We Were Supposed to Go to Norway

Today is what should have been the 59th birthday of my friend Sheri. We met at age 5, had chicken pox together, were in school together right up through high school, went to the same church, were baptized on the same day. We had sleepovers and illicit cookouts on makeshift stoves in the backyard (I still have bacon-grease scars on my shoulder from that one). We made up plays, hiked, read Archie comics, and threw balls for her poodle. She served at my wedding reception and helped me conquer the ivy at my parents' house.

We remained close even after I moved to Canada. Sheri would come up to visit almost every year, her aim to see Canada in every month of the year. When she came, she would always want to help with a project of some sort---digging up rocks, helping host a book-signing table, whatever---she was always up for an adventure. I took her to Highland Games and Mennonite markets, a cement bunker, and our crazy old church. She took me on adventures to New York City, to Park City. She liked to walk and explore, and we'd pick out which house we'd each buy so we could stay neighbours forever. She was always content to do puzzles or watch old movies or just sit and read, which is a lovely trait in a guest. You never felt you had to entertain her, but could just be yourself. When someone is that low-maintenance, they become an integral part of the mesh of your life. They become a sister more than a friend.

Last April, Sheri came to visit and we stayed at the church, taking long walks along the lake and throwing the ball for my dog Brio. She spent a lot of the week feeding me, teaching me to eat healthier. I'd envisioned going grocery shopping with her, but she arrived with her rental car already stocked with food (so that I couldn't insist on paying for it). She was a night owl and I get up at ridiculous hours before dawn, so she slept in the upstairs vestry, and we could each keep our own hours as we liked. The perfect person, in other words, to hang out with.

Our birthdays are close together, and we were cooking up ideas for a grand adventure for our 60th birthdays next year. We'd landed on the plan of going to Norway. But shortly after she returned home, Sheri was diagnosed with cancer and passed away just a few weeks later. Knowing that her 60th birthday wasn't going to happen, I whipped out a PowerPoint "documenting" our trip to Norway as if we'd gone, with pictures off the internet and stick-figures of me and Sheri drawn into them with Adobe. She reported that she and her husband went through the slides and laughed, especially over the picture of the two of us running amok through the streets of Stavanger. My personal favourite was the one of us doing swan dives off a lookout point into a fjord.

Sheri had the ability to make people feel loved, remembered, and seen. She had the uncanny ability to remember things (whereas I struggle to remember my own name on occasion). She could recall everyone she ever met and what they liked and the names of their grandchildren, and she was generous with the gifts that perfectly matched the recipient. She devoted her life to service, throwing herself into her church callings, taking care of the people around her, making me realize how narrow and self-centred my life sometimes is. Even in her last days, she made sure the quilt she'd started making for her daughter was finished by a friend. She doted on her family, turning every occasion into something memorable and special, and making each person feel treasured.

Sheri has gone on her next great adventure without me, but wherever she is, I'm sure she's serving and laughing (and talking) and putting together fishponds for angels and planting lemongrass and coaxing God into trying kelp in His pancakes. And likely throwing balls for Brio. Happy birthday, my friend. Miss you.

Introducing Detective Inspector Gor Manookian

Well, I'm on a roll now, cleaning up my filing cabinet of manuscripts. I've decided to publish one of my novellas, a Manookian Mystery: Monk with the Steel-Toed Boots, which you can find at the link below.

When a guest is murdered at a meditation retreat in the Canadian forest, Detective Inspector Gor Manookian is on the case.

As if a homicide isn't enough to deal with, he also has to juggle a critical captain, a troublesome brother, a cast of quirky characters, a fat cat named Benzo, and his own growing suspicion that he's in the wrong line of work.

What does the Buddhist monk who runs the retreat know about the murder? Who may be the next victim? And can Manookian hold it all together long enough to catch a killer?

Watch for the next upcoming Manookian Mystery, Tiny Little Murder, out soon!

