Not So Baby Girl

It's been just over a year since we welcomed our baby girl into the family. I'm not rightly sure I can even call her a baby anymore. I know being a year old doesn't seem so big, but I find myself baffled daily by all the change in her. She's no longer just a baby, she's all of a sudden a wildly active, clearly opinionated, loving little girl. She's started jabbering on all the time, and every once in a while we're catching some words in there. My little girl is also so close to walking it's insane! She's cruising on everything and using anything she can slide against the floor to get moving. Our girl is driving me crazy with all her little and big milestones!

A week or so ago, we discovered (quite  by accident), that she can climb the stairs at break-neck speed (thankfully no necks were actually broken). Biggest boy had gone upstairs to go use his little potty and didn't full latch the gate when he came back down. I didn't notice the unlatched gate and went in the kitchen to get a drink. After the two seconds it took me in the kitchen, I came back to the livingroom and noticed she wasn't there. When I saw the open gate I freaked out, expecting to see her a step or two up (which has happened before), but was very surprised to hear her all the way upstairs in the bathroom goofing around with one of her sister's toys. Since then, we are much more serious about firmly locking the gate. Phew! We also let her crawl up the stairs for naps and bed times and she seems happy adding this bit of independence to her sleep routines. I still follow behind her with my hands out in case she slips, but she hasn't needed my help once.

As for chattering, she's easily the most talkative of my four kids at the same age. She was a very calm, quiet baby up until now, but all of a sudden she wants to communicate verbally (and frequently). She's finally started saying Mama (be still my heart), and has perfected her old standard, Dada. On top of that she's fond of asking for her cup, "this one", which she picked up from her brothers I suspect, and has recently taken up slurring out "I love you". The big kids usually stand at the gate at the top of the stairs when my husband is leaving for work shouting "I LOVE YOU DADDYYYYYY!" until he's driven out of sight, so I'm not surprised she picked this one up. Surprised or not, it melts my heart to hear her saying it to me with her big, blue eyes looking at me in earnest. I am lucky to have such a loving girl to spoil me.

Besides all the moving and shaking, she has recently decided to work on her own food routine. Out of nowhere, she decided she wanted to start weaning herself from breastmilk. This has been quite the rollercoaster! Some days she only wants to feed once, and other days she changes her mind and wants to feed all day. She's been teething pretty brutally the past two days so she's back on the breastmilk wagon. To say my body is confused is an understatement. At least she didn't go cold turkey like her older brother! Because she's weaning, we've decided to start giving her rice milk and almond milk to make sure she's getting some of the nutrients she's missing out in my milk. For the first time, we've decided to avoid cow's milk. We're also phasing cow's milk out of our older kids' diets (I'll explain that in another blog). They love almond and rice milk, so it hasn't been as tough as I'd expected.

It's been a wild year getting to know my newest little princess. I feel so thankful that God gave me the grace to say YES to a new life even though our hands seemed like they were already so full. Every day I've shared with her has been a reminder of how incredibly blessed we are to have a God who so carefully plans every aspect of our lives, if we just let Him have control.

Milestones

Baby girl is a mere week shy of 8 months old now. What a whirlwind these last few months have been. I feel like we're on the quick stumble towards a year and there's not holding her back. She's crawling now. Half the time she's dragging, the other half of the time she's moving her chubby little limbs in perfect sync. Either way she's getting around quickly, and getting into lots of mischief. I'm having to really carefully sweep the floor almost constantly as she's quite happy to put anything and everything in her mouth.

