Blessed......

Never shall I forget the days I spent with you. Continue to be my friend, as you will always find me yours."

~ Ludwig van Beethoven

Blessed….

My earliest friendships would have to be with my sister Donna, and our two cousins, Cheryl and Carol. If Donna and I weren't with them, we were with our neighbors’ daughters Krista and Shelly. These are the friends with whom I played hide-and-seek , picked wild strawberries, swam in the brooks , caught fireflies, talked first crushes and generally got into trouble with—don’t even get me started.

Blessed…..

I have friends from my teenage years who suffered through the agony—mine and theirs—of my crushes on their brothers—they know who they are—I’d like to think their brothers don’t, but since I have always worn my heart on my sleeve and developed a serious stutter, I’m guessing they knew.

Blessed……

My friends Simon and Annette live in England. When I could not travel to their wedding I was still her maid of honor--in absentee. She and her husband honored me, and sent me a gift and a bouquet of flowers like I would have carried at their wedding. During the time of the ceremony I went to a quiet spot looking out over Belleisle Bay and asked God to bless their day and Marriage. I look forward to the day I travel to England to see Annette again and meet for the first time ,my friend Simon and their son, my godson, Harry.

Blessed….

I had a friend call me today from British Columbia. We have had so many good times together, road trips, slept out under the stars in her backyard. We have laughed together—and cried together. We have disagreed occasionally, about her nagging ,(advising), me about my driving. Now we live thousands of miles and four hours apart. Today she called and I listened to her heart breaking. I wish I was closer.

Blessed…

To have new friendships, one with a Mom I work for, and one with a Mom I hope to work for.

Blessed…..

To reconnect with a friend from twenty five years ago, and touched to know I had not been forgotten and that we still thought of each other occasionally.

Blessed, Blessed, Blessed….

The list goes on and on and on…..Friendship does not depend on being in each other’s presence, although it is especially satisfying when your elbows are on the same table. Friendships new and old are the echoes of respect and affection, and memories shared--and the longing to know and be known, whether you are a constant in each others lives,  an ocean apart—or haven’t met yet.

Be Blessed……

My Night Light

I love the children I take care of. It is a joy to meet their needs, but usually my day ends with feeding some of them supper. Tonight I got to keep a family of three a little later. I gave the girls their baths and put them in their pajamas. I even got to read a story or two. We are big fans of Robert Munsch and "The Paper Bag Princess". I enjoy doing the voice of the dragon, and they enjoy reacting to it. I love it when I can do even part of a bedtime routine with kids. It reminded me of this poem I wrote for my oldest niece--many years ago--and thought that I would share that with you. For Stephanie Jane….

I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou Lord, only makest me dwell in safety. Psalm 4:8

My Night Light

I climb the wooden hill

At eight o’clock each night

Mommy reads a story

Then tucks my blankets tight

Daddy turns the light out

After kissing me goodnight

I snuggle down and close my eyes

And pray with all my might

Dear Jesus shine your light on me

Please hear my prayer of love

I do not fear, for you are near

And watch me from above

I know for sure you love me

Sweet Jesus you are my light

At your command, your angels keep

Their watch, ‘til flight of night

--Auntie Di

Life is Good......

So nothing startling or deep today folks, just a weekend spent doing some of my favorite things--All good and all part of the little things that make my Deliberate Life shine....

I have really enjoyed the Spring like weather the last few days. I got to sit in the sun and read while the babies slept one afternoon. The windows were flung wide to let the fresh air in during the day and the fire lit morning and night just long enough to take the chill away. As I write this I look past the bouquet of pink tulips on my windowsill and see that there are at least a dozen robins on my lawn.

I enjoyed the weekend immensely. I spent some time alone doing some cleaning and rearranging, hanging some new pictures--(while listening to Jimmy Rankins' new CD, Forget About the World--love the Rankins). After working as a live-in Nanny for perpetuity, I have enjoyed living in my own space the last three years. My oldest brother shares the family home with me while he finishes renovating an old farmhouse. I have started packing a bit of his stuff--hope I am being subtle--(smile).

I was also blessed to spend time around my kitchen table with two of my dearest friends. My friend Jane is a nurse and works in Northern Canada for weeks at a time. On Saturday we had a late supper and laughed and talked--about everything and nothing. After church today my cousin Cheryl and I prepared lunch in my kitchen in comfortable chatter. She has been my friend and fellow troublemaker since earliest memories. I love having their feet under my table and hands wrapped around big mugs of coffee, as we reminisce and make new memories.

This afternoon I wrote a bit and started re-reading Steve Berrys' novel--The Romanov Prophecy-- fast-paced and lots of history.

