by Heather Plett | Mar 15, 2005 | Uncategorized
“Hello, hello. There’s a pace vall vertigo.”
You haven’t LIVED until you’ve seen Maddie sing U2. You may THINK you’ve lived. You may even think you’ve seen other 2 year olds sing cute songs so you don’t need to, but you would be wrong. There is nothing cuter than seeing her screw up her little face like a 2 year old Bono impersonator, with an all-too-serious expression on her face, and her lips stretching around the word “vertigo”. Nothing, you hear me – NOTHING cuter.
So go ahead, go back to your boring lives and dream about the day when you too will get a chance to see my daughter’s Bono impression.
My second favourite “Why’d ya have to go and make things so compicated? See the way you’re acting…(at this point it disintegrates into a serious of unrecognizable syllables)… gets me fustrated.” And at the word “fustrated” her face shows what looks suspiciously like 2 year old frustration, or perhaps a need to visit the potty.
by Heather Plett | Mar 14, 2005 | Uncategorized
It still doesn’t seem fair. It doesn’t seem fair that my kids won’t hear him make strange cat-like noises when he’s lying on the couch on the edges of sleep but still trying to interact with his grandchildren. It doesn’t seem fair that they’ll grow up and not remember how much joy they brought to his life. It doesn’t seem fair that he won’t give them any more pony rides. It doesn’t seem fair that “Red Bowler” and “Lucky Swimmer” won’t be heard from his lips anymore.
It doesn’t seem fair that other children still get to sit on their Grandpa’s knees. It was at the baby dedication on Saturday that the unfairness hit me once again. Jo’s dad got up to read a poem – “Grandpa Grumps” – about how delightful it is to become a Grandpa. Of course, my eyes turned into watering holes as they still have a tendency of doing when I remember that he’s gone. I miss him for MY sake, but I think I miss him even more for my KIDS’ sake. At least my memories of him are well formed and will always be with me. Their memories of him are already fading. They won’t get to know how wise he was, or get a chance to have an adult perception of him.
While the poem was being read, and my eyes were filling with tears, I looked back to see if I could catch Cynthia’s eyes. I was sure her eyes were welling up too. It’s even more unfair for her. She’ll bring a baby (or two or three) into the world, and won’t even get to see her baby in his arms. She won’t get to see the grin on his face or the sparkle in his eye. Her child won’t get a Grandpa nick-name.
It’s just not fair. Grandpas are supposed to live forever.
by Heather Plett | Mar 11, 2005 | Uncategorized
Today is D Day. I’m not sure what the D stands for in this context, but it has that certain ring to it – a monumental day that you’ve been building up to.
Maybe I should call it P Day. It’s the day I meet Paul, my Mom’s new boyfriend. Everyone else in the family met him while I was wandering around Africa, and all I had to go on were their brief descriptions of him on the e-mails I picked up in internet cafés. Now I get to meet him myself, form my own opinions, and then somehow prepare myself for Mom’s expectation that I tell her what I think of him.
It feels like a little too much pressure being the ONLY one who has yet to make his acquaintance. I’m having mini panic attacks thinking about it. This is probably the man my Mother will spend the rest of her life with. Yes, it’s true, they’d only spent a few days together and were talking about marriage already. How’s THAT for a heavy message to get when you’re in Africa thinking more about whether you’re getting a sunburn than about the realities of home and family?
So far, everyone has described him as fairly likeable and, in the words of my eldest brother (the man of a few words) “he’s a nice enough guy”. I have this fear that when he walks into the house, the pressure will get to me and I’ll clam up and not be able to say a word in his presence. Or worse yet, the opposite will happen and I’ll talk a blue streak out of nervousness.
It’s all fine and good that Mom should find another man – someone to bring her happiness and companionship. But no one can prepare you for the day it happens. As far as I know, they don’t write self help books for adults whose parents start dating when the other parent dies. Part of me feels like a little kid – “Hey, get away from my mom! She’s MINE and you can’t share her!” Part of me feels like a Mother to my own Mother – “Are you sure you’re doing the right thing? I mean, after all, we really don’t know very much about this young man. Are you sure his intentions are honourable?” Yup, I’m schizophrenic. (But at least I have each other.)
And next week, they’re off to Minneapolis to meet one of HIS daughters. Mom could soon have 4 step-children, and a whole whack of step-grandchildren. I’m a little sad for my kids as well – that they may have to share their grandma with too many other kids. Now that she’s become a more regular presence in their lives, I don’t want that to change.
