History Repeated

These days, as our thoughts go out to Ukraine and Russia, I was looking up the map of where my grandparents came from and I came across this photo that I posted as part of my grandmother's story a number of years ago. 

This photo has always struck me as beautiful and sad at the same time. My Omi and my dad, facing a life I just could never imagine. In about 1943 they fled Memrik (Ukraine) under the threat of the Russian army. By this time her husband had been executed and two other children had died, likely because they were not able to get medical attention. Together they faced the war torn landscapes, settling in Poland and later in Germany.

This map shows the Mennonite villages in Ukraine 100 years ago, places that were moslty destroyed during WWII.  But as I see the News today, showing the line-ups of refugees heading to Poland and other places, it makes history come alive. My heart cries out for the mothers and children having to leave their husbands and daddies, not knowing if they will ever see them again. Many people making life and death decisions. I also pray for the Russian soldiers who may not have a choice about being where they are. Altogether very sad. And yet, I'm here. My children are here, as are my grandchildren. May we never forget the price of freedom and may God redeem the years the locusts have eaten, even today. 

Mom's Life-story

 

Erika was born on December 18, 1934, in Fernheim (Chaco) Paraguay. She was the firstborn of six children born to Heinrich and Liese Friesen who had recently come from Russia as refugees. She would be first to say that as children they were oblivious to the poor conditions they lived in, as her parents provided a happy home for them. One of her fondest memories was of how they regularly sang as a family after dinner as it was getting dark.

When Erika was 8 years old, her family was hit by a tragedy when her father fell 13 meters down a well shaft, breaking his back and legs. Her mother spent almost a year with him in a hospital in the city while the children were dispersed to different homes and neighbors cared for their farm.When her father finally came home as an invalid, he learned a shoe making trade, taught music and led the church choir. Mom told us how a sheet of music would get delivered within the village from one choir member to the next, to be hand-copied into a notebook for the next practice. She took over her father’s music book when she was 13 years old, just before he passed away, continuing to record the weekly choir music.

When Erika was 12 years old, she accepted the Lord at an evangelistic meeting.  Erika loved school and finished Grade 6 with honors, but could not continue school due to her help needed at home.

Her mother married David Isaak a year later and two more brothers were added to the family. In her later teen years she went to work in the big city of Asuncion, first as a nanny and later on in a hotel. Then, as a young adult, she heard about an opportunity to work in the kitchen for the MCC Home in Uruguay. This is where she met Peter Janzen and they were married on September 1,1956. All three children were born there, Anneliese, Helmut and Monika. 

Early in 1964, the family moved to a Mennonite community in the outskirts of Curitiba, Brazil, where all three children started their schooling. Erika wrote that they lived there for a happy 3½ years, before moving to Canada in the Fall of 1967. She also wrote that wherever they lived, they quickly found their way into a choir, but when they came to Vancouver, facing a new language and a different style of music notation, she thought this was the end of that. However, it was not long before she was in the choir again, while enjoying the fellowship at Culloden MB Church. 

Erika worked hard to help get established in a new country once more, doing house cleaning and then working at Hanson Plastics. Throughout her full time work, she kept the household running with homemade meals and packed lunches. She enjoyed serving in the church kitchen and packing parcels for needy people in South America. On Saturdays she baked buns and cooked a large pot of soup, just so she would be ready to invite someone for lunch or Faspa on Sunday, which happened regularly.

Erika became a very happy Oma in 1978 and loved every grandchild that followed, building into their lives as best she could.  She and Peter moved to Abbotsford in 1985 to be closer to grandchildren and joined Central Heights MB Church. This was a big change for them, because it meant going to English-only services, Care Groups and choir, but Erika was all in. It was hard not to become her friend. 

Erika's life, as she knew it, came to a sudden change when Peter had his first of many disabling strokes before he was sixty years old. His sudden disability to work and function as he was used to were understandably hard on both of them. In 1997 Peter had another stroke that paralyzed his left side and she became his constant caregiver.  When he moved into a Care Home three years later, she visited him almost daily (with a treat) until he passed away in 2007. During these years Erika had numerous eye surgeries due to a genetic eye disease.  However, despite her joy and her faith being challenged, her walk with God continued to grow. She sold cookies by the thousands, donating where she could, sang in the Senior choir, and volunteered at MCC. She enjoyed planting flower pots, spoiling her family with her delicious treats and ever present availability to help, or just to pray. Erika also became a proud first time great-grandmother in 2002.

