Summer is finally here. Even though I might not be able to walk around the block, I still can smile at the jokes....

Smiley
What's one animal you will always find at a baseball game?
... a bat.

The story continues ....

********
​At some point over the years I had developed a hernia, which was  exasperated with the demands of loading and unloading my delivery truck.   
 
Full recovery time  from a hernia operation was known to take four to six weeks. Because mine was a little more extensive, needing to add a piece of flexible mesh for extra support and because of the nature of my work, the doctor was insistent that I make sure that I took the full  six weeks to recover.
 
Imagine - six full weeks of mandatory rest with - no guilt, no expectations, no work. 
 
Freedom!
 
I decided to enjoy myself the best way I knew how and that was to do art of some kind. Back when we lived on Hazel Dell, Odia had introduced me to clay.

I had done three rather crude pieces – a little farm boy picking stones, another little farm boy stretched out on a stubble field  shooting at ducks and another farm boy sitting on a stump being licked by his dog. These were my farm stories and I loved remembering them into clay.
 
Now I had the luxury of time to develop this theme and continue to recreate my childhood.
 
Reflecting  on the stories that I’ve already blogged about,  I sculpted me carrying fire wood, another carrying milk to the summer kitchen, being chased by a goose, standing on a huge bale of hay with Ricky feeling the wind  and mice running out from underneath. Oh yes and for fun, I sculpted me in my own little rodeo riding on a pig - which I had actually tried to do -  unsuccessfully. 

I glazed them with primary colors and called them "the farm boys."

When they were all finished, I showed them to my daughter, now a graduate from the Fine Arts program of University of Manitoba who has the eye of a curator – and actually eventually became the curator of Gallery in the Park in Altona.
 
She was very quiet as she looked at my art…very quiet.

Then said quietly.  “Good work, Dad."

Then she looked at me with her exceptionally wise – all knowing eyes – “Were there any of your farm memories that weren’t happy, Dad?” she asked simply.
 
I had never really talked to her about my farm memories so the deep all-knowing question came from her own wisdom. She knew that life is never really all rosy - there is always a dark side.
 
We went onto other subjects - and she just left it at that.
 
When she was gone, I remembered the ‘worst’ moment on the farm.
 
It was when my father and I would be driving out to work the fields and we would come across a barbed wire gate, always closed to keep the cows from getting into the wheat.
 
My father would nod – and I would jump down from the tractor to open the gate, which I really didn’t mind doing for him - except there is something especially unwieldy about a barbed wire fence gate. There are no hinges to help with the weight. It is really just barbed wire attached to one big heavy pole.
 
To open it meant leaning that heavy pole inward, flipping the wire off of the top of it – and then carrying it across the dirt road to the other side to let the tractor through – and then wait patiently for it to pass. The worst part was carrying the heavy pole back, which was bigger than me back to the primary pole, lean it and then flip the wire over the top of it to close it.
 
I was a little guy – the poles were heavy and tall…. I never did get it right. If I took too long, my father would have to jump off the tractor to help me. And if that happened, I would sting from his wrath for the rest of the day – not only physically but with his looks of derision.
 
I sculpted that moment,  and instead of there being two poles, I put myself as an adult man -  figuratively speaking -  into the swing pole's place as a substitute replacement. 
 
Of course, in true artistic mode the man is nude – depicting vulnerability. He is leaning against the wood grain on one side and straining against the barbed wire wrapped around the body holding him.
 
When I showed this sculpture to my wife, her eyes widened with horror. It wasn’t the nudity she was horrified at – she understood that. She was horrified that the knots in the barbed wire, which had been slightly exaggerated for artistic affect – were wrapped around the neck, the feet and the privates. Ordinarily that would have worked well - as attempt at modesty. However instead of covering the genitalia discreetly – that knot actually looked like it was pinching the rather large penis.
 
Talk about pain! Perhaps more than I had anticipated, but symbolically accurate.

Since the first showing of the farm boys was going to be held in a Mennonite venue, my wife wondered if perhaps for this particular show the nude figure could be clothed. I actually put the first one on the shelf and sculpted another figure of a man tied up in barbed wire in the same way as the first - but this time clothed.
 
We showed them both to our daughter. Again she was very quiet as she looked at my art…very quiet.

