Thanksgiving

Between trips to the hospital, I set the table for my siblings. 

It was the fist time I used mom's tablecloth ... still laundered and pressed by her hand ...

and one that I always admired on her table.

It was also the first time my brother brought his significant other.

We all went to see mom at the home -

she was full of smiles. 

We had gathered our own family on the weekend before -

a blissful time of simple appys and chatting at the counter

while kids colored. 

We also had a special guest for her first Thanksgiving dinner.

I split the photos because there was no good photo of us all together.

Someone always seems to be hiding somehow.

 

These smiles cause me to give thanks all over again

for the joy of family here and

family who would love to be.

One of my favorite pictures is one only in my memory

captured as we stood at the kitchen sink window ...

the evening fading away ...

lights twinkling on the maple starting to lose its leaves ...

big boys, little boys, girls and exchange student kicking a soccer ball

 in the light drizzle in the back yard ...

and the joy and laughter

of coming in wet for dessert. 

At Home in Heaven

Our beloved Abe - long time close family friend, and who seven years ago asked me if he could marry my mom, passed quite suddenly into the arms of His Lord and Savior on Monday night. I could write a book about the beautiful memories that have flashed through our thoughts these days. About  how we came to love him before he became part of our family and how he treated us like his own.

Abe loved my mom to the end, even through the final days when he was not sure she knew him. He will be deeply missed by both his Toews and Janzen families, by the nurses and care aids in the home who came to appreciate his daily visits, as well as many who were blessed by his music and his warm acceptance of everyone.

Abe, we loved you while we had you and only wish it could have been longer. Auf wiedersehen.

♡♡♡

It's Changing Me

I have long stopped trying to fix or correct my mom. The days of feeling like, surely I can help her remember, I can help her by organizing her, she knows these things, she only needs reminding, are not feelings I fight any more and it's a good thing, because it only frustrated both of us.

As time went on, we saw a lot of funny things happening.  Repeated discussions about the lady in the mirror, the people on the wall who had moved into her apartment, the outfits she put together and what food belonged in the fridge.  Scenarios that made me laugh and made me cry. Mostly they made me sad.

So where are we today? We enjoy the small things. Such as when she holds fast to my hand, when she communicates something, when she sings along with a song, when looks at me in recognition or shows excitement in any way.

It can happen that I can go from feeding Jack, enjoying his smirks and antics, to getting in the car to feed my mom in the home, and I can't help but contemplate the reversal of roles. To recognize that there was a time when she fed me. She talked to me and made me smile even when she could not understand my gibberish. She cared for me with utmost love, even if she got nothing in return.

So now it is my turn. I stare at her as I put the spoon to her mouth. Sometimes I study her features, so familiar to me, willing her old self to shine through, not wanting to forget. And then I remember what a good mom she has been to me. It puts perspective to everything a season. And, in a strange way, I appreciating what I had even more. I'm realizing how blessed I've been and that it is a blessing to serve her.

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.

A Random Revelation of God's Grace

It was a beautiful June day and a song on the radio suddenly caught my heart as I was driving through the after-school traffic to pick up grandkids. In the meantime, three were living with us and four others had visited that day already and ... I had to think ... how many kids were coming and going that day? Each one arriving with big smiles of anticipation of playing with their cousins.

What hit me when the song came on was a flashback to 2004, when we said goodbye to our only two grandchildren, just babies, really! Our oldest had captured my being as a Grammy and it tore my heart apart to let her go. At that time, a song that I clung to was His Grace is Enough, written by Matt Maher. I wanted to claim those words and believe that God would carry me through the years ahead ... not knowing if future grandchildren would know the far away ones or if they would even remember or feel close to us down through the years.

Wouldn't you know it, on this drive ... on the day all of our grandchildren were seeing each and playing like there had never been any distance ... this old song, sung by Chris Tomlin, came on and in that random, hurried moment, I remembered. I had church right there, driving in the car! A heart of praise to God who gives grace and sometimes allows for us to see the result of even just trying to trust Him.

A few hours later, all of us got ready for family pictures and we all met in the park with beautiful attitudes of cooperation and patience that showed me that everyone felt the importance of this appointment. That is what grace does. It embraces.  It enables for love to flourish.

September Thoughts

Although I love autumn, September is not one of my favorite months. Simply because it resembles January. And January, well that's another story. Sadly a bouquet of new sharpened pencils or a new journal does not beg me to start sketching or writing.  While a new page can be inspiring, I see it as a blank unknown, with decisions to make. Maybe this says more about me than I realize.  I don't welcome change easily. Sometimes, while everyone seems excited about starting fresh, I've felt badly for not feeling the same, longing for what's known and comfortable.

In thinking about this recently, I realized that I am more of a finisher.  The problem is, as much as I like the feeling of finishing a task, to finish something you have to start. This week I went online to do a photo book, but I almost gave up at the outset. The layouts and colors just were not working for me. However, once I got past the starting point, once I established where I was going, I had fun! The further along I got, the better it went. Finishing was so much more fun than starting.

And so it goes - the reward of finishing does not come without a start, sometimes a rocky one, but there has to be one. Life is full of beginnings, changes and new ideas to implement.  May I choose wisely and joyfully, knowing that the finish line will be worth it.

Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.

Psalm 90:12