Erika traveled to Indonesia with a granddaughter to visit her missionary grandchildren, and also to Paraguay with another granddaughter to visit her family. 

In 2011 Erika married Abe Toews, her best friend’s widowed husband. They enjoyed some happy years together before Alzheimer’s began to rob her of her memory in about 2014.  The years of watching her memory fade and especially watching confusion set in were very difficult, first for her and then for the family. The simplest of facts were lost to her and her brain could no longer focus on any kind of order of how to do everyday life.

In January of 2018 she willingly moved to Bevan Village to be cared for by nurses and care aides. Abe visited her almost daily until he passed away later that year. The last kind of activities she enjoyed had to do with singing or listening to music. Even when her speech was gone, she would listen to a song and open her mouth in awe, or was it that she thought she was singing? We may never know, but for now we know that on Sunday, January 16, 2022 heaven’s choir welcomed a beautiful new alto voice and is richer for it. 

The service https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9INPm6P7-xo

Memory Lane

Last Sunday we packed a lunch and drove out to the Matsqui Trail for the first time.

It's an easy walk along the Fraser River on the lower trail,

and beautiful farmland views on the upper trail.

We parked near the bridge that crosses over to Mission,

the one we cross when we go to the lakehouse. 

This bridge was opened in 1972.

On our walk we came upon the old (original) bridge that was used for the CPR 

as well as for car traffic - with wooden planks between and outside the rails to make this possible.

By surprise I was taken back to my first and possibly only time of crossing it by car.

I was ten years old in 1967 when my family came from Brazil,

landed in Toronto to visit relatives (who had sponsored us)

and then took the train across the prairies to BC.

I wonder if my dad wanted us to see the vastness of this land ...

a whole new place of opportunities for us. 

A new life, language and culture. 

A country with beautiful seasons ...

some of which we saw for the first time on our trek in October. 

Our final stop was at the Mission Harbor Station

from where my great uncle and aunt picked us up.

We stayed in Abbotsford with them for about a week,

after which we moved to Vancouver where my dad had found work. 

On our walk, we stopped to watch and take pictures of 

a double stack container transport train.

It was very long, but we enjoyed watching it.

I wonder, is it just me

or does everyone feel the nostalgia and the romance 

associated with trains and train stations,

the feeling that some things never change.

Where we now live, we hear the train whistle, and I love it!

I met my H in 1973 on a church youth camping trip.

we married in 1975 and made our home in Abbotsford.

Home, sweet home ...

and I say that in wonder of life

and the things I never could have guessed about when I was ten.

The Heritage Fair

I heard about the heritage project Lacey was working on

when I picked her up from school one day last week.

So when I was asked for a bit of help, 

I invited myself to see what this fair was all about.

It was great!

Lovella's granddaughter happened to be right beside Lacey,

both having chosen their Mennonite heritage -

so there were Peppernuts and Zwieback to sample, side by side ...
and your guess would be as good as mine, where they got that help from. 

A closer look at her work that I just have to show off -

her own artwork and research.

She also had on display a book published by her aunt -

the life story of her great-grandmother.

I found it so good that kids can learn and share about their background.

Although many in this school have similar backgrounds, 

there were also students from India, Paraguay, Brazil, Croatia,

Netherlands, Holland, Scotland and more...

each being shown value in who they are by

having been given this opportunity.

Even just to open conversations 

with their parents and grandparents is so good.

I am so proud of this beautiful girl -

eager to learn, talented, conscientious, thoughtful

and fun to be with. 

♡♡♡

Celebrating the Meeting of Brothers 40 Years Ago

My Tante Lena, now 82 years old,

called me recently, inviting us for dinner

to celebrate their family's 40 years in Canada.

 

I thought is was sweet of her to include us!

At the dinner table we reminisced about the day they arrived and how it all came about.

Everyone involved, had their particular memory!