Aaaahhh! Yes, I’m resisting change and I wanna stomp my foot like a 2 year old!
by Heather Plett | Mar 9, 2005 | Uncategorized
They want me to be an elder. Someone at church actually thinks I’m grown up enough to be called an “elder”. The thought makes me quake in my boots for more than one reason: 1) I’m too YOUNG! I haven’t even successfully figured out how to be a full-fledged ADULT yet – how in the name of all that is grown up in the world could I possibly be an ELDER? 2) At this point in my life, my faith feels WAY too shaky to take on the role of someone who’s supposed to be a leader, a mentor, a role model, and a spiritual advisor.
It’s the second point that gives me the most trouble. A few weeks ago, while I stood staring at all those Christian books of seemingly great yet unattainable wisdom, my faith came tumbling down around me like the proverbial house of cards. I wasn’t expecting it to topple like that, so I was rather surprised to see it lying there on the floor. I guess I was still attached to it, though, because I couldn’t quite leave it behind in that bookstore. It stuck to my shoes, and I’ve been dragging it around ever since, kicking it now and then to make sure it’s still alive. Sadly, though, I haven’t managed to rebuild or revive it yet.
I thought it might reappear in Africa. I thought I might find reason to pump some air into it – either when I needed something to help me cope with the hardships in the drought-stricken and AIDS-afflicted villages, or when I wanted someone to thank for the beauty of the Serengetti (it WAS pretty awesome!). Unfortunately, it didn’t happen. In fact, the opposite happened – what little life was left in it got trampled by the anger and frustration I felt for what the church has done in Africa, and what it’s doing in Canada to our young people. It was at a church service, in fact, that my faith took the most severe blow.
It wasn’t an ordinary church service. Our group held its own little church service in the open-air bar of the safari lodge we were staying at just outside the Serengetti and the NgoroNgoro Crater. First of all, the mini-sermon was delivered by Solomon, a Kenyan lay minister who was travelling with us on part of our trip. The theme of his talk was how God will provide everything we ask for. He spoke with conviction about how God would provide EVERYTHING – a good wife, a good home, good children, etc. – if only we ask him for it and are faithful. It made me feel a little sick. In other words, us rich Canadians sitting around the circle were better at ASKING because God was blessing us more? Dan challenged him and asked what about the person dying of AIDS? Solomon said (again with conviction) that if the person with AIDS repented, then God could still bless him and he could be healed. In other words, AIDS was directly related to sin in a person’s life. No WONDER so many people are afraid to admit they have AIDS and it keeps spreading further and further if people will shun them for sinning.
I felt my anger boil inside me as I listened to Solomon talk. I wasn’t angry AT him, I was angry FOR him. I was angry that the missionaries who’d brought their tainted religion to his village had taught him lies and half-truths. They’ve painted a picture of a judgemental, unjust God who blesses white people more than Africans. They’ve painted a picture of a God who has to fit into a box created by western religion. They’ve taken SO much from the African people. Church and faith have to be this stifling experience just because that’s the way church happens in Europe or North America. Blech!
My anger extended from their to the young people in our group. What really frustrated me was Rachel’s (the 19 year old) concern that she couldn’t sing the song that moved her most because she was afraid it wasn’t “religious” enough. I told her ahead of time that I didn’t think she had to worry too much about religion. I was glad when she decided to sing the song she originally wanted to, but it saddened me that young people feel they have to mold into our idea of church to fit into “religion”. What does that have to do with GOD?
Oh yeah – there was a third thing at the service that ticked me off. Someone had decided we should have communion. While I didn’t have much trouble with that in principle, it DID bother me because I knew we had at least one person in the group who didn’t have a faith in the same version of God as the rest of the group and wouldn’t be comfortable with taking communion. It felt horribly exclusive to pass the bread around the circle and have only one person refrain from accepting it, so in silent solidarity, I let it pass me by as well.
So here I am – not sure anymore how I define God and what kind of relationship I want to have with him. I know my anger is directed at the CHURCH and not at God, but I’m still having a little trouble separating the two. And next week, they want me to sit in front of the leadership of the church and tell them why I should or shouldn’t be an elder. First I have to figure out why I should or shouldn’t be a Christian.
by Heather Plett | Mar 3, 2005 | Uncategorized
I’ve seen too much of airports already. And I’m not done yet. I’m sitting in Schipol airport in Amsterdam waiting. Again. I should be home by now, holding my children close and trying to recuperate from jetlag.
