Memories…

The hardest part about writing a blog is trying to think of something useful or important to say. I imagine it's easier if you are a focused person and you're writing a "themed" blog. Me? I'm just writing about life. No theme, no focus. Like life.

Anyway, at noon today, I was half listening to a radio program on CBC, during which people phoned in with a story of either their favourite teacher, or a prank they pulled at school. That reminded me of a memorable afternoon when I was in grade eight, sitting at the back of the room in Miss Hammond's classroom. Miss Hammond was an elegant single woman of uncertain age. Her hair was grey, and tied back in a stereotypical bun. She was slender and willowy, and she wore dresses that came well below her knee, so she looked almost formal. She a brooch on her dress, which was high collared, right up to her neck. She looked like she could have been a teacher in the 1800's as easily as the 1900's. Miss Hammond was my favorite teacher. She was gentle and quiet, and taught us in such a manner that we all went along with her quietly and actually learned things.

It was a Friday afternoon, the witching time of the school week. Almost time o go, but not quite. Everyone itching to get out, itching to…do something. That Friday, it got to me. Just behind me, at the very back of the room, was Miss Hammond's Art cupboard. In it, she kept all the material she needed for our Art classes. She was, I'm sure, an artist in her soul, rather than a school teacher in a small town in Manitoba.

When we had Art, Miss Hammond could get carried away, forgetting time and running out of it. So, in her Art cupboard, she kept an alarm clock to help her be on time. It was one of those old fashioned ones, with two bells on the top, with a clanger between them. When it rang, it really rang!

That fateful Friday, when her back was turned as she wrote on the front blackboard, I sneaked to the Art cupboard, got out the clock, and set the alarm for 3:00 PM, just 15 minutes away. I made it back to my seat before she turned around. The witching afternoon crawled on until that fateful hour, and the alarm began to ring. And it really rang! The sound came out of the cupboard in such a way that you couldn't really tell where it was coming from. Miss Hammond looked confused, befuddled, and then annoyed as she scurried down the aisle to the cupboard and opened it. There was the clock, dancing on its legs, clanging away the time. Miss Hammond turned it off, and then walked severely to the front of the classroom.

She folded her arms and glared at us, although Miss Hammond's glare was pretty mild. "Who did this?" she asked once, then twice. I really liked Miss Hammond, and by now I was feeling a little guilty that I had upset her, so I put up my hand. I hadn't known until that moment that I was probably one of Miss Hammond's favorite students, because her face crumpled and she looked stricken. My guilt increased and I was very uncomfortable. Miss Hammond recovered her composure and told me to come to the front of the class. She delivered a "stern" lecture to me, although, to be fair, it wasn't very stern at all. But I was wilting inside. I had hurt my favorite teacher, and even my heartfelt apology sounded weak in my ears.

Miss Hammond told me that she would have to punish me, and she turned to her desk. From the top drawer, she brought the strap that resided in the teacher's desk in every classroom in those days. Corporal punishment was still allowed, and by many, still preferred. Miss Hammond marched me around the corner into the "cloak room," a narrow room with hooks on the walls for our coats. She couldn't do this in front of the class, No teacher did that.

In the cloakroom, I obeyed her order to hold out my hand. I did, and she brought the strap down on it. But not too hard. It was amazing to me that this gentle woman could wield the strap at all! Twice more it came down, hurting just a bit. At that moment, I looked up at her face, and I was astonished, horrified, to see that Miss Hammond was crying. Tears ran down her cheeks as she swung the strap. She looked desolate. I wondered if Miss Hammond had ever strapped a student before.

And then, the truth hit me. Miss Hammond was grieving! I thought, "She really liked me, and she never thought I would do such a thing to upset her!" The pain of that realization was far worse than the strapping. I wanted to throw my arms around her and tell her it was OK, that I didn't mean anything bad by my prank, and that I really, really liked her. Of course, i didn't ouch her. I didn't speak. I stood there, miserable, and took the strapping and the pain of knowing that I had hurt a teacher that I really loved and enjoyed, and she was devastated by that…betrayal, I guess is the only word for it.

She stopped hitting me, and stood there, drying her eyes and "straightening her self up," as my mother would say. And then we walked back into the classroom, to face the gleeful and grinning faces of my classmates. That was even worse. I didn't mind that they enjoyed hearing me get the strap. But they were laughing at Miss Hammond! And I wanted to shout at them, "Stop that! Leave her alone!" Of course, I didn't.