Oh, how our dads would have loved to have been part of the discussion 

to clear up all of the mysteries ...

but 40 years later now ... they are not with us any more. 

I came home and realized I have never shared the story of how
my dad and his brother were separated as children.

So from what I've been told, I will summarize uncle Abram and (my father) Peter's  story.

In eastern Russia (1929) Abram was one of twins, born to Abram and Anna (Epp) Janzen. Anna died giving birth, as did the twin brother. Abram Janzen gave his newborn son to his married sister who had no children and his name became Abram Funk. Soon after, Abram Janzen married Anna Niebuhr and my father, Peter Janzen, was one of three boys born to them.

As children, living in Lugowoje, they played together like cousins do. Little Abram remained with his aunt and uncle, whom he knew as his parents.  In 1937 Abram Janzen, like many others, was imprisoned for unknown reasons. In 1939 my grandmother found out that her husband had been shot. By then she had also lost two boys in the difficulties of not being able to get medical help. She took her only son, Peter, my father, across the country to the Ukraine area, where she had relatives she could live with. 

In 1941, when Germany invaded the Ukraine and found the German speaking Mennonites, they treated them well. My grandmother and father retreated with them, under their protection, to Germany. From there they got on a ship to meet up with extended family in Paraguay.

My father, was 15 years old when he came to Paraguay. I have always imagined that is when he was told that his cousin, Abram, who stayed in Russia, was his half brother. He did not know it as a child. What I do know is that knowing he had a brother became very special to him. It was sad that, because of Communism, communication was very difficult, if  not impossible. In those years, there was no way they could meet. 

Over the years, however, once government restrictions lessened somewhat, they were able to write; but even then, they knew their letters could be sensored. During this time they found out that they married in the same year and had their first three children in the same years!

After we moved to Canada, my father did all he could to get his brother and family to emigrate. When it looked hopeless, he flew to Germany to try from there. I do not know how that went, but one day he was contacted by the Red Cross, who noted that he had tried for years to get this family out of Russia. That is when things began to roll and the Red Cross negotiated with the Russian emigration agency. My dad bought a house and prepared for their arrival. 

So, finally, in 1978 the call came that they were arriving in Vancouver. In the end it happened fast! My dad, who seemed incapable of shedding tears, became emotional! He was going to meet his brother, and not only Abram, but his wife and five kids, after 40 years of being apart! It was a miracle!  We met our cousins on the Janzen side for the very first time.

I asked my Tante Lena now about how things were in the years after so many Mennonites left. She said that passports were taken away from everyone. They were sent north by train and for the next ten years they were put into forced labor in the cold. Everyone had to check in regularly with the police, she said. Church was forbidden. She was only a child at the time but she already knew Abram, who also was there. After Stalin died (1953),  people were given permission to travel within the country and they moved to the Kirghistan area. This is where my uncle Abram and Tante Lena had their children and lived until they came to Canada. 

It was in Vancouver, that they were introduced to church. She said that my parents went and so they went along. They were welcomed by a host of people who had come out of Russia decades earlier, so there were many connections and they were loved and accepted.

This photo was taken in 2000. You can see, even here, my dad is emotional. 

They both passed away in 2007

Brothers ... by the same father 

and brothers in the faith.

Another Peek Into My Family (From Russia to Paraguay)

I just finished reading The Last Train to Leningrad  by David Funk, who lives in Abbotsford. I found it interesting because he tells of the hardship that our grandparents faced in Russia before they were miraculously given permission to leave. The story he tells is of his own family (who happened to go through Leningrad before moving on to Prussia and to Canada) but they intertwine with other families in such a way that my own family history comes alive. 

When David Funk's grandparents and family left on November 1, 1929 there were thousands still left behind in Moscow, waiting and hoping for emigration papers, many being sent away and never heard from again. My great-grandparents were given permission to leave at the end of the same month as did my H's grandparents along with their children. By that time South America had opened its doors for these refugees and that is where they went after a short stay in Germany. 

This book gave me a glimpse of how this event in history has determined the course of my life, the fact that I'm here, and makes me ever so grateful!

My aunt recently sent me a photo she found while trying to find out more about our past. It was one that I had never seen before and sums up so much of what I have written about earlier.