Speaking of food, she's now eating lots of solid food. As with our other kids, we're doing baby led weaning with great success. She can eat pretty much anything, although I'm doing what I can to keep her away from added sugars in cakes and sweets. The best thing about all of this is that she's still breastfeeding. I've never made it this far breastfeeding any of my three other children, and I'm so proud that I'm persevering. She still has a bottle to supplement once every day or so, but it's becoming more and more rare as she seems satisfied with her solids and the breastmilk. I only supplement when all else has failed. She's got two little teeth that are half-way out in her lower jaw, so I've had a few bites from her, but mostly when she's distracted or falling asleep. I've learned how to unclench her little jaw quick! Ouch! Even in the middle of that pain, I remember how lucky I am that I've had all the support I needed to breastfeed her. This morning as I cuddle up in bed with her for her morning feed, I was overwhelmed by the beauty of this moment. She's still so tiny, and yet so big compared to the newborn I struggled to build a breastfeeding relationship with. I held her a little closer and soaked in the sweet, trusting look in her eyes.

She still has so many milestone ahead of her, both big and small ones. I look forward to each of them but also wish I could hold her in this moment a little longer. She is such a ridiculously happy baby, and I know she'll be a (mostly) happy toddler and preschooler, but for now I'm treasuring her littleness as long as I can.

Lover and Beloved

Recently my husband has been reading sections of the Bible and sharing his thoughts about what he's reading with me. It's one of my favourite things about our relationships. Lots of couples fall in love and then struggle to find a way to make faith work within the relationship. Everyone's relationship with God is different, and sometimes when we meet we're in different places in our relationship with God. One of the greatest blessings in our marriage (besides our abundance of adorable children. Seriously, I'm not just saying that. They gorgeous) is that when we met, we were seeking a way to give our lives entirely to God. As I posted earlier we had both joined the same religious community with the plan to become a monk and a nun. After we left the community and got married, we still had the same underlying hope for the course of our lives: to seek to do the will of God, to love Him and to share His love with others. I feel blessed that in all of the discussions about our lives that we had before we got married, God was never a question, but instead always a foundation. When we got pregnant the first time, the only real discussion we had about Baptism was who should be the godparents, not if we should have our baby baptised.

There have been times when we've been more and less good at accomplishing the lofty goal of living entirely for the glory of God. Sometimes having four kids makes it very hard to take the time to quiet ourselves to hear God's voice. As always, I find my wonderful husband leads the way. His work requires a lot of dedication and thoroughness, but somehow while creating beautiful cabinetry and furniture, he finds a way to use the silence as an opportunity to listen to the still small voice, and also to pray. I often will get little emails throughout the day about these quiet moments. They inspire me and make me want to take an extra moment while I'm completing a task to give thanks to God for all the blessings in my life. I'm usually interrupted from my thoughts by one of those little blessings chirping for something, but that's the reality of having four small children.

When they're in bed at night, we often find ourselves reflecting on the path God is taking us on, and the beauty of the faith we've inherited. Lately we've been talking a bit about the Song of Solomon (or the Song of Songs). Literally it's a poem of love written by Solomon about his bride, but it can also be read as God's love for his creations. Christ is the lover and we are the beloved. We see in the words of Solomon the love story of the ages, the love that leads to God sending His only Son for our Salvation. After my husband read the Song of Songs he found himself reading the words of Psalm 22. The Psalms were written by King David, the father of Solomon. In  Psalm 22, we hear a familiar story. We hear the story of the Crucifixion, and even the words of Christ, suffering on the cross. Somehow reading about the suffering of the Messiah right after reading the Song of Songs gives perfect context to the words "Why have you forsaken me?". Christ took on all of the suffering and torture of the crucifixion for the sake of His beloved. He emptied Himself of all his Godliness because His love was greater than all the sin, sadness and hate in the world. Even though we were full of sin, Christ, always the lover, still saw us as we were intended, the beautiful Bride, and poured out His blood so we could be made clean again.

Perfectly, Psalm 22 is followed by the most famous of the Psalms. The imagery of Psalm 23 is the image of Heaven. "The Lord's my Shepherd, I shall not want. He makes lie in pastures green." After the suffering is done, follows the peace of Heaven. As Easter rapidly approaches, I find it fitting that God has led my husband and I to these three passages in the Bible. In all the drama and distraction of our lives, a gentle reminder that God loves us, gave everything for us, and has a plan for our good gives me the desire to keep trusting in Him. Suffering is but a moment, but at the end of all days, He will carry His bride over the threshold of her new heavenly home.

