “I can feel him. Can’t you, Joseph?”

“Mary, oh Mary. You deserve better than this.” Deep lines dug into his forehead and between his eyes. He pulled on the rope in his hand, allowing the donkey to enter beside him.

“Joseph, dear Joseph, you’ve done such a great job of looking after me, but don’t you see? You’ve done what God told you to do. And He’s here, ahead of us.” With her head tipped to one side, she smiled up at him, playfully pushing her hands on his chest. “Everything will turn out just fine, Joseph, I can feel it.”

His arms stretched around her and he pulled her close. “Mary, you’re so strong. I . . . I just wanted better for you.”

“Don’t be silly. If God is here, what could be better than that?”  Her hand reached out and stroked the donkey’s nose as he nuzzled against her shoulder. “And you’ve been such a good donkey. You’ve walked that whole long distance with me on your back.”  A soft whicker was his response.

“Come, Joseph, let’s get our things unpacked. I just feel it’s going to be a long night.” A suppressed giggle escaped her curved lips.

“Let’s do it. It’s impossible to not be cheerful when you’re around, Mary.”

The two worked side and side in silence until the donkey was relieved of his burden and Joseph had found hay and patted it into a rough bed. Mary lovingly spread a blanket over the hay.

She stood up, one hand on her back, and surveyed their work. “There now, Joseph, it looks just like home.” A sparkle lit her eyes as she gazed at her husband.

                Night deepened as Joseph and Mary slept, unaware of the stable noises around them.

We’ll leave them there, sleeping peacefully, unaware of the events falling into place in Heaven and on Earth that would soon end their rest. The universe held its collective breath as the moments piled up that would unfold the ultimate drama in history; God and man combined in an incomprehensible union.

Join me next week for part two of People in the Stable.

Once the big move was accomplished (from the flat on Guilford Street to the house on Rodney Street), I waited for the next day and then I reminded my mother that she had promised we could get a cat once we had a house of our own. Now to be fair to my mother, I had not mentioned in for quite some time. I was biding my time. She hesitated, not quite sure if she remembered promising any such thing, but I was persistent and finally wore her down.

My friend Judy’s cat had kittens, so I became the proud owner of a cat named Mittens. This cat was quite non-descript, but I loved him anyway. Alas for Mittens, things were about to get complicated. My aunt and uncle arrived for a visit and knowing my desire for a kitten, came complete with a small orange fluffy ball of pure delight. Now I had two cats! What more could I ask for? I loved both my cats and they seemed to get along well.

My mother was not so easily convinced. She had been talked into one cat; two was not going to happen. I must choose. I remember this being the first time I had to make a heart-rending decision. Do I keep the old (I had only had Mittens a month or so), or should I embrace the new and keep the adorable ball of fluff?

I finally decided to keep the new kitten, and my brother found a friend who was looking for a cat (or who agreed to take it) and Mittens moved to a new home. I felt like a traitor. How could I let him go? But the little orange kitty had won my heart and I soon forgot the old (but never completely).

I named the new addition Tudy. Don’t ask me where I got the name; it just came out of my imagination. I went on to add names until he became Tudy Tiger Tinker Galbraith! However, it was just Tudy for short.

Tudy grew quickly, becoming a large, still fluffy, orange cat. He was beautiful. I insisted he was a female, but several years proved me wrong – no kittens (much to my mother’s relief). He was a family cat, even winning over my mother who came to really love him. He would lounge around the house, finding the spots of sunshine to stretch out his long frame and just enjoy life. He was often relegated to the kitchen as he had a habit of shedding that beautiful fur on anything he touched, but whenever he could, he escaped to the other areas of the house, his domain.

On Friday nights, my mom, dad, and I would go shopping for groceries. When we would arrive home, there was Tudy waiting for us in the driveway. He purred, rubbed up against our legs, meowed and generally made himself agreeable. He knew what was coming! Dad would take out the fresh meat and package it for the fridge or freezer. He always cut off little pieces to give to Tudy. I think Tudy lived for those moments. How he knew it was Friday, I don’t know. But we could come home any other night of the week and there would be no sign of the cat. He only met us on Fridays.

