Blended in Joy and Sorrow

There is something peaceful about following a motorcade of family across town - as one -

in sorrow and remembrance of the one who brought us together on this day.

At the grave site we were all handed roses and followed the pall bearers to the burial site.

The pastor reminded us that there is a day to be born and a day to die.

The important thing is what we do with the dash between those dates.

This dad, father-in-law, step dad, Opa, great-Opa and uncle made his time count.

Roses were placed on the coffin ...

mostly words could not be heard,

but sometimes a quiet whisper came out ...

a longing, a greeting to another certain loved one. 

Feeling the bond in a blended family,

sisters, sister-in-laws and step sisters,

is a blessing and is there because we have known each other 

much longer than this short lived marriage.

After the graveside time, we went to pick up mom at the home

to take her to the church service.

The same church where, seven years ago,

she walked down the aisle on a runner scattered with rose petals.

Yet even today, she had a beautiful twinkle in her eyes,

for which we were so grateful.

Eulogies,

special music to honor a man who loved almost nothing more than music,

and specific words of comfort and hope,

that he had requested, were spoken. 

The Mennonite church that Abe and Mom are a part of,

prepared a simple meal for the family.

One usually knows what to expect at this time already.

It brings us all together around food and 

sharing memories ... even funny ones ... of one we all loved.

Abe's passing has left a deep impact on me - 

as one able to hear his last words at his bedside.

 With no energy to waste, eyes turned up,
like he was beholding a glorious gate -

he begged to tell that there is only one way.

Jesus ... our robe of righteousness.

"For God so loved the world, that he gave his only son,

that whosoever believes in him will have everlasting life."

Till we meet again!

Happy Day

43 years ago we said "I do"

Happy day then ... and now.

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.