Long Way Home

This weekend we finally did it. We went for the "big" road trip down to the country to see my grandfather's house. My Grampie passed away 6 months ago, and I haven't set foot in his house for several years. He and I had what I can only call a complex relationship. I was his only granddaughter, and despite the fact that he had two daughters of his own he often seemed unsure as to how to deal with me. My Grammie would take me to the kitchen and bake with me for hours, finding little tasks for me to "help". I find myself doing the same with my kids these days. While I was in their old home I found the toddler sized apron I used to wear while I helped her still tied up in the same spot in her kitchen where I left it when I outgrew 20 years ago. Through all my turbulent times with the family, I have a core of sweet memories with my Grammie I can turn to.

My Grampie and I, on the other hand, had a more complex relationship. I remember as a child I wanted so badly to be his shadow. I tried rabbit trapping (horrifying memory here involving a not quite dead rabbit being skinned. We had it for supper that night. Ew.), fishing (my fish were often thrown back, in retrospect probably because he did a lot of catch and release), woodworking (this turned into me splitting wood unattended for their fire place at the age of... 9???) and water sports on the lake (I was just lousy at this. Hands down spazz). I felt so often that I wasn't of much interest to him. My brothers and cousins were more exciting, interesting, and at the very least far less squeamish about all his favourite activities. They had no problem baiting their own hook, understood sports, and had no qualms with hunting and trapping.

As the years went on and we didn't visit their house as often, my memories turn to he and my Grammie dropping by our house when they came to town, usually with small gifts and some sweets. I would do my best to be polite, but would do my best to flee the scene. After my Grammie passed away it was even worse. He would come to town with his new wife, a very sweet lady, and want to talk to me for as long as he could grab my attention. Part of me felt guilty. I knew I should treasure my time with him. I'd already lost 3 three grandparents, never having time to really ask all the questions and hear all the stories I know they had to tell. The other part of me saw him as a sort of anachronism. There he was, exactly the same as I remembered him as a kid (he aged very well), but not in his familiar setting. He hadn't changed, but I had changed immensely. We were worlds apart.

On the long drive (with 4 kids, ninety minutes in a confined space is a long time) to the old family home, I sat in the passenger seat trying to cobble together my memories to make some sense of the man. At his funeral, droves of people had sang, cried and laughed, soaking in their memories of this man. He was a prankster, a father figure, a dedicated volunteer in his community, and the life of any party. Stories of his various mishaps and stunts made the rounds, both during the eulogy and around the over-full tables at the reception. Family and friends co-mingled, impossible to distinguish at his funeral just as they had been in his life. His funeral had been a glimpse at the man I wanted to know, but had found unreachable. The mistakes he'd made with me, and other members of my family, clouded my desire to take the steps to peel away his rough exterior to find this diamond of a man everyone else saw.

As we came in sight of the old house I'd spent every summer at for over a dozen years, the backdrop of so many memories, I felt a lump in my throat when I realised Grammie wasn't spying us from the kitchen, yelling for Grampie to come help us bring in our bags. We weren't coming to stay, we were coming to take one last look. As we walked through their oddly empty house, littered with the legacy of their lives, I stumbled over memories and possibilities. Here were the measuring cups my Grammie used to let me fill for our little baking projects. There was Grampie's collection of tools old and new, still as he left them the last time he'd been healthy enough to go in his shop. As we glanced through the old upstairs bedrooms, we found a stack of letters, tied together with a faded yellow bow. After noting that they were addressed to my Grammie (by her maiden name), I absently tucked them in our bag, along with my old childhood apron and a few oddments we collected from around the house.