He loved being outdoors at night. Day was for lounging; night was for prowling, at least the early part of the night. He came in most nights at bedtime, but he certainly did stay out all night on occasion. When my brother was out for the evening, Tudy would wait on the front gate for him and they would come in together, probably both jumping over the gate and missing most of the stairs to the front door.

I knew when his birthday was as my aunt Verda had told me when he was born. I always celebrated his special day. One year I talked my mother into letting me have a birthday party for him. I invited the dog from upstairs, and Judy’s cat from down the street. They both agreed to come. I set up my little table and chairs out in the backyard, put treats on the table for the animals and generally made it as nice as I could. The dog arrived first. I forget her name (it might have been Sookie), but she was a beautiful golden spaniel, very quiet and gentle. Judy arrived next with her cat in her arms and a leash and collar on the cat. She had borrowed the leash and collar from a friend. The cat took one look at the dog, got a frantic look on her face, jumped from Judy’s arms and bolted from our yard with the leash trailing behind her. Judy went into a panic because the leash didn’t belong to her and so we spent the rest of the party looking for her cat all over the neighbourhood! Sorry Tudy – that was his first and last party!

I’m afraid I treated Tudy like a doll. I would dress him up in my doll clothes complete with bonnet, put him in my doll carriage, cover him with a doll blanket, and go for a walk around the neighbourhood. The looks on the faces of little old ladies out for a stroll when they would ask to see my doll was priceless. Tudy, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy the whole event, simply going to sleep for the extent of the ride.

I don’t think he was supposed to be on my bed at night, but he often managed to make his way to my bedroom, hop on the bed, and snuggle down with the stuffed animals (of which there were many). He stayed until some inner voice called him away on a cat errand, or my mother caught him. I loved having him on my bed as he purred contentedly and lulled me to sleep.

In the last blog, I mentioned the roomers we had on the main level. At one time, a couple lived there who loved the cat and he would sometimes sneak in with them. They treated him like their own, often saving him little scraps of food. The way to Tudy’s heart was certainly through his stomach. When we would be going away for a couple of days, they always volunteered to look after him. One time when we got back, they told us a funny story. They had fish chowder for supper and gave him a bowl. He went at it greedily and licked the bowl clean. When he moved away from the bowl, everything was gone except a ring of onions around the edge. Apparently he didn’t like onions and picked them out as he was eating!

Being an outdoor cat, he got dirty. So, we decided to give him a bath. We put a tub on the table and popped him in. It is a gross understatement to say he was not impressed. It took two of us to hold him and another to wash him. I was appalled to see how little cat there was under all that gorgeous fluff. I think his dignity was offended as the water washed over him. We lifted him out, amid cat yowls which had started with the first drop of water and did not cease, and wrapped him in a towel to dry him. He fought every step of the way. I’m sure I was covered with scratches when we were done. We had to go out for the evening, so we left him in the kitchen to finish drying, with the doors closed to the other parts of the house. The sights and smells that met us when we came home was just punishment for daring to give him a bath! He had his revenge. First bath = last bath!

One morning Tudy came home with a broken tail. The end was just hanging. His beautiful tail was disfigured. The wound healed, but the end piece had died and would never again stand tall like the rest of the tail. We soon discovered that he had no feeling in it. Sometimes we would accidently step on it but Tudy never flinched. My dad was in the basement one day and Tudy was with him, lying in a beam of sunlight. Dad grabbed a small ax and cut off the end of the tail. Tudy continued to sunbathe, completely unaware of the surgery. From then on, he had a shortened tail, but he would walk around with it in the air as though there was no change in it.

Then Tudy got sick, really sick. My mom and dad called the Animal Rescue League and they came and got him. They said he would be put to sleep and be out of his misery. I was filled with grief for my beautiful cat. I knew he was better off not having to suffer, but I missed him so much. Gradually other things filled my mind and I put my grieving aside. There was no moving my mother: no more cats.

