by Heather Plett | Dec 21, 2005 | Uncategorized
I look around me at all this Christmas abundance, and I feel so blessed. Every day, I fill the little pockets of my children’s advent calendars with treats, and I am grateful that I can lavish so much love and generosity on my children.
In the middle of all this, though, I remember one of the most life-impacting moments of the past year. I remember the day I ate bread with the Bishop…
We munch on the Bishop’s bread as we bump along rough country roads in SUV comfort. “It’s for my diabetes,” he’d said when he’d sent his driver into the store before we’d left town. After the bread, the Bishop reaches back from his front seat and hands me a fruit juice. “You can wash it down with this,” he says benevolently, and I receive it like a penitent parishioner receiving communion.
The Bishop laughs his deep belly laugh as he recounts stories of the days when he’d left Tanzania to study in America. “I could tolerate almost anything,” he says, “except for the rock and roll. It’s an abomination that they’re letting it into churches now.”
When we reach the village, throngs of people await our arrival. We step out of the comfort of air conditioning and leather seats, into the hot African sun. I step out alone on my side of the car. The Bishop walks ahead, bowing graciously to the multitude that clamours around him. Always, his chuckle can be heard above the din.
As the Bishop disappears into the crowd, I try to follow, but the masses close the gap and I am quickly surrounded by curious and eager faces. They stand a respectful distance away. There must be fifty sets of eyes on me. Some of them giggle as they examine my blonde hair and pale skin. One woman tentatively reaches out and, when I offer my hand, fifty other sets of hands take courage and reach out to touch me.
I feel hands all around me – all of these people eager to touch the woman whose white skin, to them, means “one blessed by God.” My throat begins to close with overwhelming emotion. My eyes fill with tears. “This is how Jesus must have felt,” I think, “when the hemorrhaging woman reached through the throng to touch his cloak.”
“I am not the Messiah,” I want to shout, as I struggle to move forward without jostling or offending anyone. “Hold your honour for someone more worthy than me.”
Finally, I make my way to where the Bishop and the others are standing. The crowd forms a reverent semi-circle around us. Eager faces await words of greeting from the benevolent Canadians who have brought the food they will eat for the next three months while they pray for rain.
The Bishop speaks first. He urges them not to let sin enter the village. His voice rises as he preaches to them of the blessings God will bestow on them if only they are faithful. They peer at his broad girth, and I wonder if they are hoping they can be as faithful as he has been.
The hot sun is unforgiving as the villagers wait – they’ve waited all day for us to arrive and now they are at the mercy of the Bishop’s words. All this they must endure to take home a few morsels for their children.
I feel hands urging me to step forward. “They want to hear from you,” someone whispers. Tiny needles pierce my throat as I try to speak. What can I say that is worthy of this moment? How can I assure them I long for friendship, not reverence?
“Thank you for your kind welcome,” I begin falteringly. “In Canada…” my voice breaks, “my father was a farmer just like you.” My mind races, searching the past for one kernel of connectedness. “We were poor, and sometimes we didn’t know if we would eat. Just like you, we’d wait for rain, and when it didn’t come…” I pause to wait for the interpreter to catch up. “When it didn’t come, we ate less than we did the year before. My father worked hard, just like you. And yet, sometimes the crop failed, or the markets sank and times were hard.” Pause. How can I let them know they are as valuable as I? “I know that, if there were no food on my table in Canada, and you were blessed with bountiful crops, you would help me too.” My voice drops to little more than a whisper. “I will pray that God will bring the rain.” The words come out of my mouth, but in the same instant I know that God will hear my anger and confusion before I remember to pray for rain.
Others speak, and I step back into the crowd. A group of grinning young boys wave me over. They gesture at the camera around my neck and strike a pose for a picture. As they ham it up, I life my camera to my face. Before turning away, I smile and wink, and they giggle behind their hands.
Someone thrusts a bucket into my hands and points in the direction of the mound of maize. Standing on the food they will eat, we fill the sacks held out with eager hands. Just enough sacks to satisfy the photo opportunity, and then we are whisked away again.
As we pull out of the village, I sink deeply into the leather seats, tears stinging my eyes. The Bishop’s bread and juice threaten to erupt from my churning stomach.
I turn to look back at the crowds. Part of me longs to jump out of the car and rush back to them. “You shouldn’t be thanking me,” I want to tell them. “You should hate me with every fiber of your being. I should be stoned in the village square for throwing away more food than you will eat this year. I should be flogged for my closets full of greed. At the very least, I should be barred from the village for keeping silent in the face of injustice.”
The Bishop chuckles in the front seat. “We’ll go to another village now,” he says, settling into his seat. “They have prepared a feast for us. You must try the goat.” He smacks his lips. “I do love goat.”
Later, as I try to swallow the dry hunk of goat meat the Bishop pushes my way, I silently plead to the God of confusion for absolution. Surely, there must be some worthy penance for my sins.
by Heather Plett | Dec 21, 2005 | Uncategorized
Here she is… my little red-headed Spanish dancer. No amount of coaxing could convince her to wear the red flower in her hair (when Julie makes up her mind about something, there’s not much anyone can do about it), but she looked delightful none-the-less.
And here’s Nikki – nine, going on sixteen.