Study it a bit with me here:

It is 1930 - and the inscription reads that the Neufelds are celebrating their 25th Wedding Anniversary. I went to check my own records and saw that they were married in 1905 in Russia, so it made sense.
What I am intrigued with is all the rest that this photo tells ...

It's the year that my Oma (my maternal grandmother, age 16, siblings and parents) immigrated as refuges from Russia to Paraguay. They came by ship and went by river boat, train and then by ox-drawn carriage to this barren wilderness where they set up camp with many others in the same boat, literally. The makeshift shelter shows that they have not been there long. Yet, they have made tables, and stools and decorated for this occasion. The table has a white tablecloth and everyone is dressed in their best.

Great grandma and grandpa Neufeld are sitting at the head of the table. My grandmother is standing closest to her father, leaning against the shelter. Some siblings are married, others are younger. Friends have also joined them, the older ones dressed in their dark warm clothing from Russia. I was able to zoom in and see that they have Zwieback on the table! It amazes me that everything they needed to celebrate was taken care of.

One of Oma's brothers became interested in photography while still in Russia and did his own photo processing. Photo credit goes to Jakob Neufeld.

For more background you can read  http://foreverythingaseason.blogspot.ca/2009/11/from-russia-to-paraguay.html 

Mennonite Choral Singing - personalized!

A most recent treasure my mom showed us is her choir notebook from when she was a teenager. Although I had seen it once a long time ago, Monika had not and she was amazed at how mom's memories of younger days are so clear. We leafed through it, not wanting to disturb these beautiful fragile pages of hand written music.

The first pages of music were copied by her father, who was the choir conductor in her village in Paraguay and also taught music.

The music was written in Ziphern (numbers), which were musical notations that the Mennonites started in Russia in the mid 1800's, when four part singing was introduced in the church. More about these numbered musical notations can be found here.

What I found interesting was that each song was dated, so you could follow through and see when they were practicing for Easter, Thanksgiving or Christmas. The date on my grandfather's last piece is 1948. It was the year he died of complications from a well digging accident.

Mom was 13 years old and she continued using his book that year, after he died. She explained how everyone would get their music to practice for the following Sunday. The conductor wrote out the music and then sent it to the choir member closest to his house. That person copied it into his/her notebook and then ran it over to the next person and so on until everyone had their handwritten copies of music to practice. Talk about commitment! 

Mom told of how she first started singing in the choir while her dad was still alive. She was the youngest in the choir, but they had asked her to sing because she had a good singing voice. When she began, she sang soprano and she remembers the conductor telling the choir that when the high soprano notes come up, they were not meant just for Erika. This made me smile. She later became an alto because she had a good ear and could easily adapt, while others were more timid.

One thing that caught my attention was her "youth" that came out in the pages. Although her writing was incredibly neat, she loved to doodle. I had to smile about her writing Schluss (The End)  at the end of many a song. She was, after all, a teenager! And writing out music like that was work! I cried myself to sleep the night after I saw all of this! There was something very emotional about seeing a part of her life from when I did not know her. Four or five years of music in this book alone . . . and she could sing all of it still.

Mom has sung in choirs pretty well all of her life, and even to this day she sings in small groups and trios. I remember, as a child, we would stay home with our grandmother, while mom and dad went to choir practice. It was their night out. We came to Canada and one of the conductors she sang under was the man she is married to now. These days they often get asked to sing at Senior get-togerthers or retirement homes. He brings his accordion and she, her voice. 

A Sentimental Memory

 Lately, several incidents have made me think back to my Grandmother, the one I called Omi. I have become so much more aware of what age she was when I spent most of my time with her. She was as old young as I am now! It really puts some perspective on how my grandchildren may view me now and how influential the memories of a grandmother can be.

One of the things I loved doing when she lived with us, was to go to her room to check out her little assortment of special cards she kept, especially one she had given to her mom when she was little. It was a Victorian style card of a child flying on a bird, with a letter in hand. Of course, what intrigued me about this card was a small ribbon attached, that you could pull to make the bird fly.