About a year later, I was having breakfast one morning and looked out the kitchen window. A large orange cat was sitting in our yard. I told my mom that Tudy was back. She did not believe me, but one of us tapped on the window and pointed to the door, which was always our signal to Tudy, and he looked up at the window then quickly ran to the back door. I frantically ran to meet him along with the family. When we opened the door, he came running in, ran right to where we always kept his dish, turned around and meowed as if to say, “Where is my food.”

It was him, cropped tail and all. We never did find out what had happened to him. Did he escape on the ride to the shelter, did they see he was a beautiful cat and nurse him back to health, then maybe put him up for adoption and he ran away? It didn’t matter, he was home. We had several more years with him and his wonderful personality and antics.

He was my friend and he ruled our house for the years he was with us.  He captivated the hearts of all four of us and we all missed him when he finally left us. He left us with memories to recount through the years.

My mother had the gift of hospitality and our rooms were filled with guests; family, friends, visiting missionaries, church meetings, showers. I’m sure that not a week passed that we did not entertain at least one group of people. Sunday night after church was a favourite time to either have guests, or be a guest at someone else’s home. That was a part of our culture; friendly people who enjoyed being together, sometimes with just toast and tea! Many other occasions brought forth my mother’s talent for baking and fancy sandwiches.

Both of my parents would be involved in preparing for company and I would be conscripted also, sometimes happily, sometimes under duress. First was the planning session. Mom would find a scrap piece of paper and the plans would begin. Dad’s part would be to retrieve the meat grinder from its place of concealment, set it up on the edge of the table and grind the meat for the sandwiches. No one made better sandwiches than my mom. I’ll never forget the ground roast beef with pickles and mayo; ground ham or chicken; tuna or salmon; egg salad or ribbon sandwiches with layers of egg salad and a layer of sliced tomatoes; cream cheese with cherry (these would be made from unsliced bread, but in lengths and rolled, then cut in pieces – round with a cherry in the middle; and my favourite – asparagus in the same rolled form cut in small bite-sized pieces; and of course peanut butter and banana. On very special occasions like a wedding shower; the bread would be tinted pink or green making them even more appealing to the eye and open faced sandwiches would join the others. With all the crusts sliced off, it was a delectable feast. (The crusts would often later be turned into bread pudding.)

The sweet breads came next; cinnamon, lemon, pineapple with cherry and others. But the desserts: this is where my mom shone. Scotch cookies were her crowning glory, with a swirl of butter icing and a piece of cherry, they looked great and tasted even better with that melt-in-your mouth kind of appeal. Squares of every description came from our oven as well as cakes of all flavours. No one ever left our house hungry except by choice.

Tea and coffee flowed with the conversation. I learned so much about life and living in our world from listening in on all the conversations. Back in those times, children were not sent off to play in another room; we were a part of the whole and as such were expected to be with the group. The topics ranged from comments on Bible lessons, babies, trips, missionary stories, world events, politics – it was a virtual classroom of learning. Laughter was a big part of each event and I remember the happiness and excitement of company. I’ve never lost the excitement and love hosting company myself but I’m afraid the lunches are simpler and sometimes the goodies come in boxes from the local supermarket, but the happiness and topics of conversation remain the same.

We had groups of people from a couple to 40 or more, all crowding into our rooms and happy to be there. The stained glass windows beamed down on our guests and we were content.

I am reluctant to leave our little flat on Guilford Street, but time moves on and we have no choice but to move with it. I was eight years old and knew nothing but this one safe haven. When things were scary out in the world, I always knew that if I could just get home, I would be safe.

But moving day did come. My parents had bought a beautiful home on Rodney Street, only two blocks away from our flat, but eons away in my mind, and in the changes that would come with the move. I can only imagine the excitement my parents must have shared as this house would be the first home they owned. It was large, so much larger than the flat, and it had a nice backyard, a front yard (our flat had no front yard, it opened onto the sidewalk as most of the homes did in our area), and at last we would be living on the main level.