I am working on some writing--contemplating the subject and subjectivity of joy and the blessings of life. When I can wrap my head around it all, I will come and share--thanks for dropping by,
...Annie

More Bread Please.....

Even in antiquity, bread was considered so essential to the maintenance of human life that there was no act more social than sharing one's bread with others.

–excerpt from Breaking Bread by Daniel Rogov

MORE BREAD PLEASE…….

My father was a rugged man who loved the outdoors. He worked as long as day gave light. He worked a small farm when we were growing up--a few pigs, chickens, and cows--enough to feed his family and a bit more. He worked as a lumberman, but mostly he worked acres of wild blueberries. For enjoyment he planted and tended flowers. His big weathered hands contradicted the delicate nature of the flowers he coaxed into beauty.

He was a good cook and in later years as he worked less in the winter, he would help Mom with the meals. She appreciated it as it gave her more time with her passion—quilting. When he wanted to learn to make bread, she told him no. That was her department. We all, including Dad, found that amusing as Mom never balked at much. We were never sure if it was because she wanted this one thing that was hers---or she was concerned about the mess the kitchen would be in when he was done. 

My father was an enthusiastic cook and the cupboard doors often told splattered tales of homemade fudge and tenderized steak. Also, his bachelor days were dotted with stories of kitchen slap-dashery and perhaps she was recalling these. Dad teased Mom about putting her foot down, but respected her wishes. It remained Mom’s department.

When Mom passed suddenly we were all devastated, no one more than Dad. We helped each other through, but as we each had a unique relationship with Mom, there was a part we would all have walked alone—but for God. Dad’s journey, being married to Mom for 48 years, was to be the hardest.

There was no hiding his grief, but he didn’t wallow in it either. He worked as much as he could and found purpose in his days. After short deliberation, he pulled the mixing bowl from the cupboard and asked for guidance in making bread. He had at least two tutors. 

As he learned to make bread and worked through his grief he used it as a means to reach out to other people who were in distress. If someone was sick or grieving in the community—out came the mixing bowl. If our small community was holding a benefit for someone in need –out came the mixing bowl. He would often make 12-14 loaves at a time.

When you came to visit—on went the coffee pot, out came the homemade jam and slabs of bread and cheese; Dad never served delicate 'slices' of anything. When you left you often left with a loaf of bread under your arm.

Although my Mother was not the one to teach Dad to make bread she taught those who did. He mastered white bread as well as raisin brown bread. Then he took what he learned and in compassion used it to reach out to those walking a similar journey. Pass the bread please.

Winter Schminter!

Today the weather is sunny and mild. The snow is melting into the lawn and disappearing quite nicely--- (excuse me while I pause to wave goodbye). Last week we had a few mild days that definitely held a promise of spring. I opened the windows and cleaned a few more corners and relished the milder weather—but didn’t get too excited....winter always teases us with a little thaw, and then gives us another swift kick up our “sit-upon”. We definitely felt it this week, with freezing rain and blowing snow making life miserable.

I have always had mixed feelings about winter. I love the heat and dancing flames from the woodstove. There is a coziness to the shorter days and longer lamp lit evenings spent reading, or watching the snow come down. I love making soups and homemade bread to warm and feed the little bellies I care for. Playing board games with the school kids and cuddling in blankets and watching movies with the toddlers.

I stood at my open door one night last week and watched in wonder as the snow came down like sugar, it was so quiet I could hear it landing---and was tempted to reach down and taste it. I took a deep breath letting my lungs fill with cold air purified by the snow---so delicious you can’t possibly take a big enough whiff. Another day I was delighted for the kids as it fell in huge flakes that lay heavy on the ground just begging to be made into a snowman or fort.

I have good memories of snow and winter as a child. Making snow angels with my sister Donna as big fat flakes fell on our faces, and laughing as they fell into our open mouths. Other times I remember lying still on the ground watching the stars in that huge velvet sky, the warm smells and comforting sounds coming from the open door of the barn as Dad and the boys finished the evening chores. As children my siblings and I would go sliding with half a dozen neighbors and stay out until our feet and fingers ached from the cold. Mom would sometimes warm us by letting us wrap our arms under her cardigan and around her waist. I remember windows etched with fern and feathers compliments of Jack Frost.

However—you know the saying there is a thin line between love and hate?  Most of the time the line is as thin as the depth of my back door--2 inches. The things I truly enjoy about winter can be enjoyed from the inside of the threshold---including those icy cleansing breaths.

I sometimes wish I was of a species that hibernates—sometimes I wish I could revert to childhood. As I look out the window to grin and thumb my nose at winter and the melting snow, I realize the child in me is winning. Next year I vow to make a snowman. Snow-angels? Not with these hips.