When we got home and got the kids to bed, exhausted from their long drive and overfull of snacks provided by my Mum, their Grammie, I settled down to take a look at the thick stack of faded letters, mostly written on White Rose Oil Company stationary. Glancing through it became clear very quickly these were the love letters my Grampie wrote to my Grammie over 60 years ago, before they were married. They were living in different towns because of his work, and would get together every weekend. These letters, from about a 6 month period, were written once and sometimes twice a day. I feel a little guilty reading them, but then I can't resist. He wrote exactly the same way he talked, with all the funny little tics and expressions I can hear slipping off his tongue in his old, familiar voice. In these letters I hear the man, while reading the words of his love, devotion, and humour mixed together seamlessly. Old stories I would have loved to hear, I get to read in his familiar style.

When I thought I no longer had time, I at last have found him. Here in this carefully saved stack of letters I am reading the soul of the man. His hopes for the future, his devotion to the woman he loved until death parted them (and beyond), all mixed in with the kind of humourous banalities he was know to ramble on about in his later life. For example, more than one mentions getting his pants hemmed or his hair cut (less of a concern as he got older and swiftly lost all his hair).  Somehow, after all these years of struggling to find a sweet memory to focus on, I have in my hands a way to keep the best parts of him, the parts I loved and mourned at his funeral. Any time that I miss him, I can take out one of his letters and hear his voice in my mind, wooing his sweetheart and dreaming of a life well lived.

My Plans and Yours

If you want to make God laugh, tell Him about your plans

I like to think of myself as a person who really goes with the flow, and that's at least partially true. Whenever life throws me a curveball I try to run with it. I do my best to follow God's lead in my life. But there's another side of me. The side of me that's a meticulous planner. I get that side from my Dad. He has a wild streak too, and has a long history of making good of what he's given, but for the most part he's the man behind the scenes, bringing an extra fruit tray (just in case) and making sure you've got the right number table settings for your wedding reception. It's an example I'm happy to follow in my own way.

The funny thing about me is that I can get a little carried away by either going with the flow, or organising things to death. Planning wise, you should see our family budget. I have every penny coming in and going out for the next year budgeted in an excel file that I check every day or so. As for meals, I buy all our ingredients on the weekend for set meals I already planned. When we were moving, I had a file where I kept a list of how many boxes we had, as well as what was in each box. I also packed as much as I could weeks in advance and wrote right on the boxes what room they had to be placed in when we moved and numbered each box. (That's probably why we waited so long to unpack the basement. I knew what was in the boxes so I knew we didn't need most of it.) Our day also runs on a very specific schedule, from when we wake up, to when we eat, naps, etc. Some of this is sheer necessity as we have four children and more planning meals less time for craziness to erupt. To guarantee they get what they need it takes planning. I know God made me very detail oriented to deal with the life He had planned for me.

Now on the other side there's the part of me that just goes with the flow. Our 4 kids weren't planned. Not to say they were unplanned either. We were just open to the fact that we could have children. And have them we did. 4 beautiful, wanted, and beloved babies in under 5 years. I also took my discernment with great seriousness, but when I felt that God was leading me in a certain direction, I just let go of my plans and went with the flow. History proves that that served me well, as my trusting in what was clearly a God-sent path led me to my husband via my old religious community. I very rarely find myself saying that something is too good to be true, because God has been so good to me in the most unexpected ways. When it comes to big picture stuff like where we're going to live, how we'll make another baby work, or even who I when I would fall in love, I knew God would give me what I needed to make things work, so long as I followed His lead with as much trust as I could muster.

I think the reason the two sides of my personality, both the detail-oriented list nut and the happy to take it as it comes side, work so well together is that in both cases there's a plan. In the first case it's my plan, working out the little things to make everything flow. In the second case it's God's plan, working out all the little things for my greater good. While I don't always do it perfectly, I'm trying to use my obsession with lists, schedules and details work towards the bigger picture of God's plan for my life. It takes a lot of trust for me, because I'm definitely the type to write out the 5 year plan down to the day. After 5 years of being married, my husband and I are not where I thought we would be. As it turns out, by the grace of God, we are somewhere infinitely better. Most days I look at my life, when I have a second anyway, and find myself in awe of all the good God has made of my attempts to plan out every moment of my day.