Then said quietly.  “Good work, Dad." as she pointed to the nude man.

Then she turned to my wife. “Mom,” she said with a big sigh - “Art is art,” she said. “It's working. Who cares if anyone is offended.”

At this point, both of the sculptures were still bisque white, so I colored the nude a steel-iron to depict strength which changed it somehow – enough to appease my wife.  Even though it remained a symbol of torture, it didn’t seem quite as suggestive.
 
After that the clothed model disappeared  somehow - my wife murmuring something about feeling guilty and not wanting to interfere with the higher purposes of art.
 
This torturous sculpture of a nude man wired to a fence post became an important piece of art work in all of my showings after that.
 
Something changed for me with that piece – I found freedom to be a true artist.
 
Up till now I had used art to physically duplicate an object, to declare a moral teaching, propound knowledge and promote camps – all utilitarian.  
 
There is an art that is more than that. An art that through symbolism expresses and arouses emotion.  
 
Humans are hard-wired to express themselves emotionally and  whenever we repress, deny, or disallow an emotion to be what it needs to be, we get stuck. We get as clogged as a toilet – and we all know how ugly that can be.
 
In order for emotions to move through us freely, they must be accepted and expressed.

It’s not only important to keep ourselves unclogged, it is also our gift to others to help them, to keep their blood flowing.
 
The fence post was my symbolic artistic expression of the "hazards of being male."
 
The post, the wire, the sharp edges of the knots, the choking of the throat, the tethering of the legs and even the pinch of the penis depict the cruelty of being restricted and being stuck.
 
It was only after I had finished it, did I realize my sculpture holds the same symbolism of Jesus  - the naked man nailed to the cross – two wooden posts, tortured and dying but still flowing with love.
 

​One of my dear friends has just written to say that the first appearance  of Jesus in the truck was to prepare me for the second.


Smiley: 
A truck carrying ten thousand copies of a thesaurus crashed on the motorway. Onlookers are said to be stunned, bewildered, dumbfounded, astonished, startled, speechless, and amazed.

The story continues

**********
I thought that I was done my healing after memorizing and dumping all of my issues into the Grand Canyon but God wasn't done with me yet.  There was more.

I also find it interesting that my time of greatest inner healing was during what I call the "trucking era" of my life.

Having learned the power of memorization, I then turned to the power of prayer. I would spend 30 minutes praying for everyone in my life, and on my list – especially for my children. 

As it turned out - these ill-timed children of ours were becoming more and more agents of change in our lives.  I would have all kinds of spirit led prayer - but one of my biggest prayer requests was that they would find a ministry type of job that would fit their personality that God had made for them before they were born. That they would discover inner skills that they/we knew nothing about.
 
 I didn't pray for success just that they would step into being incredible witnesses for God. And that the people around them would be blown away because of their secret powers to influence others. Of course, I also prayed that they would find the right spouses who would support them.  Never thinking that I might be the target of their secret powers. 
 
Our son was about sixteen when he accompanied my wife to a Restorative Justice conference in BC…. The intention was that he would pursue his interest in pottery but at it turned out he spent the entire week observing the round table discussion attended by every academic discipline in the field. Participants all had a doctorate of some kind.
 
At the end of the week, he had been so impressed by their academic excellence, he decided he wanted to become a “doctor.”
 
To do this he knew he had to learn to study, which he did, and attend a university, which he was determined to do and started to save his money. He also decided he wanted to live close to the university. This meant that we had to move to the south end of town. My wife, working full time, resisted the idea of selling our house and moving saying she had no time to make our house presentable for the market.
 
My son sat up. “Give me a list that you need done.”
 
We provided him with a list.
 
He looked at it. “If I do all of these, would you move?”
 
We said, “Yes.” Thinking we were quite safe – which teen age boy would fix a house. Some jobs on the list were quite a challenge.
 
Well, he did them all, and we had no choice but to move.
 
Our house sold within a week.
 
Now we had to buy……
 
We found a place in Fort Richmond – south Winnipeg.
 
The learnings and benefits around making this move in hindsight are mind boggling: the house itself was so much better for our needs, it was actually closer to where my wife worked, the actual work of fixing and flipping a house became a skill we then all used to get into rentals, and finally we gained our own in-house psychologist as Syras studied at the University of Manitoba – the reason for the move in the first place.
 
