Celebrating the Decades

He was born in a village in Paraguay on July 12, 1952. His parents had immigrated as teens, coming from Russia by ship, to embrace the freedom that came with being willing to pioneer the hot barren wilderness of the Chaco.  He was their eighth child blessed to be born with breath in his lungs and a willingness to take on the world as it was. His mom was quick to admit that there were times that she did not know how they would feed another mouth, but God always provided. His clothes were hand-me-downs, most likely sewn from left over flour sack material.

Being ten years old meant doing chores such as picking cotton, or whatever was growing at the time, feeding chickens and corralling in the cattle for the night. For fun, he rolled marbles out of clay and let them dry in the hot sun for use in his slingshot that came in handy for killing snakes and pesky birds. He sold the beaks for pennies and cooked the little breasts and thighs over an open fire.

When he finished Grade seven, he had to quit school for a while due to his dad's failing health and his older brothers getting on their own.  Sometime later he moved to Canada with his parents and several siblings.

I love this photo because he has the same haircut there as he does now ... after many different styles in between.

When I met him he had graduated from high school. I'm so glad his blue eyes met mine. I was fifteen and he was twenty. We married when I finished high school. It was long enough to wait.

He built our first house when he was twenty-five. He took me on road trips to the Interior, to Banff and California . . . and after those trips we had babies.

 

The third one was born when he was thirty. He played with them, provided for them and taught them how to ride a bicycle. He instilled in them a love for music and sports through various means, including lessons that would help them realize their gifting.

He showed them that this world is bigger than meets the eye by letting them experience mud pies and ant hills in Paraguay, the cool mist from the Falls De Iguassu, the soft as flour sand on the beaches of Brazil and the crooked cobblestone streets lined by war torn buildings in Eastern Europe. His love for God was lived before them.

 

In his Forties he was carefully handing over the keys to the family car, giving them opportunities to work in the family business and supporting them in challenges that would encourage them to spread their wings. He walked his first daughter down the aisle.

At fifty he proudly held his first grand-daughter with seven more grandchildren to follow in this decade.

He has an uncanny ability to know how to get a granddaughter excited to go on a date, even if it's a trip to get a tire changed. He makes work play.

 

He is known for making them forget why they were crying.  Pictures on the wall are a great distraction.

As are tickling games.



His lap can handle as many as will come.

He's been reminded that he's not quite done with building playhouses and tree houses since his resume is looking pretty good by now.

Grandchildren are his joy and delight . . .

and the love is mutual.

It's evidenced in many ways!

Today, at sixty -

his children, grandchildren and I rise to honor him.

We love you Papa, Dad, and forever my Hon