The house had been built for a doctor forty years before and included a waiting room and examination room complete with a sink. It also had access to the one washroom. These rooms were rented when we moved there. The other difference was that although this had been a large home with four bedrooms upstairs, the upstairs had been made into an apartment. So although it was a large house, we only lived in part of it.

The details that set it apart from others still stay in my mind. It was the only time I ever lived in a house with stained glass windows. The living-room had two, one over the large front window, and one set high in another outside wall. The bedrooms had stained glass set in at the top of the windows, as well. What a joy it was to discover what happened when the sun shone through them; we had rainbows on the walls and patterns on the floor. For the years that we lived in that house, I never tired of the stained glass or lost the magical feeling when they shed their beams into our rooms.

There were two mahogany pillars at the entrance to the living-room and the dining-room boasted a fireplace. It was a wonderful house, but in our first years there we were crowded, not as much as in the flat, but crowded because of the rental areas. The house had double parlors, and the second of these became my parents’ bedroom. As it opened out into the living-room, there was a sliding door that covered the large opening. My brother now had the privilege of sleeping in the dining-room. We had a davenport there which my mother would open up and make into his bed each evening.

But where did Sharon sleep? I graduated from the dining-room to one end of the pantry! You laugh, and I am smiling as I write this. The house originally had a large pantry, but the previous owners had reduced the size of the pantry, thus creating a tiny room off the second living-room. There was room for a single bed that took up all the space along one wall, and a small dresser which managed to fit under the window. That was it. But it was a little piece of heaven to me. I finally had my own room. The entrance to it was from my parents’ bedroom, but this only added to the safety I felt at home.

As I look back over my growing up years, this is the place I think of as home. Yes, the flat holds many precious memories, but it was this new location that would forever be etched in my mind as home.

It has long disturbed me to sit at funerals and memorial services and listen to the well-deserved eulogies being given to honor the person who has recently passed away. My thoughts always stray to wondering if the persons themselves were ever told how much they meant to the speaker. Should not the dead have heard such words when they were still alive and been encouraged and uplifted by the kind words?

My thinking has led me to ponder how I could change this pattern, at least in the lives of people I love and respect. My decision has not come lightly for I do not want anyone to think that they may not have long for this world, nor do I want to sound as though I am looking for something in return. Neither is the case. I decided it was worth the risk of being misunderstood and consequently I am starting a new blog series called, “My Tribute”. If you are reading this blog, you may one day appear as the topic of the day. And when you do, I trust you will take this as my heartfelt thanks for what you mean to me in my life. I want you to know how knowing you has made a difference to me.

What I would like from you is, if you know the person being honored, and if they have made an impact in your life, leave a positive comment expressing your thoughts and feelings. I think the featured person will come away from the blog uplifted and honored. Let’s make someone’s day!

Gil

Gil is a friend. George and I met Gil and his wife Shirley when we moved to Guelph in 1991. It was almost an instant friendship. Somehow we clicked with each other and so began a special time in our lives. Often while I was sitting at my Principal’s desk, distressed over the latest issue, my receptionist would buzz me and say, “Your friend Shirley is on line 1 for you.” Just hearing the words lifted my heart. When I took the call, she would say, “How about coming for supper tonight?” I never hesitated, we were coming.

What a warm welcome awaited us from both Gil and Shirley. A fabulous dinner (they liked to try new recipes!) and then an evening of games, laughter, and sharing. I soon learned that we could be ourselves and share what was on our hearts.

Shirley has gone to be with her Lord. It was a shock, and a sense of loss still overcomes me at times, even after almost five years. But this was when Gil began to shine. His love and trust in the Lord was obvious and outstanding. We always shared New Years and it was their turn to host. I told Gil that we could switch it to our house, or he might want to spend the time with his daughters. (New Years was only about three weeks away). He made it very plain that he wanted to continue with the plans we had made. In fact, he carried on with his life in a way that was honoring to his wife and honoring to God. I was amazed at the strength he showed through the entire grieving process. What a mature faith he exhibited. It was a lesson for me of what Christ can do when you fully trust Him as Gil does.