An unexpected benefit -- or was it an annoyance -- was that because he was a very conscientious student, we as a family became his constant practicum.
 
One of his psychological therapeutic projects was the fine art of “sand traying.”
 
Sand traying targets our unconscious memories in a playful way. Apparently, we all carry around both conscious and unconscious memories, some of which are quite painful. This is an exercise in uncovering these toxic memories.
 
My family loved it – I was skeptical. It was a game for them.
 
Syras would encourage us or our unsuspecting guests to express ourselves by creating a safe, imaginary world with a variety of figurines, toys, and props and place them strategically in the sand. These figurines were things like trees, people, houses and animals, or fantasy figurines, wizards and monsters.
 
After choosing and placing these objects that made us feel safe, we would then reflect on our choices by basically telling the story of our lives. Often in the telling – the story teller would realize connections that unraveled huge emotional mysteries in their lives.
 
I resisted this game for a long time, and then when I finally did play with them. I chose a ship with a captain figurine.
 
I felt it was safe; it felt familiar. I love reading dense historical novels about wooden sailing ships at war.
 
So, I placed a “ship” in middle of the sand tray and explained the whole world and my life in terms of that ship. I sounded like a historian, but apparently, I could not enter into my feelings, my imagination. I was in lock down mode.
 
Very gently my son led me through the sand tray reflections and I could see it all, the damage my father had inflicted on me, and all the other men leaders, mentors and friends. It was worth the realization alone. I needed to reconfigure my concept of masculinity! It was toxic
 
After that – my son slipped me a copy of the book, Hazards of being Male: Surviving the Myth of Masculine Privilege by Herb Goldman.
 
I learned about the dare thing - double dare – and the wisdom of the penis. The book was revolutionary in my way of thinking about my masculine self and my role in life.
 
In doing this the ride with Jesus in the truck took on a new meaning as I realized  my unconscious concept of masculinity  encouraged aggressive, controlling and violent behavior and discouraged tender emotions, submission and the creative freedom of expression. Even though I wanted to develop my artistic side - it was always a struggle against what I had been imprinted with.
 
Jesus sitting in that truck – driving with me – without saying a word underlined it all. The masculinity embodied by Jesus, left room for every man except for the toxic ones. Jesus loved the little children, healed the sick, was a creative story teller and when needed stepped up to the plate and calmed a few storms and remained  a powerful leader of twelve rebels who remained loyal to him to the end except for one who regretted it.  He encompassed it all -- and did not succumb to the temptation of macho. Powerful. 
 
I was gaining a role model... as I was very subtly being prepared for my next profession – the next chapter of my life.

Imagine the Creator of the universe, taking the time to sit with me in a truck, a symbol of the gritty grind of making a living, and smiling at me – sanctifying the real dusty parts of life, giving real work - real dignity and healing my broken soul.
 ​

“When we understand people;
when we understand situations;
when we understand what matters;
when we understand the why’s, the what’s and the how’s;
when we understand the trigger of actions, we least inflict pain on ourselves and unto others.”
― Ernest Agyemang Yeboah
 ​

This weekend was family weekend. Who stole the show? Our three little stars! Guess who they are....

I have to admit that I am limited. It's getting hard which is why I'm so thankful for your words, for your thoughts, for your prayers. The Sunday morning Maplecrest service on line will sustain me for a long time. Thank you!

Why is Cinderella bad at soccer?
Because she runs away from the ball.

The story continues.... 
**********
Two months after I had my heaven encounter on Ravenhurst, Wilma and I were lying in bed – pillow talking – when I suddenly felt I needed to tell her about Jesus riding with me in my truck.

She sat up immediately – all thoughts of sleep gone! “You saw Jesus?”

She went ballistic, peppering me with questions. “What did he look like? What was he wearing? How long was he sitting there?”

Her response was a little surprising - this was obviously very important to her. I tried to answer her the best I could – feeling a little regret that I had chosen to tell her just as we were about to fall asleep.

She wasn't about to stop …. “What did you talk about?”

“We didn’t talk.”

“He was sitting beside you and you didn’t even ask him why he had come?”

“No.”

“Did he ask or say anything?”

“No.”