Four o'clock came, and we left the classroom. I didn't have the courage to stay behind and really apologize to Miss Hammond. I wish to this day that I had, and that I had told her how much I liked her, and what a good teacher I thought she was. But I lost the moment, and I am left with one of the most poignant memories of my childhood, a memory of how important it is to let teachers know when they are loved, and when they display competence and skill. I have never forgotten Miss Hammond. I can see her elegant walk down the aisle to this day if I close my eyes. She wasn't the only teacher that I ever loved, but she was the first.

Stall

Some powerful ups and downs over the past week. Almost a week ago, I was at a Church Board meeting where an extremely tangled problem was tabled. It was never actiulally talked about, but everyone is concerned about it.The committee having the conflict was so at loggerheads that it dissolved itself and asked the Board to strike another committee. I've never been involved in such a volatile situation. People shouting at each other, confidentiality being broken, name calling and raw hostility. No idea how this will work out, The Board is hiring a mediator so the committee members can achieve some degree of reconciliation. More anon, as Doris Black used to say…

On the weekend I had the opportunity to take in a lecture series in Calgary, featuring a very radical and intense philosopher-theologian from Ireland, Peter Rollins. Very good stuff, but high intensity. He actually didn't "lecture," but talked rapid fire, with lots of movement, and a thick Irish brogue. Altogether stimulating and enlivening. Of course, now I have three more books to read!

On the weekend, I also had the opportunity bto visit with a friend with whom I worked briefly. I stayed with he and his wife. Great visit, fun playing with their Jack Russell terrier, and planning to go to a conference in Nashville in spring with him. It was actually good to get away and take a fresh perspective on things from a different angle.

Every now and then I remember that the world is bigger than the small circles in which I move, and that there are big movements happening that I can touch, and from which I can learn. The problem, of course, is how to actually put the new learning to work in a situation where I have very little power and control. Most of the time, that doesn't bother me: at my stage of life, being a supporting actor is just fine. But sometimes I see that those with whom I work are bogged down, and need a "re-invention" in order to be effective. I'm not quite sure how to broach this with the person concerned, or how deeply to go into it since there appears to be no invitation for this forthcoming. I'm learning to just sit and wait for things to unfold…or unravel!

I'm flat tonight, and although a lot is rolling around in my mind, I can think of no way to put iot our. Perhaps tomorrow, in the light, inspiration will come.

"…The poppies grow among the crosses…

Yesterday (November 11) was Remembrance Day in Canada, when we all stop to remember and give thanks for the sacrificial living of the men and women who gave themselves to the military, and who gave their lives up for the nation. This day or remembrance has taken on new meaning since the Afghan conflict, because sudden,y there is new crop of youthful soldiers of both genders, and a new list of those who lost their lives in this war. There is renewed interest in the schools to study the history of conflicts in which Canada has been involved. Students have visited the sites of famous battles in Europe, as well as distant cemeteries where the bodies of Canadian soldiers lie far away from home.

Because of the beautiful poem written by John McCrae in 1916 (In Flanders Fields), the poppy has become a national, and virtually universal symbol for the remembrance of war dead. An author, interviewed on CBC the other day, commented that, while in Europe for a Remembrance Day ritual, she saw poppies on the graves of German soldiers. Although they were enemies in World War Two, they have adopted the poppy as have we.

A number of things filled my mind as I worked my way through Remembrance Day. (I conducted worship and preached in the church where I work this Sunday). First of all, I reflected on how the poppy might become a 'tainted symbol' for Afghan vets. Poppies grow in Afghanistan as well as in Flanders. And in Afghanistan they are guarded and defended by the Taliban as a source of income for their war effort. I imagine that at lest some of our war dead there died in, or near, poppy fields.

I also thought about the veterans who return from war, and how they are affected by that experience. Only with the advent of modern psychological understanding has the reality of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder come to be acknowledged and treated. In the old, old days, it was called "Shell shock" and left untreated. And veterans rarely, if ever, talked about what they had seen or had to do. Today, that is changing, and soldiers are getting healed from their war experience rather than being traumatized for the rest of their lives.

I also reflected on the smaller number of World War Two vets who appeared at the National Memorial in Ottawa. Thy are old men now, and they are dying out. The opportunity to say thank you to that generation of soldiers is slowly coming to an en. It is beautiful to see young children, getting an idea of what war had done to these old warriors, can thank them face to face for their sacrifice of life.

When the Korean War came along, I was sixteen, and longed to be a soldier and be involved. It didn't happen, and now, I'm glad. I have a neighbor who managed to enlist at age seventeen, and at seventy-eight, he still cannot assimilate the horrors he witnessed in Korea. That experience has marked his life indelibly to this day. His seventeen year old mind simply was not prepared for that experience, and his seventy-eight year old mind still struggles to deal with it. Who knows how I, at sixteen, would have been twisted by that "adventure?"

