I Believe In Angels

This was a hard year for our family. I think it was a hard year for many Albertans. Heck, it was probably a hard year for most of humanity.

Because of this, I was a little apprehensive about heading into the holiday season. Being immersed in school work, I planned to wait until December before hauling out the tree and accoutrements. I made it to November 29^th before succumbing to my son’s big eyes, pleading for the tree to go up and one more box of decorations to come out. Just one more box. Just one more...

He’s smart. Last night I sat on the couch to study while the tree sparkled cheerfully in the corner and I felt content and peaceful. Maybe Christmas shouldn’t be postponed. Maybe Christmas is exactly what I need.

As I basked in the glow of the tree lights and reflected on my life, I remembered all the angels who have helped our family this year. Not winged seraphs dressed in white robes singing “Glory to God in the Highest”, but angels dressed in regular clothes, quietly going about doing good.

We all need angels, especially in these hard times. Angels in all shapes and sizes – mothers, fathers, children, friends, teachers, volunteers, healthcare providers, emergency responders, neighbours, employers, and strangers. They are you. They are me. Helping, sharing, loving, and spreading peace and good will to all men.

If this is Christmas, I’m ready.

I wish you all a joyous – and angelic – Holiday Season.

Inexperienced Judges

A few weeks ago Harambe, a male gorilla at the Cincinnati Zoo, was shot to save the life of a four year old boy who fell into his enclosure.

While this was a terrible tragedy, I was alarmed at the outcry on social media. Some suggested the gorilla should have been saved at the expense of the child while many others screamed gross parental negligence.

I have a few things to say about that. First, if she took her kids to the zoo, she was trying to be a good mother.

Second, those who don’t have kids don’t get to make judgments about those who do. Unless you babysit regularly or work in a daycare, you simply have no idea how fast and smart and resourceful those little people can be – some more than others. All it takes is one trip to the bathroom, or one glance in the opposite direction. Yes, care-givers need to be vigilant but perfection is impossible. Mistakes happen. Accidents happen.

Those with one child shouldn’t judge those with two, those with two shouldn’t judge those with three, and so forth. Likewise, if you don’t have teenagers, preschool boys, twin girls, or a special needs child, you don’t get to judge those who do.

Here’s a novel idea: Maybe we just shouldn’t judge one another.

That can be hard. For example, I wonder why those who noticed the child go through the fence didn’t grab him by the ankle and hang on. After all, it takes a village – to help, not criticize.

At Times Like This

I’m writing this on Wednesday, May 4^th, the day Alberta waited to see which way the fires would go next.  I’m watching the town I lived in for five years burn. I’m in shock. My heart is heavy. Tears are close to the surface. I’m grateful for social media to keep track of my friends as they leave Fort McMurray – some heading north, some south.

A family of six is asleep in my basement, in beds we made at midnight when we heard they were headed our way. It took them a gruelling twelve hours to make the four-hour journey to Westlock.

Two days before these events, I found myself restless and uneasy. I felt guilty sitting in my comfortable house with a full belly. I couldn’t think of the unrest in the world and not feel an urgency to do something about it. But what? Since January I’ve had to become vigilantly frugal and live on a budget tighter than ever, so donating cash wasn’t an option.

Forty-eight hours later, with our own evacuees headed this way, I had my answer.

At times like this I am so impressed with my fellow humans. They pitch in and give – time, money, food, shelter, and whatever else is needed over the next days, weeks, and months.

Amidst the tragedy and chaos there is purpose and calm as we put aside our differences and unite to preserve the things that matter to us all – life and love.

Here We Go Again

Once again, campaign signs are popping up on lawns and along highways. Between municipal, provincial, and federal elections it feels as though one barely ends when another begins.

As if we didn’t have enough elections of our own, Canadians also closely follow U.S. campaigns. No wonder it seems like we never get a break.

In Alberta, candidates are currently asking us to put our confidence in them. They smile and wave and knock on doors and try to convince us that they will represent us well.

I’m always conflicted as to whether I should vote for the party I favor even if I don’t like the local candidate, or vote for the candidate I feel a connection to if I don’t like the party they represent.