“Men! A moment above all moments and you don’t even discuss it!” she was truly exasperated.

Seeing it through her eyes, I had to rethink it all too – why hadn’t I?
But she didn’t let it rest there.

“Why did he come? And why you?”

I told her my first reaction – for reassurances - I suppose. 

She nodded. “Of course. We all need reassurances but they can come in less dramatic ways. Why a visit – a personal visit?”

Her eyes were slit – and green. As long as I’ve known Wilma, she has always had a sizeable angel envy. She had been raised by a grandmother who had seen an angel - an angel of great importance, so the whole idea of encountering an angel had romanticized in her mind – was even writing a book about it.

And seeing Jesus… was apparently even more important than an angel.

Then her eyes studied mine. “Are you sure you really saw Jesus?”

The truth test.

“I could take a polygraph, if you like.” I smiled.

She sighed.

Somehow, we were able to settle down and sleep but the next morning and the next and the next – we would discuss it again and again.

Conclusions?

We know that angels are sent as messengers from God, to protect, to execute judgement, and to praise and worship God.  Angels also minister to those who are hurt and need strength.

In my divine encounter, there was no message, no danger, no correction just quiet presence. Did I need sustenance? Not really -- not at that moment. I was flying high on all levels.

But this wasn't an angel,  this was Jesus. Is an encounter with Jesus different than an angel?

Jesus comes to seek and save those who are lost and to restore them.

​That didn’t fit my situation either. I knew exactly where I was - worshipping God in my mennocostal state. On one level I was already meeting Jesus every day. I was not physically or spiritually lost.

Lastly, according to the Bible, Jesus comes from glory to impart glory – which means imparting great praise, honor and recognition.

There was no one around – no witnesses. I was alone in my humble truck… no glory.

It begs the question - What was that all about?

Maybe time will tell….

One thing I noticed, Wilma took me more seriously... I was now a person of stature in her eyes.  I had special status. I had see Jesus.

After a rather wretched night's sleep, I was regrettably not able to attend the Maplecrest Service this morning. I understand it was well- attended. However I was able to watch it on line. Wow! What an honor. Big thank you to all of those who attended the inspirational service. I felt the prayers, I felt the love - and at this stage there is nothing more important than the love. Thank you!

Q: What is the tallest building in the entire world?
A: The library, because it has so many stories.

The story continues....

***********
After the deconstruction and the reconstruction of my life through memorization and letting go of skids and more skids of unresolved issues, I thought I was doing well. 

By this time the  atmosphere in my truck had changed so much, I quite enjoyed going to work. The truck had become my Sanctuary where I was meeting with God every day - all day. This is where I recited long passages of the Bible off by heart; I prayed, I sang praises, I wept, I yelled, I had become a "Mennocostle"!!!

One day as I was worshipping and driving my delivery truck south on Ravenhurst Street near the Pandora intersection in Transcona, I  sensed a presence in the truck. I glanced to my right -   someone was sitting there on the passenger seat of my truck!

It could have been an angel but it looked like Jesus, exactly like those old Sunday school pictures of Jesus - the Jesus standing at the door knocking with long soft brown hair and robe of white. He was transparent and translucent, like an apparition - except I knew  it was real. This apparition exuded a warm -  a full presence. 

 looked away quickly. Eyes on the road. Wondering if I should look again!

I took a second quick peek and sure enough the man was still there! 

This was a very out-of-the-box experience! I wondered vaguely if I had eaten some kind of a pickle or something!

I looked again and again. He didn't say anything - just sat there with a faint smile on his face - sometimes looking at me - sometimes with his eyes straight ahead like a passenger enjoying the view.  

I had to keep my eyes on the road so I could only take a few extended glances at the figure which I did every chance I got, reassuring myself that this was real. 

I felt both afraid and comforted! I never considered pulling over. I didn't want the moment to end. 

I came to Dugald Road took a right turn and Jesus stayed for a half a minute longer or so and  then was gone!

I was so disappointed, I had not even thought to talk to him!

What did it mean?  There were no words! But I knew there was a message!

But what? Slowly I began to realize that Jesus had come to encourage me. That there was heavenly agreement with what I was doing in my sacred place, my truck cab. That I had made the right decision to renew my forgiveness!