As she showed me how the card worked, she taught me the German song, 

Kommt ein Vogel geflogen

Setzt sich nieder auf mein Fuss

Hat ein Brieflein in dem Schnabel

Von der Mutter einen Gruss

Lieber Vogel, fliege weiter

Nimm ein' Gruss mit und ein' Kuss

Denn ich kann dich nicht begleiten,

Weil ich hier bleiben muss.

Some of the melancholy sadness is lost in translation, 

but it tells about a bird landing on her foot

with a letter and a greeting from mother in its beak.

The second stanza is her response

asking the dear little bird to fly back

with a greeting and a kiss

because she has to stay where she is.

In this room I also learned how true this song was for her

as she was separated from her dear mom for 17 years.

Right after her marriage, her whole family

escaped from Russia, while she and her husband stayed behind

with, most often, no means to communicate.

When she escaped all those years later,

she could not really take anything with her,

but this little card was tucked into her few belongings.

It went with her from Russia, to Germany, 

to Paraguay, Uruguay, Brazil and to Canada.

It's now in my possession and I

almost wished she could have taken it along to heaven.

What would it have mattered?

With a daughter living across the ocean now,

this song has come to have meaning between us as well.

A bird is often a symbol we use on a card or parcel,

reminding us of Omi's song. 

On Being Canadian and Mennonite

We celebrated my H's older brother and sister-in-law's wedding anniversary on Canada Day. Jake and Elvira immigrated as newly weds in 1961, sponsored by a member of her family. Once they became Canadians, they were able to sponsor his family, still in Paraguay, so I thought it kind of fitting for us to celebrate at their house on this day.  In Paraguay, after after 37 years of back breaking work and frugal living my in-laws came away with nothing to take with them but the determination to make a better life here.

My side is a similar story of getting sponsored by family. It is interesting to note that when refugees came out of Russia after the wars, many were separated and ended up meeting in Canada, even generations later. I was only a child, but saw how grateful my dad was to bring his family here and claim Canada as our home. I am grateful for a country that has made allowances for this melting pot of backgrounds and cultures. It truly has become our home as well as the native home to our children, which is what our parents would have wished for.

So, I wonder what the refugees looked like when they came in the early 1900's and decades later?  Maybe there were things that made them stand out.  This photo of us, taken years ago for a Mennonite dress up party, reminds me of our conception of our older church goers. From photos I could relate to the dark dress and maybe a shawl and hair braided and pinned, but it was not what I personally knew.

Today, there are those who have questioned our reference to calling ourselves Mennonites (as in the blog). In fact, we have been told that we are not Mennonite at all. Obviously people have an opinion of what makes one so, and I can understand this if people base their opinion of outward appearances. One of the things people have wondered is why we do not wear a head covering. I don't know.

I've gone back to see photos of generations before us, living in Russia and have never seen women wear a head covering, in formal pictures. Having said that though,  in daily life women wore a scarf tied under their chin. From what I can tell, when living in Russia, they dressed somewhat like the Russians and later, when they lived in Paraguay, they adjusted to the climate with lighter clothing.

In one of my earliest posts I wrote about being Mennonite, explaining some of the confusing background on what makes me a Mennonite. That post is only a short intro to the posts that follow telling of where our Anabaptist roots began and how our forefathers fled to Russia due to persecution for their beliefs. I realize that many of the same background, following the teachings of Menno Simons, did not go East, but came directly North America. This may explain some of the differences in what people know of us. Things, such as what we wear, food and lifestyle do not necessarily stay the same for people who live in different countries over a time span of several centuries. To sum this up I feel that, although in some places these things are a very defining thing about us, it is still not be the main thing.

It is possible that being Mennonite to us was not so much about what we looked like, but about about belonging to a church community with names we recognized and felt a kinship to.  Names the community around us recognized as, for the most part, being honest and hard working people. Names now intermingled with unfamiliar names, yet knowing that at the heart of it all is our faith, which is an open door to everyone.

My grandmother with two younger sisters about 1914 in the Ukraine,
which may or may not have been part of Russia at that time.
(Too much work to figure it out at time of writing)

I hope you had a Happy Canada Day.
Maybe you reflected on the circumstances that make you Canadian
or maybe reading this did.
We truly have so much to be grateful for!

She Makes me Smile

 

While at the airport on Saturday morning I noticed Judy, a long time friendly acquaintance, sitting across the way. We attended the same church when we were raising kids and our paths have crossed in numerous ways.