I wish we could do away with political parties altogether. Politicians could act as educators – explaining issues and options. Online referendums could be used to regularly poll citizens to find out what “the voice of the people” actually is, and a few elected representatives could work together to put those results into practice. I’m sure that would cost less than private jets and committees all the other nonsense we pay for.

Sometimes I wonder if it matters who I vote for since it seems like once elected, they just do their own thing or whatever their party tells them to do.

But my conscience won’t let me avoid the polls. As a citizen of a democracy it is my right and duty to both speak up and vote.  So here we go again – bring on the campaigns.

Past and Present

St. Patrick’s Day is a week away.  It’s not a day I get too excited about – I just make sure my kids are wearing green underwear so they don’t get pinched and we’re good to go.

Recently, however, I was bitten by the Family History bug.  I’ve become particularly interested in researching my mother’s side.  My Grandma Olive was adopted so we don’t know much about her biological parents, but I have learned that her father was part Irish – Patrick O’Neil was his grandfather.

So what do you know?  I’ve got a wee bit o’ Irish in me after all!

There’s something addicting about genealogical research.  When you find a record with names, dates, and places, stories begin to form and relationships develop – no matter that you’ve lived decades, centuries, or oceans apart.

My Grandma Olive’s parents were married with five children.  When they separated, the father took his three sons and the mother, Annie, took her two baby girls – though she was soon unable to provide for them and had to place them in an orphanage.  When Olive was three she went to live with a couple who later adopted her.

I truly appreciate Olive’s adoptive parents who gave her a good home, but my heart aches for Annie, my biological great-grandmother who had to give away her babies.  I’m drawn to her – and I’m grateful for every bit of information I can find to piece her life together.

And so I urge you to record your own family histories and share them on websites like Ancestry, Family Search, and My Heritage so that those searching for their past, like me, can find it.

Misery Loves Company

At the end of January we took our son to Edmonton for a long-awaited dental procedure.  Because of his asthma and the possible complications of general anesthesia, it needed to happen at the Stollery Children’s Hospital.

When we got there, I was amazed at the number of children going in for surgery.  Dressed in yellow and white-striped pajama bottoms and green hospital gowns with numbing cream taped to their hands, they sat on parents’ laps and played electronic games.

It’s an emotional thing to wait with a child before surgery.  Fear of the unknown coupled with the knowledge that every now and then something goes wrong is an effective recipe for anxiety.  But, for some reason, seeing so many others there made me feel better.  I guess misery does love company.

Finally, we were taken to a lonely hallway on the third floor where our son happily climbed onto his gurney.  I kissed him, told him he was “my best little boy”, and quickly moved behind him so he couldn’t see my tears.  Seven minutes later my husband came out of the Operating Room and reported he was asleep.  I dried my eyes and we went for lunch.

When we came back to wait for the dentist’s report, another mother was kissing her infant daughter “goodbye”.  Watching her cry made me start up again.  Our eyes met and I said, “It’s hard, isn’t it?”  We both chuckled through our tears and I think she felt better knowing someone understood her pain.

Sometimes, we just need to know we’re not alone.

Picked Last

I was not an athletic child.  There is a picture of me at age 10, standing at the start of a church picnic race.  I was wearing a red and white plaid shirt, red velour shorts pulled up nearly to my armpits, and flip flops.  But it was my posture – my totally nonathletic stance – that made me laugh.  And cringe.  And it became clear why I was often picked last in PE.

It took awhile for my muscles to catch up with my height, but by high school I wasn’t totally hopeless.  I was a mean shot in basketball and very good at table-tennis, though the memories of being picked last still remain.

Imagine my heartache when my daughter told me recently that she was picked last for a team.  It didn’t seem to bother her as it bothered me, but it made me wonder, again, why adults do this to kids.  It’s not like there’s only one way to balance teams.

I’m guessing most PE teachers or coaches were athletic as children and, as a result, were popular – thus never experiencing the agony of standing there, kicking at the dirt, trying to look as if you didn’t care as you waited to hear your name, knowing your team didn’t really want you but, rather, were stuck with you.

You’d think, with all the bullying awareness campaigns, adults who inflict this psychological pain upon children would realize that they are helping the bullies – essentially putting a target on the backs of those picked last.

And I have one thing to say about that.  Please stop.