So, I am thankful for all the people who entrusted their lives and skills to the military over the decades: I thank my father, James Sr., Nicola Goddard, Red Campbell, Mel Moroz, and the thousands of others whose names I do not know. And I wear my poppy humbly, and with gratitude.

Not forgotten

This afternoon, I attended a memorial service for a 48 year old man who was my friend. I met him while I worked as Chaplain in a Psychiatric Hospital. He was a long term patient, a man who suffered from schizophrenia. He was pleasant, quiet, soft spoken, friendly and industrious. All the time I knew him he worked on the "Outside Gang," doing the gardening, lawn care and snow removal. He loved being outside and useful, He died of complications after surgery. His name was James.

He and I shared a little joke every day. If we met in the hall, him walking one way and me walking the opposite way, we would meet and I would say, "Good afternoon, James." His response: "Good afternoon, James," with a smile and a nod. Both of us got immense pleasure out of this greeting of equals.

I frequently had coffee with him. We'd sit together and not talk, both staring out the window, two comfortable introverts, sitting with a friend. At the memorial service today I learned that James remained an important memory of his family till the day he died. His mother was in long term care in Ponoka, and he visited her two or three times a week. Regularly, family members took James out for drives, or all the way to the family farm, a five hour drive away. He got to fiddle with farm machinery, and ride a dirt bike, pleasures from his youth, thirty years ago. When he was a lad, he took an interest in rockets, and would send one up now and then - a rocket he had made. Once or twice year, James' brother would drive him home to the old farm, and help him build a rocket, which they would then "send up." The memorial service picture display showed many photos of James with his family members at every stage of his life. The whole thing was touching, and very sad for me, because I have lost a friend.

Less than two weeks ago, I was visiting in the Red Deer Regional Hospital, having coffee in the atrium before I left, when James sauntered by. We connected, he sat down, and after pleasantries, we stared out the window together. It was a lovely, companionable time - old friends comfortable with each other. James asked if I would buy him coffee - he was wearing hospital clothes, so had no money with him. I was embarrassed that I hadn't thought of it, and got him coffee. The kind of thing one friend does for another. After a brief time, I had to go, he had to go, and we parted. Who knew that less than two weeks later, one James would be dead?

I shed tears at the simple memorial service today. I was surprised by them. I realized that James was my friend in a deeper way than I had realized. He had started out as a patient to whom I ministered, and then, I became his friend, and he mine. I will miss him, as I know the people who work with him at the hospital will miss him. He was worth nothing, damaged, and warmly human. Like the blind beggar, or the poor widow with her "mite," like the countless people who called out, "Teacher, help me!" James never called out to me that I heard, but he worked his way into my heart. And, I hope that I worked my way into his. James P.:  R.I.P. Gone, but not forgotten.

ADeath in the Family…

Important week in my family: my ex-wife's husband died suddenly. This means my children's step-father passed away. Huge impact on them…all of them. Michael was the first person on my generation in the family to die. Mortality hit with a crash on the adult children. Everybody knows about death… but it isn't real until somebody you depend on to be there suddenly is not!

Pressure on the kids in other ways as well. Joan will need extra support, she'll have many needs that suddenly emerge, and there will be no one else to help but…her children. Heavy time for them, one in particular.

The whole thing gave me pause as well. I knew Michael would die soon, but not this soon. He died in his sleep; great shock for his wife to wake up and find that she was lying next to a corpse, the remains of someone she cared about deeply. The shock would take a long time to dissipate.

I pondered a good while on how I "should" feel. Not exactly sad… he wasn't that close to me. Suddenly anxious for my children and what this would mean for them. Wanting to talk to them and realizing that this wasn't "my" time. They needed their space to grieve without the imposition of another parent asking, or telling, them. It was interesting to me that one of my children called me almost the next day, for no reason, except just to reassure herself that at least one Dad was still alive.

In the wake of this death, I found myself reassessing my own body. Where did I hurt? what did that mean? Was I OK? Would I keep living for awhile? And I wondered, who would be next? There are four of us left, all from families that are notoriously long-lived. So…it's a crapshoot!

I wait until the weekend, when the funeral will be over, and the children will begin to return to life that is "normal," so to speak. I'm sure I'll hear from at least one of them, perhaps two. And life will begin again for them, with that one sobering note: who will die next? And when will that happen?