It was a heavenly being coming to earth to reassure me that all will be ok.

It was telling me. "You are going in the right direction. Blessings to you on your journey."

Or something like that... 

My sister  and her family came to visit from Saskatoon. My siblings have now all visited  - wow. Loved the hugs. The death bed conversations are real - and life-giving. Isn't that something?

Smiley....
Don’t interrupt someone working intently on a puzzle. Chances are, you’ll hear some crosswords.


Here is a picture of sculpture bear enjoying a new plant.

Continuing the story....

*****************
After getting my anger under control, I was worried that it would happen again.
 
In the past, I had chosen to forgive, but my resolve would leak away and the anger would grow until it became a problem – a huge problem.
 
Forgiveness is the answer but it means making constant deliberate decisions to release feelings of resentment or vengeance whether deserved or not.
 
And there is always something to forgive. They can be old issues that present themselves in new ways or new issues - there's always something.
 
Now I needed to form rituals and processes to release feelings of resentment before they got too big.
 
Like I said..."We had the modeling of our forefathers – being Mennonite we were brought up to believe in forgiveness. We had the modelling of our parents who attended churches regularly which proclaimed the story of Jesus dying on the Cross - the most compelling story of forgiveness."

But I needed to look for a contemporary story of my own -  a new kind of metaphor that would keep….
 
A metaphor is a story that describes an object or action in a way that isn’t literally true, but helps us bring potentially complex concepts into reality. By doing this they actually change the way we think of a concept on an unconscious level.

During this time, I heard a testimony  from someone using a metaphor that made sense to me – it involved using a truck so I adapted their metaphor to my life.

This is it -- 

I imagined a warehouse filled from top to bottom with boxes on 4X4 skids of issues, people and experiences I had to forgive.
 
I began the tedious job of isolating an area of offense, naming it, and thinking through all the aspects of that offense that needed to be forgiven.
 
I took my time. I wanted to be thorough! I did not want to miss something and have to deal with that issue/skid again.

The boxes, barrels and bins included anything and everything I had been offended by or was angry about in any way.
 
One skid was piled high with the issues with the police. Going right back to that first night - for not believing us because we were super religious in their eyes and not trusted to know what was real and what was not. And then not jumping on it immediately and giving the perpetrator time to get away. Later their false accusations against myself etc.
 
Another skid was stacked with the boxes of the churches and people that I had offended and who had offended me.  There was that huge skid of camping issues.

Other skids had to do with my anger against people on the job. The terrible things I’d said and done while out of control. Here I had to own up to my own wrongs, and ask for forgiveness.

The worst was the skid about forgiving the person who killed our daughter. I took time loading this skid evaluating how I could forgive anyone for doing this to my lovely daughter! How and why would they have done such a thing? Then I had an epiphany. Maybe they were angry like I had been angry! And maybe that anger had been out of control like I had been out of control. Suddenly it was not that hard to forgive!

I even tried to be preventative and had identified a skid of "unrecognized issues."

When I was satisfied that there were no more boxes to add to that skid, I’d wrap it up ready to be loaded.

Actually there were many, many skids of the issues that I had accumulated over the years. This was no small feat - analyzing my entire life.  Lots of mental paper work.

When my emotional warehouse was filled with these skids carefully organized.  I loaded them all onto a semi- truck that was backed to the dock! When the truck was filled, I got into the driver's seat and drove it south crossing the border into the USA! What better place - don't tell them! And I headed for the Grand Canyon.

Once there I backed the truck to the edge of the mile-high canyons where I couldn’t see the bottom.
 
In my imagination I stood at the edge, pressed the hydraulic button and tilted the box of the truck naming each skid as it slid out.

I watched each skid drop into open space, spinning and disintegrating as it hit the rocky cliff wall and disappear out of sight, one by one! When it was over, I felt this incredible overwhelming sense of relief.

Everything was forgiven, released., and let go. I felt like a new person, my heart flooded with a peace I had not felt for a long time. It was done.
 
I learned to do this regularly -- whenever things piled up - I'd take a trip down south.

Now at this critical time in my life,  I'm doing it  - at the end of each day.
  

I'm now having good days -- and "not so good" days.  My day started not so good, but ended well. Thank you to my nieces and nephews from the West.  
​
I was going to make myself a belt made out of watches, but then I realized it would be a waist of time.
 