Sitting down beside her, she said she had a story for me. As part time librarian at the school some of my grandchildren attend, she has gotten to know them a little. Around Remembrance Day she was telling the Grade Two class about the World Wars, her father's work in the war and how he, like many Mennonites chose alternate service during that time. She is so good with kids and I'm sure she had some unique things to tell them.

What made me smile is what happened after she was done her story time in the library. She told me that Natalie had quietly come up to her and said, "My Mimi is a Mennonite." Judy, sensing it had taken a heart filled with pride to overcome her shy nature, exclaimed, "Well, yes! I know your Mimi! And I know your Mommy as well!"  I can just imagine how uniquely special Natalie must have felt!

I've been noticing that Natalie's reference point to anything Mennonite  is "mennonitegirlscancook" which encircles  her Mimi and friends - whom she is so very proud of! It's how she was introduced to the term, which sounds more like mennite when she says it, but in years to come, I hope to tell her more about her roots and how her great-grandparents had to leave Russia because they were not allowed to worship God there. How they moved together with many others and started with nothing in a new country, continuing to teach their children to love God and to love others as themselves.

One day she will find out that her Mimi is not as famous as she once thought, but I hope that in learning about her heritage, she will learn more about the love and faithfulness of God and accept it as her own.
 

The Chaco in Paraguay

Visiting my H's home introduced our kids to a whole different landscape and way of life. 

But they were tough.

New foods, crowded quarters, a strange language and blasted with mosquito bites . . .

we hardly heard them complain.

 



Their eyes saw adventure and fun.



I still marvel at how they played  in the dirt with their second cousins . . . seems a common language was not needed when making mud pies or playing hide and seek.



We visited my H's home but no one was there to open the door for us.
He was surprised how small it had become.



Clay ovens were not in use any more, but left as a reminder of our parent's pioneering days.



One of the cousins we visited had a peanut farm and here they are ready to send off a shipment.


 

Most homes were surrounded by verandas to keep out the blazing sun and provide a cool place to visit. It really was an experience of a lifetime and may partly explain why our kids have the travel bug in them. We blame ourselves . . . with a smile, of course.

 

 

A Childhood Home Revisited

In my recent story telling post, I made mention of going back to Brazil and visiting my home on the outskirts of Curitiba. This photo was taken not long before we left for Canada.  I'm probably almost ten years old. I was in Grade one when my dad drew up the plans for this house.  There were four bedrooms all in a row along the far side. My Omi lived with us and she used the bedroom beside the one we as sisters shared. Behind the front veranda was the living room, then the dining room and the kitchen in the back.

I remember helping my mom as she crouched in the front yard, planting each blade of grass as an

individual plant that later spread and intertwined with the rest as it grew. My dad laid the multicolored hardwood floor, inlaid with diamond shaped wood pieces.

The driveway seemed steep when going down on our bikes. The backyard had a vegetable garden and some young fruit trees. The street was not paved, filled with potholes and sometimes taken over by the neighbor's cows.

On the photo we are wearing our school uniforms. I loved the shoes I'm wearing there. I guess it was not often that my request for a certain style was granted, so this one I remember.

 

When we went back to visit nearly twenty one years later, Julene was almost ten. The people who lived there were still the second owners. They remembered my parents and were happy to show us around. It was a surreal experience of two seasons in my life . . . that of childhood and motherhood . . . virtually colliding and one I certainly would never have imagined to be possible.

In my mind (and blog) I can take our eleven-year-old granddaughter there now . . . and the brevity of life becomes ever more clear. I heard a verse quoted last night that struck a chord with this thought.

 "Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom." Psalm 90:2

On Food and Faith

 

A while back, a comment that led to some email exchanges and a look at a fairly new blog called, http://morewithmuchless.blogspot.ca/, gave me a new awareness of the complexity of anorexia and the consequent fear associated with food preparation.

On her blog, Michelle tells of the thought process going through her mind as she looks at food or considers preparing a meal. While on her road to recovery, she is blogging her way through  the More with Less cookbook - a challenge that can paralyze someone who is already guilt ridden about food consumption without a recipe book focusing on how to cook with less. 