And here’s Maddie, getting a little bored in the audience, wishing she could be onstage with her sisters.
by Heather Plett | Dec 20, 2005 | Uncategorized
You’d think that staying up late to make circle skirts shouldn’t happen to the same person twice within a 6 month period. But no, that would suggest that I actually LEARN from my mistakes, and I refuse to do that on the grounds that it might turn me into a boring person.
I’m not sure what it has to do with Christmas, but Julie needs to dress like a Spanish dancer for the school concert tonight. Yeah, I suppose I could just slap a colourful skirt on her like the teacher suggested, but that’s not the way my brain works. You may hear “costume”, and I hear “opportunity”. And the one person in the world who knows EXACTLY what I’m talking about is h8s2cln.
Sadly, though, I usually only get the inspiration or motivation the night before it’s needed, so yes, I was up late last night. And, of course, when you’re stomping on deadline’s door, that’s when something ALWAYS goes wrong. I had the red circle skirt all cut out, sat down at my sewing machine to stitch it together, and lo and behold – I’d broken my last sewing machine needle last week when I sewed a bunting bag for Peanut. So there I was, at 8:00 at night, rushing around the city trying to find a store that was open and would sell me a lousy sewing machine needle (the fabric store close to our place picked this opportune time to move across town)!
But in the end, Julie will look like the best little Spanish dancer around, with her red skirt and black poncho, with red sequins and a red flower in her hair! Look for pics tomorrow.
by Heather Plett | Dec 18, 2005 | Uncategorized
I wrote the following post 2 years ago, after we’d lost Dad. It still resonates today, and this year, it will have a new poignancy while we continue to adjust to a new person in the family picture. For all those who are remembering someone dear this Christmas, this is for you…
It’s not the Christmas Eve phone call that I’ll miss. I never particularly liked rushing out to the shopping mall on the busiest day of the year because he hadn’t gotten around to buying Mom a gift.
And it won’t be the delay he caused each year by picking the very moment everyone was ready to open presents to go outside and feed the pigs.
It’s not his stubbornness or his lack of focus. It’s true – some things will be easier this year without Dad. I’ll get to relax on Christmas Eve. We’ll open presents sooner. We won’t have to plan meals around his unorthodox schedule.
But it’s the sound of him I’ll miss. His voice as he sang “Who is He in Yonder Stall?” His annual reading of the Christmas story in Isaiah or Luke – before any gifts could be opened. The silly sounds out of his mouth while he drifted off to sleep on the couch – still trying to participate in the family cacophony. His inquisitive tone as he pondered a new Christmas question – why does tradition assign the number three to the wise men? What makes us think Mary was riding a donkey?
It’s the feel of him I’ll miss. His shaggy whiskers on my cheek when he hugged me hello. His work-worn hands when he patted my shoulder in greeting or congratulations. His insistent fingers as he tapped my hand at the busy Christmas table to get my attention so he could share his musings.
It’s the smell of him I’ll miss. The Old Spice aftershave lotion he saved for Sundays and Christmas. The lingering odour of the barn embedded in his hair and the blankets Mom covered the couches with.
It’s the sight of him I’ll miss. The tilt of his head and the tiny grin that said “I’m happy to see you” louder than words. The bushy eyebrows over twinkling sky-blue eyes as he teased the grandchildren. The freckled hands cradling his well-fingered black leather King James Version Bible. The gentle smile saved especially for Mom for picking just the thing he needed for Christmas.
We’ll still gather at Christmas. We’ll still eat a big meal and exchange gifts. We’ll still read from the Bible – probably even from the same black leather Bible he fingered for all those years. We’ll play games, we’ll laugh, we’ll sing a few Christmas carols. That’s what we do at Christmastime – we won’t change that because Dad died.
But the heart of it won’t beat the same way this year. The Bible won’t sound the same from someone else’s lips. “Who is He in Yonder Stall” will sound empty without his voice or his unique line of questioning. Mom won’t get that special smile, and I won’t feel his whiskers on my cheek.
We’ll still celebrate the birth of Christ, but it will be the death of Dad that will hold captive our thoughts, our tastes and our smells.
by Heather Plett | Dec 17, 2005 | Uncategorized
In case you were wondering where my witty insightful posts and comments have gone (haha), I’ve been on another business trip. Another Alberta trip – this time to interview 9 potential candidates for a position out there. First a day of interviews in Edmonton, then a short flight to Calgary, and then a day and a half of interviews in Calgary (plus a half day to catch up on Christmas shopping).
I’m a little tired, I’m happy to be home, my brain is fried from trying to think too hard and analyze too many people, my kids need my attention, I have laundry to do, and I need a day or two just to transition back into my life. I’ll be back soon 🙂
Just have to share one thought though – as I was flying over the prairies, I couldn’t help but marvel at how lucky I am. When I was growing up a poor farm girl on those prairies, I never would have dreamed I’d some day get so many chances to fly over that same landscape and beyond. Somebody pinch me! I’m a lucky girl.
The Bishop speaks first. He urges them not to let sin enter the village. His voice rises as he preaches to them of the blessings God will bestow on them if only they are faithful. They peer at his broad girth, and I wonder if they are hoping they can be as faithful as he has been.