Thank you, God, for trusting me even more than I trust in you, and for loving me more than I could ever love you.

The Lord's My Shepherd

Recently you may have noticed our family is on a home made kick. Baby girl is 6 months old now, and I'm back to my characteristic level of energy and enthusiasm. We've been spending more at our local farmer's market than at the grocery store, which is a good sign that I've been doing more from scratch. With the exception of one loaf this week, I've made all our bread, pizza dough, and rolls entirely from scratch. Today, with the help of the three big kids (if you can call a 22 month old, a 3 year old and a 4 year old big), we made some beef stock from scratch. With the exception of a little bit of rice or pasta here and there, everything is made fresh from food we're picking up at the market. I don't want any of the busy and harried folks out there to think that I'm badgering you about it, or that I think you absolutely have to do it. First of all, it's not my business what you all do in your kitchens. It's a lot of work, it takes a lot of planning, and really forces a change of diet pretty much immediately if you go all in.

I'm not bragging, trust me. My dedication to our new meal plan really would have waivered and probably failed by now if it weren't for a few circumstances that have forced me to dig in my heels and make it work. First of all, we've gradually emptied our pantry and freezer of processed or ready-to-make foods. It's hard to reach for frozen pizza when there isn't one. With 4 kids and 2 adults, it's not exactly cheap to hit the fast food chains either. With that, I'm left with whatever is fresh that we bought. It's forcing me to follow my meal plan and I must admit I love not having to think about what's on the menu. There's no last minute running to the store for a missing ingredient, which is another bonus. Secondly, baby girl has started on solids, and I absolutely refuse to use bottled or packaged foods for her. Ignoring all the recalls on that stuff lately, I can't get behind all the added preservatives and things. What's wrong with a few sweet potatoes and an ice cube tray?

The biggest reason we haven't been stocking up on frozen pizza, canned goods, and questionable grocery store meats, stems from recent instructions from the dietition trying to help my husband through his stomach issues. He's a type 1 diabetic and has recently been blighted by paralysis of the stomach. It's not a highly common complication, but once the doctor's figured it out, it was like the puzzle pieces of the past 6 or 7 years fell into place. When I met my husband he wasn't well, and was having problems understanding random low and high blood sugars unrelated to meal times. It turns out his stomach has been holding food, and most of the time only allowing it into his intestinal track as much as a week later, which was causing random jumps in his blood sugar. He's been losing weight lately and in terrible pain. Luckily, the doctors have been able to prescribe him a cocktail of drugs that are working together to make his stomach contract so that it can empty. The medications are only one side of his treatment. The other side, the side that is the long lasting treatment, is a drastic change in diet. First on the list was to eat smaller, more nutritious quantities of protein. The second was to reduce the quantity of fiber he was ingesting (these days even most white bread is fortified to have higher fiber content, thus our homemade variety is safer). He also has to stay away from anything with a high fat content. They also suggested he eat more soft cooked veggies, particularly in the blended form in soups, and to avoid processed foods whenever possible. I could be wrong, but to me that sounds a lot like the meal plan my husband and I worked on together. With baby girl well on her way with solids, a lot of these foods were on our list for her too.

Once again I sit in the face of what should have been a sudden and scary situation that would have changed our lives drastically in a matter or days, but instead of fear I'm left with the deep convictions of God's providence. God has once again led us, so gently, so slowly, to exactly where we needed to be, having armed us with the knowledge we need to do what's right. When we first got the phone call about this major dietary change we were scared and upset, but as the days went on we realised we were already there. If I needed any more proof of God's abiding love and faithfulness to us in a time when all else is falling apart, here it is. In every hour, I find God holding me, carrying me through the rough times.

For our wedding mass, we chose the psalm "The Lord's My Shepherd". I feel like we have made that psalm the motto of our marriage. Thank you, God, for leading us gently, and for loving us in times of fear and struggle. Perhaps instead of 40 days and nights in the desert, God is choosing 40 days and night of rain for our lives. Either way I know at the end God's promise stands firm, as a rainbow in the sky and the Cross on a hill faraway.