Michelle asked whether any of us of the Mennonite Girls Can Cook would be open to do a guest post on her blog. Although we are not choosing to add writing to our cooking and speaking schedule, one of her questions resonated with me and I thought I'd respond to it as best as I can.  Please be aware that  I am only addressing her question and talking about my personal experience. Eating disorders are complex illness that can be life threatening - my heart has been heavy just realizing that this is not an easy road for someone trying to get well, but I am not eligible to give advice on that. If someone you love is struggling, please seek professional help and do all you can to help them come through.

The Question:

How did growing up in a Russian Mennonite family affect your relationship to food? Did your family come from a history of shortage? If so, how does that affect how you view food consumption/restriction now?

 

My response:

Growing up in a Mennonite home I knew that my mom would always have something prepared for meals. Even when she worked full-time, I never heard an excuse coming from her, saying she did not have time to cook.  There was not a lazy bone in her, the biblical meaning of which was lived out in both of my parents’ lives. She made things from scratch as much as possible, ever conscious of the cost of prepared foods. She prepared ahead by keeping basic ingredients in the house, making soups, baking breads and preparing home-made food to pack for lunches. We did not grow up with snacking foods, when the meal was served we were hungry and the food was nourishing. Mealtimes were family times. We waited for each other and talked about our day. It was a time to connect.

 

My father and my grandmother went through food shortage and hunger in Russia during the war and later, in Germany, after the war. My father had to look for food in trash cans and my grandmother shared with me how her health suffered from lack of sugar and butter. I often take her words into consideration now, with the talk of how both are not good for you. The fact that hunger was something very real to my father played a big part in how he raised us. We were not allowed to complain about food and we were not allowed to throw food from our plate into the trash. We were taught to give thanks for our food and to be grateful for full tummies.

 

This brings me to something I consider to be important in my view of food, be it consumption or restriction. I believe that the giving of thanks for what God has given plays a vital role in how food affects us. When we realize food is a gift from the One who provides for our needs, we will be careful about how we handle it. We will not try to find fault with it unnecessarily, be it the ever fluctuating views about foods or just plain being picky, which shows ungratefulness. I believe that the giving of thanks can bless food to cleanse it in instances where we have no choice. There are times I question some of today’s dietary restrictions and where they are coming from. Obviously there are situations where it is vitally important to follow a certain diet, but in certain instances our self induced diets can lead to a life of problems, stemming from some form of worry or ungratefulness. So let us give thanks to Him who made the world, along with the food we eat, and blessed it proclaiming it to be good.

Exodus 23: 25

“Worship the Lord your God, and his blessing will be on your food and water. I will take away sickness from among you.”

1 Timothy 4:4

“For everything God created is good, and nothing is to be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving.”

Omi

Today, if Omi (my paternal grandmother) was still here, we would be celebrating her Birthday.
I was scanning slides one day and came across this one taken in 1992.
She is 85 years old here, thinking she should try out the swing at the cabin.
I don't know . . . but maybe I see a lot more there than anyone else would.
It's a warm summer day and she is wearing thick stockings . . . she always did . . .
 a button up sweater . . . and a scarf tied around her head.
I also  see that she is at peace and smiling to herself.

Recently it dawned on me that she missed seeing her first great-great grandchild
by only six and a half years!
So I'll just tell a few things about her that this next generation would surely have observed.
When asked a question,
Omi thought hard and long and took a deep breath before she spoke.
She loved dipping Zwieback into her coffee.
If the coffee was hot, she'd pour some into the saucer
to cool off, and sip it from the saucer.
She loved the taste of butter and honey carefully spread edge to edge on her bread.
She enjoyed home fried potatoes with garlic.
She saved loonies for her great-grandchildren
and hid white peppermints in her pockets for them.

Omi played several instruments, her favorite being the piano . . .
The very last time she was in our home, she reminded me that
I had talked about recording her.
A lot was going on, with the extended family over . . .
I did not know it would be her last visit . . .
her last time to play the piano for us . . .
so the recording never came to be.
The beautiful ballads remain a secret for the ears that heard them.

The grandmotherly legacy she left for me
is a precious and fragile one to pass on.