What a man of prayer. I know that when I share requests with him, he brings them before his Father every day. He also has a great concern and love for those who don’t know Christ. As a Gideon, I have watched him give out small Bibles. He keeps one on his person at all times so when an opportunity arises, he’s ready. Many waitresses and waiters have been recipients of his Bible giving.

And now he is moving from our area. It’s the right decision for him as he will be close to one daughter and her family, and closer to his other daughter and her family. But I will miss him. I will miss sitting with him each Sunday at church. I will miss the dinners he learned to cook (even to special desserts). But I know that God has gone before Him and planned every step of this move. I know that he will forge new relationships and minister to the people around him.

I will miss you, Gil, but we’ll visit and we’ll never forget you and the special place you have in our hearts. May you feel the leading of Christ as you move into the next chapter of your life. Go with God.

Several times I’ve written about the upstairs flat where I lived until I was eight. It was situated on the same property as a similar house and the two houses shared a backyard. This meant that I always had friends to play with in my own backyard.

When I was very young, my best friends were Judy and Suzanne. Judy lived in the bottom flat next door and Suzanne lived upstairs over her. What good times we had. I remember a big tire that one of our dads had brought to the yard for us to play. Suzanne and I would manage to get into the tire and fill up the empty spaces with toys. Suzanne and I were very much alike – we both liked to be in charge. We played well most of the time, but we were known to disagree just as heartily. I consider that both of us were developing our leadership skills that would be needed in our future careers.

Judy, on the other hand, had the most peaceful disposition I have ever encountered. She was an amazing friend. I believe she was our peacemaker. I remember playing on our swings (ropes with wooden seats erected by our dads). We became expert ‘swingers’. Hours upon hours of our day would be spent in this activity.

In time Suzanne moved away and Carol moved in. She became a close friend as we also attended the same church. Judy was the next to move and then Barbara lived there. We spent many happy hours together as we reached school age.

The shared backyard was also the place where our mothers gathered in the summer afternoons when the housework was done. Our dads had made wooden benches for them and they arrived with their knitting or other needle work and knitted and chatted while we played. It was a time of enchantment.

Judy’s dad liked to hunt and I remember pelts drying on our back fence: lynx and bobcat among other things I no longer remember. I was both fascinated and frightened when I would see them; eyes glassy, teeth gleaming – things of mystery and intrigue.

On tiny plots, our dads also grew vegetables during the warm summer months. My dad was famous for his raspberries that were as big as your thumb and ever so tasty. Kentucky green beans were my favourite. Fresh green and yellow beans continue to be the vegetable of choice for me, but I have never tasted any as good as the long slender ones harvested by my dad. The cream and butter added by my mom made them the best ever.

Dad also grew flowers: dahlias and gladiolas were always in our garden. One summer dad had a dahlia that measured 13 inches across! Many others were in the 10 – 12 inch range. Our home was filled with the fragrance of flowers during those halcyon days of summer.

Roller skates, tricycles, skipping ropes, hide and seek, cowboys and Indians, hop scotch, swings, along with constantly skinned knees spelled the days of our summers. Our moms did not make us work on spelling, arithmetic, printing or other school activities during those warm days – school was over until September. We had time to be children and run and play. It didn’t seem to set us back to have a break from our lessons. I remember being back into the swing of education by the second week of school. I believe our brains needed the break from formal learning, but I know that we learned many things as the days of summer piled up on each other.

There are still certain sounds and smells that bring back memories. The stillness of a hot afternoon brings the sound of insects and the memories of lying on a blanket in shorts and tank top and being read stories by Ruth, my amazing neighbour. She was several years older than I and sometimes would babysit me. I would see her out in her yard (on the other side of my house), sunbathing and dozing under the warm rays. She never turned me away when I would arrive with books. It was no surprise when she decided to be a teacher. I’m sure she was instrumental in my choice of career as well.