I will trust in you alone. I will trust in you alone. For your endless mercy follows me. Your goodness will lead me home.

3 Years and Counting

3 years ago I was anxiously awaiting the birth of our second child. Based on the old wives tale that second babies come early, I had my bag packed and waiting by the door. I was marvelling over my impossibly large stomach and doing my best to take every moment I could to enjoy my baby girl who was about to become a big sister. Whenever I slept I dreamed of who this little person would be. Probably active, I would think, as baby kicked the daylights out of me. For such tiny feet, baby could really move. I was still trying to guess if this baby was a boy or a girl. I had a feeling I knew that part. But what else about this active little person? Big? Small? Quiet? Noisy?

On February 28th, 2009, we found out. About a week and a half overdue, our first son was born. A healthy 8lbs 7oz little man. All chub and rolls and sweetness. He was, as I recall, a very calm baby. His big sister adored him from the moment she layed eyes on him. The little mother in her was born that day too. I remember his delivery really well. Our doctor, who later became our family doctor, came in with a mood of patience and humour, exactly what I needed. By the time I was pushing I was grinning like a fool (oh epidural, you have your up side!) and making jokes between pushes. I had a mirror set up so I could watch him come out. I had said during our older daughter's birth that the last thing I wanted to do was see to the way everything looked when a baby came out, but braved it for our son. I'm so grateful I did. (Mind you, I didn't use the mirror for the next two, I had seen all I needed to see.)  I even touched the top of his head as he started to come out. His birth was empowering, beautiful, and exciting. I had a feeling he was a boy, so when my husband announced him by name after he was born I wasn't surprised, but still deeply overjoyed to see our first son. Named for his Granddad, his Daddy, and St. Francis, he has lived up to the potential of three such wonderful names.

In the years since then our boy has surprised me, scared me, and taught me so much. He is a tender hearted soul and very sensitive, but he's also so bold and particular. He likes things his way, but is also so sweet and considerate with everyone he meets (after he's finished saying 'no'). We've had two more children since his birth and he has become a wonderful big brother. He's very protective of his baby brother and sister, and loves to give them hugs and get them their toys. It's not all roses, mind you. Besides the fact that for a year he has been 2 years old (I know, I know. Of course!), he has also put us through the ringer with some health scares. I remember so clearly the long day when I had to sit with him in the hospital while nurses and doctors fussed over him, an IV sticking out of his tiny arm. He was so little and pale. I wanted so badly to scoop him up and take all his pain away. My husband and I poured out a sea of desperate prayers in those days for answers and healing. We thank God every day that his health improved and he's back to his button-pushing, heart-melting ways.

It's hard to believe that in 3 short years our little man has become a person that I cannot live without. From the moment that the test showed two lines I loved him with my whole heart. I am so grateful to have him in my life every day, even though I'm pretty sure he might be personally responsible for my growing patch of white hair. I can't imagine my life or my family without him. So, as we approach his third birthday, I'll keep saying my daily prayers of thanksgiving for him, and who he is for me and for our family. Happy Birthday, little man. Mommy loves you. Always and forever.

I Remember - Je Me Souviens

In honour of Remembrance Day in a few weeks I want to share a story about my Grandpapa, a proud veteran of the second World War.

My Grandpapa was an incredible man. He was the life of any party and an incorrigible flirt. He was also well educated, fluently bilingual and well traveled. For us grandkids he had his own way of winning our hearts. We lived in the same city so he had time to etch out quiet traditions that were so small then but leave me with a deep sense of his unspoken love. Like most men of his generation he wasn't one for big emotional moments. My memories with him involve a very sweet nursery song that involved tickling, ringing the bell from one of his ships, Sunday trips to Swiss Chalet, and Cherry Blossom chocolates. For the record I hate the taste of cherries, but will never say no to a Cherry Blossom because that taste is a memory I refuse to shake. To me personally he gave a little silver anchor on a necklace that I still proudly wear it now.