Leaving Kenya was sad but uneventful. We flew Ethiopian airlines from Nairobi to Rome with a stopover in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. We flew overnight. I managed to sleep fairly well on the second flight. We arrived in Rome some time between 7:00 and 8:00. When we arrived in Rome, only one of my suitcases showed up. The one I’d bought in Nairobi and filled with souvenirs wasn’t there. We filled out the necessary paperwork and proceeded to our hotel – the Courtyard by Marriott.
The hotel is fairly high end. As much as I appreciated a clean, comfortable room, I wasn’t in the mood for complicated. Too little sleep and a vanished suitcase full of gifts for my family made me a little cranky, and not prepared to cope with a room that had to be “activated”. You have to slide your card in the slot and leave it there in order for the lights to work. Before I figured that out, I had to pee in the dark – not happily, I might add.
Dan and I had breakfast, and then I went to crash for awhile before our meeting. At lunch time, we took a cab to the WFP office. We had lunch with Brenda Barton and Philip Ward, and then had a short tour of their offices. We also had a short meeting with one of the women planning Walk the World who wants us to participate in Canada.
After our meeting, we went back to the hotel. We went for a walk to try to find a restaurant, but couldn’t find anything, so we ended up back at the hotel restaurant.
I was pretty tired, so I went to bed early. I’d been told that my missing luggage had been found and would be sent to the hotel, but nothing had arrived yet. When I woke up, it still hadn’t arrived, so I caught an early shuttle (7:15) to the airport.
When I got to the airport, I got sent to about 3 different desks, only to be told my bag had already gone to the courier. They tried to reach the courier office, but it wasn’t open until 8:00. So I sat in a baggage handling room waiting. At 8:05, they phoned and were told my bag had been dropped off at the hotel. They phoned the hotel and found out that it WAS there. It had been there all the time!! I’d asked THREE different desk clerks, and ALL three told me it hadn’t arrived.
After I lost my temper and took it out on the woman in the baggage room, it was finally arranged that the hotel shuttle would bring my bag back to the airport. I collected it and because it was badly damaged (I guess it doesn’t pay to buy cheap luggage) I had to get it wrapped in saran wrap.
That wasn’t the end of my mishaps for the day. When I got to the gate, they told us the plane would probably leave late because of snow in Amsterdam. Sure enough, it left quite late, and while we were en route, the captain announced that most of us would miss our connecting flight.
When we landed in Amsterdam, we had to sit on the tarmac for about an hour and a half because there was no gate for us, and then no staff available to hook up the gate. I have to admit, as frustrating as it was, I couldn’t help but feel sympathetic for the captain, who sounded very apologetic and frustrated each time he informed us there would be further delay.
When I finally got into the terminal, I found a transfer desk to try to book another ticket. Unfortunately, hundreds of other people were in the same predicament as me. I was number 909 when I arrived, and they were only serving #545. It took a couple of hours before I got to the desk and finally had another ticket. They were going to book me to Vancouver and then to Toronto, because that was where they were responsible to get me to, but I pushed the issue and finally they booked me to Winnipeg.
Fortunately, when I was done, I managed to find a hotel room by calling from the booking desk. I went outside to wait in the snow at what I thought was the right shuttle stop (it was hard to know since the signs were covered in wet snow). By this time, I was nearing the end of my rope, so I just stood there and cried.
The hotel turned out to be quite nice, and despite my blue mood, I tried to make the best of it. I ordered in room service, and then soaked in the luxurious tub watching a movie on TV. (There was a TV in the bathroom!) The room was on the 10th floor, so I had a rather impressive view of the snow-covered surrounding countryside.
This morning, I went down for breakfast and then caught the 8:00 shuttle for the airport. For all intents and purposes, things seemed to be on schedule when I arrived. Unfortunately, it is now more than 2 hours after we were supposed to leave and I’m STILL waiting. There’s apparently too much ice on the platform where the plan is and they have to clear that off before we can leave. AAAaaahhh!! I want to SCREAM! I just want to be home! Not sitting in a noisy crowded airport, surrounded by hundreds of people who are just as frustrated as me!