It is almost time for me to leave this flat and move to a house on Rodney St. I am reluctant to leave as the memories are warm and inviting. But life moves on whether we are ready or not: but memories live on, ever just below the surface of our minds, rising to our consciousness when called by us or triggered by external stimuli. Then we can go back, walk the paths of our childhood, embrace our friends from the past, and feel the warmth of the summer days.

My first memories of Jeaninne were at her parents’ home and store in Salmon Creek. I am several years younger but she always treated me with kindness, willing to spend time with a younger cousin. It was in those early days that I began to hear and to observe that Jeaninne had difficulty with one of her legs. She walked with a limp and showed me the long, deep scar on her leg. I was too young to remember when those surgeries took place, but I did hear about them and knew that she had suffered much pain and spent a great deal of time in recovery.

In spite of her pain, she always seemed happy when I was around her. I early realized that in her I had a friend as well as a cousin. Soon I matured enough for us to spend more time together. I was often a guest at their cottage on Grand Lake where we would sit around the fireplace and tell stories.  A refreshing dip in the lake was always welcome, and a spin in Uncle Ken’s boat was great for a good scare as he spun the boat around for us.

As our friendship developed we even shared an apartment while I was a student at UNB. She was just as pleasant to live with as she was when I was a guest. We talked about everything, cooked meals together,  and generally enjoyed the time we had to spend together. I soon moved closer to the University and someone else filled my place, but I’ve always been glad that we had that time together.

We each eventually married and her Peter was just turning one when my first son was born – another connection for us. We often visited for weekends and enjoyed picking berries, fishing, and again just talking, catching up on all the family news.

When we moved to Ontario in 1980, we did not meet as often as before, but when we were able to get together, the years slipped away and we picked up where we had left off. The ties of family and friendship were strong, never faltering or failing.

I saw her for the last time a year ago when I was visiting cousins in Fredericton and three of us visited her.  It was one of her good days, I’m told, and she knew me. We enjoyed a rather unusual conversation, a mixture of memories and pictures that filled her mind. But we laughed together, four cousins who had shared so much over the years.

Jeaninne, I will miss being able to visit you, but the memories of our times together are strong and pleasant. I could not wish you back to suffer as you did. Farewell, my dear, we will meet again in Heaven.

During the last 5 days, I have lost two special people; one a very close friend, the other a dear cousin. The next two blogs will be my tribute to each of them. This blog will be dedicated to Chris Baker, a friend for more than 40 years.

A Personal Tribute to my Special Friend

Over forty years ago, Chris and I met in a random and serendipitous way. Our families clicked right away, and so began a 40 year friendship that has stood the test of time and now of eternity.

In the beginning, Wilse and I enjoyed a meeting of the minds, having so much in common through our teaching, our strong political views (different parties), competitive at games, a love for debate on almost any issue. Chris was in the background, just being her usual accommodating self.

Over the years, our friendship began to grow and deepen. The city girl and the country girl began to seek out what was in each other’s hearts. We grew together until our relationship was special and solid. We cried together, we shared joys and sorrows; we shared secrets that only we could share. We celebrated our differences and developed our points of similarities.

As I remember Chris today, the outstanding characteristic I see is loyalty. Her family came first in her earthly life and her loyalty to them never failed. She sustained hurts and joys, always remaining constant in her acceptance of them. It was the same with her friendships. I could always count on her to be there when I needed her.

Love loomed large in her personality. So many people benefited from her outpouring of love. It came from her heart and was unconditional, free, without strings, and abundant. My own sons have often remarked on how she made them feel they were a part of her family. That she loved them was evident in all she said and did and was felt and understood by them.