I forget some times that my grandfather had a whole life before I came around. Sadly just as I was old enough to ask him about it dementia swept in and stole him from me. Excluding a few days of clarity over the drawn out years of his illness he didn't know me. In the early days of his dementia he mistook me for my mother, but near the end he often would confuse me for my Nonna who passed when I was 4 years old. I have no memory of what he sounded like when he spoke my name, though I vividly recall being called Gerine or Francine more than once. Even though he didn't know me I still joined my father visiting at the Veterans Hospital every few days. As the only living family member who lived nearby my Father visited him every day from the day he was admitted until the day he died. My Father was the most dutiful and caring son any parent could ask for, even or especially the days he was a stranger to his own Father.

As Grandpapa's memory regressed further back he finally reached a point that he was left terrorized by events of his days in the Navy from World War II. My Father informed me a few years ago that he used to field my Grandpapa's anguished calls in the middle of the night as he was clearly re-living a memory more persistent than his dementia. He would call my Father begging him to call the coast guard, firmly believing he was in a sinking ship and that his fellow sailors were drowning. He would say between uncharacteristic tears that he could hear the voices of dying men calling for help. Why would no one save them?

The details of this terrifying moment were all found in one particular story. In his early days as a sailor one of the ships he served on was torpedoed (this was actually one of two times his ship was sunk). Somehow, by chance or miracle, he landed on some floating debris. His body was utterly broken and he could not move let alone swim. As he lay there awaiting death, capture, or rescue, many if the men around him drowned. In particular an older man, the ship's cook, who had taken a liking to him and always gave my Grandpapa an extra apple on board, cried out for him by name, begging to be saved. Gradually his voice got quieter until it fell completely silent. My Grandpapa was fortunate enough to be rescued and even returned to service.

This tragic event haunted my Grandpapa. When all else was lost he remembered and relived it, drowning in his guilt and helplessness. My charming, confidant, flirtatious, cherry blossom loving Grandpapa carried that memory to his grave. It seems so unfair that he should lose so much of his memory but remain the prisoner to this moment of intense guilt. He sometimes would weep when he saw an apple, the unexpected reminder of the man he couldn't save.  He was one of many who returned home from the war physically whole but emotionally broken. A little piece of him died out on the water that night as he heard his friend's life fade along with his desperate cries for help. The rest of us gained peace, but those who returned home were left at war with their memories. Their joy to see their families was paired with unfathomable darkness from all the death they had witnessed and somehow managed to survive.

So this coming Rememberance Day I will proudly wear my poppy and participate in the ceremonies however I can. Our veterans will never forget what was lost, and neither should we.

For You, Grandpapa, I Remember. Pour Toi, Grandpapa, Je Me Souviens.

Thankful

It's Thanksgiving weekend and as I watch my social media feeds I have the great honour of reading about what all my Canadian friends are thankful for. I read in all the posts many similar threads of gratitude for family, support and the unbelievable privilege of the every day blessings of the first world. Whenever I reflect on what I'm thankful for I can't help but remember the Gospel parable where a Pharisee, seeing the tax collector who was too ashamed to raise his eyes to heaven in his prayers, proclaimed he was thankful he was not like other men. Such a strangely isolating statement.

This thanksgiving as I read through my feeds I can't help but be thankful than I AM like other men and women. I am thankful for our similar blessings but also our similar struggles. I'm thankful I'm not the only one up all hours of the night with my new baby. I'm thankfully I'm not the only one with 4 kids. I'm thankful I'm not the only one with toddlers. I'm thankful I'm not the only one working hard on my marriage. I'm thankful I'm not the only one who is wrestling with finances. I'm thankful I'm not the only one who is lucky enough to have my friends to lean on and learn from. I'm thankful that I'm not the only one whose house is crazy and I'm thankful I'm not the only one who loves every second of it.

So let me join all of you by saying again how thankful I am that we're all in this together.