The story continues.....
​*******
 
Realizing that I was now like the stranger  at our door the night that Candace had been found, who had obviously been in a very unhealthy mental state consumed with anger, was a startling realization.
 
At that time, we had just chosen the word "forgiveness"  - said it and the trauma presence had left.  Back then - we had support, we had clarity - we had the worst of crimes - and the best of help. Now I had none of that. This wasn't as dramatic or clear cut. 
 
I knew that this anger wasn't going leave easily; this anger had festered in me for three years. It wasn’t out there happening to someone else  – it was in me.
 
I began to confront my anger by trying to will my brain to stop cycling all my negativity, but the more I tried to change my thinking the more it cycled.
 
And there was no getting away from it. There was no distraction. There was no way out. I was caught driving my chey truck often with a 3000-pound load through the city, back and forth.  I was stuck.
 
Then I remembered that as a pastor I had preached, taught and believed that the Bible is a sword. I had an obvious enemy in my head and the weapon of choice in a spiritual, mental emotional battle ... is a sword. 

And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.   Ephesians 6:17
 
I made a deal with God. I would take up the sword, I’d memorize scripture if he would heal my mind. And to make this deal real, I would let God choose the passage I was to memorize – hoping it wouldn’t be a book like Ephesians or Numbers.
 
I thumbed through my Bible and it opened to Jonah.
 
My reaction – good. It’s a story - an easy book to memorize! I was actually a little smug, thinking the book rather meaningless and would not really apply to my situation!
 
And so, I began slowly memorizing as I drove from one delivery to another.

A few verses in, I read. “But Jonah ran away from the Lord and headed for Tarshish."

Was I running away? Was this God telling me that I was running away? Then I realized – God had tricked me. I was Jonah.
 
Then when the storms came and the fear overtook the crew members and they blamed Jonah, I was familiar with irresponsible blaming. It was a storm – a natural occurrence - yet they needed to find someone to blame.
 
Jonah doesn’t care. He just gave into it.
 
“Pick me up and throw me into the sea,” he replied, “and it will become calm. I know that it is my fault that this great storm has come upon you.”
 
I was in a storm of uncontrolled emotion - I could relate being thrown into the ocean. I was in some ways doing just that....
 
“Now the Lord provided a huge fish to swallow Jonah, and Jonah was in the belly of the fish three days and three nights.”
 
Right on - by this time I had been driving for three years…in the belly of my black and gray truck.
 
I was feeling it all.
 
You have to remember, I wasn't just reading these words, I had truly given myself to the memorization process, which meant that I would first of all write out the passage in a note book in large letters so I could read it while driving.  (I wasn’t about to be seen carrying and reading the Bible in my truck.)
 
And then as I got into it – I would write it out again leaving out key words and phrases forcing me to remember.
 
I was saying it over and over  and over and over again…..
 
I was embracing it.

Then I came to the end of the story.... “When God saw what they did and how they turned from their evil ways, he relented and did not bring on them the destruction he had threatened.”
 
The message was clear… change was possible!
 
And then the book addresses the anger. Jonah is not in the belly of the fish anymore but sitting under a tree that is shading him – yet he is angry.
 
“But the Lord replied, ‘Is it right for you to be angry?’”
 
It was as if God was asking, “Why are you angry?” to me - sitting in the truck.
 
God’s entire intention was to give a message of love to the desperate people in Nineveh. He was concerned for them… even their animals.
 
“And should I not have concern for the great city of Nineveh, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand people who cannot tell their right hand from their left—(referring to young children) and also many animals?”

There it was -- I was interpreting everything happening to me to be a force against me; the call of ministry, the storms, the blaming, the fish, and even the people I was called to help - were all because of a tyrannical, judgmental, all-powerful God  who was trying to use me, manipulate me to doing something I didn't want to do. 

When really God's entire purpose was to help the people of Nineveh, even their animals, and also to help Job -  knowing that he would be healed by healing others.

​The anger was gone replaced with wisdoms that continued to grow
 
Memorization changed me, and I loved my change. When you memorize you repeat the verse over and over again and with the repetition come new thoughts and the realization of new meaning. The Word of God is accompanied by the Holy Spirit who becomes a translator of the words, and one can’t help but gain new insight that can blow your mind as God continues to connect his words to other words in the Bible and to other experiences.