Monk with the Steel-Toed Boots

Getting Grumpy in My Old Age

So...after shooting off that last post about brotherly love, I spent this morning grumpily writing to my Member of Parliament and a certain Premier to express dissatisfaction with some particular actions and practices. I won't get into the specifics, because this blog isn't meant to be political, but it makes me ponder the dichotomy and the dilemma--- How do you stand for principle and live according to your values in the face of opposition, without becoming, er, oppositional? How do you deal with unpleasantness without becoming unpleasant yourself?

I try to express myself politely. I try to be informed before making statements. I try to be reasonable and find solutions. And yet at some point, I just want to pull my hair out and demand that other people get off my planet. You know? Sometimes things seem like obvious common sense to me, and I struggle to understand how other people can't see my viewpoint (and agree with it). I'm so sure I'm right... And in some instances, I think there's such a thing as absolute truth, and yet I see other people denying it. Ignoring it. Actively stating falsehood. Condoning inarguable evil.

I know evil's a strong word, but I believe it exists, and it's our job to call it out when we see it. To step in when we see people purposely being harmed or cast aside. To speak up and amplify the voice that's being squashed. To use our privilege to invite the forgotten or excluded ones to the table.

Which I guess circles round to brotherly love again.

You know, some days peopling is too hard. I'm going to go work in my garden. I get along better with plants, and if any of them irritate me, I can yank them out.

Love Your Neighbour: Possibility or Pipe Dream?

My thought for the day: Christians say they believe in the commandment to "love thy neighbour as thyself." People tend to interpret that as "love your neighbour as much as you love yourself" and that leads, of course, to the urge to "love yourself."

I interpret it differently. To me, it's saying "love your neighbour because he/she IS yourself." They are not "other." They are you. We are to see us as one. We are to BE one. If we truly did that, there wouldn't be contention, violence, poverty, or apathy. We'd finally learn to be kind.

Imagine what a different society that would create, if we actually saw no boundary between "us" and "them." Do I hold out any hope that we'll do it? No. But a girl can dream.

(I'm the solemn one on the left.)

Photos, as Promised Last Week

Some snapshots from my walk around the Credit River and Riverwood Conservancy. A lovely start to my morning.

Hawaii - Travels and Observations

This morning's post is a snippet about the cover photo on my latest book, Before You Go. My mother-in-law was a warm, cheerful, energetic, and kind of zany person, always up for a new adventure. She loved having our boys up to her trailer, and they have fond memories of epic summers spent with her. She was more friend than "mother-in-law" and had a knack for making you feel welcomed and loved. She genuinely enjoyed people.

Sadly, she passed much too soon, and she left my husband and his brother her Hawaiian timeshare. We have been there many times, and even though we were never there with her, it invokes good memories of her. The timeshare is in Makaha, on Oahu, right on a beautiful, quiet beach. The kids come out after school to surf, but otherwise the beach is fairly empty. It's a residential area, not touristy, and I enjoy walking around the neighbourhood, appreciating the azaleas and palm trees and listening to the crowing of the ubiquitous roosters. One such walk inspired the setting for Before You Go.

The photo on the cover was snapped from the timeshare's lanai, looking north and showing the neighbourhood I was walking through when the book's plot began to come to me.

With the travel situation with the U.S. right now (not to mention the cost of flying), we won't be returning to Hawaii anytime soon, if ever. I miss that luscious feeling of walking out of the airport (usually in the middle of the night) into warm, humid air. The constant background sound of the waves thundering onto the sand. The bone-deep heat of the hot tub easing my aching joints. The BBQ pork manapua served hot, like little doughy melt-in-your-mouth marshmallows, at the local 7-11. The kind friends we've made there. The delicious feeling of waking up knowing you have nothing to do all day but slather yourself in coconut-scented sunscreen and sit with a book on the balcony. Bliss.

On the other hand, the last time I was there, there was considerably more tension in the air between tourists, natives, and the unhoused population, and I left feeling very much like an unwanted colonial. It made me ponder in ways I hadn't before the role I play and the position I have inadvertently landed in in life. Some uncomfortable consideration of privileges I haven't earned and haven't been properly appreciative of. This new awareness is not necessarily a bad thing.

It was a Busy Friday at the McKendry House

Twenty-five containers and counting...

Our waste collection guys are going to hate us.