She lived her life for her Saviour. There is no question in my mind that she in now in Heaven. I believe that Christ came for her last Thursday, and said, “Chris, it’s time.” I can visualize him with his hand outstretched to her, beckoning her to come. The world faded for her and she left her final words for us, “I’m gone.” Gone to be with Jesus; gone to her final resting place; gone to receive her eternal reward.

The Bible says, “Absent from the body; present with the Lord.” That’s Chris. She shed her earthly body, and is now present with her Lord.

How could I wish her back? Her pain is gone, her heart is whole again, her balance has been restored, she has no more tears.

But for us who are left behind, she leaves a hole in our lives that can never be filled by anyone else. She was unassuming, never putting herself first; but she carved out places in our hearts that go deep.

Chris, I already miss you. I can’t believe I can never talk to you again until the final call comes for me. But that call will come and I will see her again. Until that time, her memory will remain alive in my heart and I will cherish every memory of her.

Good-bye my friend, I love you.

I remember sitting on our back steps ‘thinking’ while I waited for the school day to end so my friends would be home to play. My mind was just beginning to sort through ‘big’ questions. I would look at the sky and wonder what was out there beyond the clouds. I remember feeling very small as I began to take in just how big the earth and heavens really are.

My sixth birthday did finally arrive one June morning, and I then could barely contain myself as I anticipated Grade 1 in September. Summer fun eased the anticipation as I played long and hard each day. My favourite mud-puddle continued to produce superior mud after the rain; the old apple tree provided an outlet for our climbing aspirations, and the tall grass in the vacant lot gave us places to hide and run.

The sun set a little earlier each evening as we moved into August, and one morning there was frost on the ground. Leaves darkened, flowers bloomed and died, the vegetables in my dad’s garden ripened, new clothes were purchased along with pencils, notebooks, erasers; and I knew it would not be long.

Tuesday, September 5, 1950 dawned at last. My excitement level reached new peaks as the time neared for leaving the house. My mother prepared my breakfast, but I was not able to eat. I managed to nibble on a couple of soda crackers but that was it. I remember I took a banana for recess. My next door neighbour, Ruth, walked me to school that first day. She was in Grade 8 or 9 at the time and took me there safely.

I can still see the classroom and some of the faces that graced the desks that morning. Many years later, I covered a medical leave for my Grade 1 teacher. We had a fun time talking about those early days. But that day, she was queen of my classroom. And so began a life-long learning session for me. Now, over 60 years later, I’m still learning.

The days and weeks piled up as the school year advanced. New friendships were cemented, playground games learned and enjoyed, choirs joined, concerts performed; a whole new world opened that was to consume me for the next six decades.

Do you remember the skipping ropes, marbles, Red Rover, Farmer in the Dell, balls, hop scotch, Bluebird, bluebird through my window, London Bridge, and a host of other memorable games? We had no need for playground equipment; we used our imaginations and played and played. At the first ring of the bell to end recess, we, like obedient sheep, herded to our lines promising ourselves and each other that our games would continue at the next break.

Little glimpses of those early years spark tender memories: notes from the boy in the next grade that I refused to read; talking in line with a friend and being sent back to the classroom and receiving the strap; standing in the corner in grade three because I was talking (again!) My problem was that I always wanted to be the first one to finish my workbook page and to have no mistakes on it. So, once that was done, what else was there for me to do but talk? Miss Mailman did not agree. She was, however, one of my favourite teachers. I loved how she dressed, deep purples and greens; these colours made an impact on me, especially the purple.

Children have funny notions about things (at least I did). I had never seen my teachers outside of school and so it stood to reason, my reason, that they must live in the school. I remember trying to figure out where Miss Mailman kept her bed. I finally concluded that it must be under her desk and brought out at night. When I became a teacher, I was very relieved that I did not need to live at school.

And so began my school years. I now have a grand-daughter who is six. I see the same excitement on her face when she talks about school. I see her developing friendships and learning the same alphabet and system of numbers her grandmother learned so many years ago. She even skips and plays some of the same games. Sometimes the more things change, the more they stay the same.