So, even after memorizing Jonah, I continued memorizing. I needed it - it was too fulfilling. 

My memorization became known and I was given opportunities to recite Jonah  - publicly. It take 12 minutes.  I was performing again – and my voice was amplified it to make it sound like i was an actor in a Shakespearian play. Nothing is ever lost….  
 
Slowly I found that my prayer life began to blossom as well. Instead of being angry with those around me, I found myself praying for them. And as I watched, I noticed that they were blossoming in their own lives as a result of my prayers. I started praising God in a new way. 
 
I had found myself.... 

What a wonderful visit.  There is nothing like having deep conversations with my two wonderful brothers. Blessed in more ways than one.

You are what you eat. So, you should really give up the nuts.

​The story gets darker....

​*********
Driving around the city  in my delivery truck, I was alone for most of the day - really alone in every sense of the word. I didn’t have a boss looking over my shoulder, I had no one telling me what to do. I didn’t have an audience watching my performance, I had no accountability group, no one to impress or disappoint. I was alone.
 
At first there was a certain amount of freedom – just driving – getting to know the city in a new way, finding my way around the industrial sections, always looking for the easiest fastest routes.
 
But then once the challenge was off, my inner chaos started to show, built up resentments started to grow, my dark side started to overpower -  festering into a tumor. I started to drive with an edge of irritation.

It grew and grew till finally I was consumed with rage. 
 
Why was I angry? 

I had no reasonable answer  - just that I deserved to be angry. I had a right to be angry.  I just wanted to be angry!

It wasn't just one thing, it was all the age old wounds that were starting to fester again – presenting themselves to me now as an adult anger with adult understanding. It went right back to my childhood - to my father demeaning me, to the cousin bully in school, to the church denying me baptism, to the humiliation of college, the Trading Post hold up, the lack of recognition from the churches, and now finally to the board of Camp Arnes.
 
It wasn’t all directed outwardly, there was also anger towards myself. Why had I taken the last position?  Why had I allowed myself to fall into the trap of the Peter Principle being promoted beyond my capabilities? Why had I not done my due diligence and done my research?

Or perhaps  my performance was at fault? Could I have just been a better director? Perhaps I should not have compromised or at least fought it out at the board level, pointed out the lack of proper procedures? I should have... I should have... and no matter which way I looked at it I could have done it differently.

And then it was back to blaming. Really? What could I have done? And I enumerated all the faults of everyone and every organization I had encountered over the years. I got really good at this.

My anger also covered an underlying despair  -  a form of mid-life crisis, realizing that my youth and the opportunities associated with youth were passing. I had missed the mark. I was not where I wanted to be at this age, and now there was no hope of attaining my dreams. I was getting too old.
  
Then there was the weight of the unsolved mystery of the murder of our daughter that was starting to weigh on me again.  I thought  the  suspicions were a thing of the past but now I realized I was always going to live under this cloud of suspicion.  We would never again have the blue sky of clarity – we would always live in the shadow.
 
I had even lost my love of art. and  my desire to participate in church life.

Then I just indulged and let the anger flow. I even relished it. It was fun being a renegade former pastor, out of control - and just a feeling it! 

I didn’t care about my appearance. I let my hair grow long and pulled it back into a scraggly thin pony tail.  

Eventually, I slid into the culture that dominated the truck drivers - a culture where the warehouse office walls were covered with pornographic posters and the everyday language lewd and crude.
  
I began acting it out… throwing boxes around at work – not caring if they were fragile or not.  I just wanted to chuck something. I was yelling, dripping with sarcasm, and relishing the dark ugly humor.
 
 When I ran into Dave Loewen somewhere downtown, he hardly recognized me. He saw all of it - all of my anger, my despair and my mean temper --  and called Wilma to ask about me.
 
“Is he okay?” he asked. 

​“No he isn’t," she admitted. "He’s very angry. I find I can help other, but I can’t help my own husband.” she lamented.
 
Wilma was open with me about the anger. She felt helpless but sympathetic.  She heard the suspicion in others, the little put downs that I was experiencing, the stigmatization. She didn’t blame me for being angry – just didn’t know how to help me.
 
I thought I could departmentalize it; be the angry truck driver on the road, but remain civil at home. The problem was that my anger was too big and had no boundaries...and continuing growing to a point where I didn’t care. I remember bringing my lewd jokes to a family Sunday dinner and was surprised that no one laughed at them. In fact, they started to look alarmed. But it didn’t really bother me. I  kind of liked the shock value of my anger.
 
I still went to church but was glad that at this time we were attending a church that had no windows and theatre style lights.  I could sit in the dark with a frown on my face – wondering about this God who kept his distance.
 
When I noticed my family with drawing from me… afraid for me and my anger.  I knew my anger was creating disunity – they were uniting and I was on the outside. It was growing.
 
I started to want to change – but then found out I couldn’t. I was afraid to open my clenched fists! And the more I tried, the angrier I got.
 
One day, I found myself, throwing boxes uncontrollably in our basement. I found I was cussing my wife – not to her face but behind her back…. I was out of control.

I remembered the stranger at the door the day we found Candace's body overcome with anger. I remembered our resolve not to be like him.

This time the presence wasn't inhabiting our bed, I had welcomed it in.... It wasn't out there - it was inside of me. 

​Little stuffies are beautiful gifts.  Oh yes - and those cards, well chosen, designed and inscribed... Thank you!

"Don't bother walking a mile in my shoes. That  would be boring. Spend 30 seconds in my head. That'll freak you right out!

The story gets dark....
 
***********************
 
After resigning from Camp Arnes, I took a menial position as a clerk in an "quick print" shop. I think I just wanted to be in the culture of copying, publishing, printing and creativity, helping others to promote their  programs.  I used to enjoy serving others - but this time it was different - I was overqualified and annoying to everyone.
 
I knew that there was something fundamentally wrong with me. I didn’t know what it was but my experience with Camp Arnes deconstructed something inside of me. 

Things had changed!
 
First of all, I lost my trust in authority. I could not and would not submit myself to another board. Every employer was suspect!
 
I also think that in my chosen field of camping, because I had moved into the directorship position. I had moved to the top – and every position I would now take felt like a demotion.
 
But there were also other midlife changes.....
 
I had lost my dominant position in my family. My children no longer needed me as much as a parent. Odia was now an adult and Syras was a teenager – both with minds of their own. These were wonderful developments, but left me with a sense of being displaced.
 
Not only that, I was now sharing my artistic limelight with them. Since they had both inherited my gift in art – I had lost some of my status as the genius artist in my family. Odia was now taking Fine Arts at U of M – and Syras was showing pottery skills. 
 
I was no longer the sole bread winner.  Wilma was now employed making a good salary. She had written a book… “Have you seen Candace?”  - now a published author. She was growing in stature and prestige, being asked to speak all over. She had less time for me. I was happy for her – but I did feel isolated.
 
My relationship with the church was stressed. Sill not sure what happened but suddenly another church board dismissed me as a Sunday School director – fired me. No explanation. I suddenly found myself without a ministry - and without a stage.
 
Public perception had changed.  The fact that the murder case remained unsolved was becoming an issue again. More and more the public was looking for someone to blame and these questions were being directed towards us.  They might have been innocent curiosity, but to us it felt accusatory. 

Instead of making meaningful connections I found ourselves increasingly isolated and stigmatized.  This lack of encouragement -- lack of meaningful connections zapped my creative energy. I did not do any art during this time. I just didn't want to. 
 
It all came to a head in 1995, I was 50 years old and disillusioned. This time I didn’t have the optimism of youth but I had gained the cynicism of experience - accumulated a list of failures that exceeded the list of successes. 
 
Ten years after the murder of  our daughter, I had a complete breakdown.  

I resigned from my menial job. I just couldn't even carry out the mundane routine of a 9 to 5 job.

This coincided with my wife who was also going through a kind  identity crisis. 

We actually delivered news papers just to give us a routine and walk out our grief.  We felt we belonged to the dark mornings, freezing temperatures of a Winnipeg winter as we trudged through our neighborhood unseen, doing our penance for what we did not know.
 
Our children were on a different journey. They were excited about life exploring their potentials. Odia through her Fine Arts program gained interest in ceramics.  Like me, she started to want her own studio and bought a potter's wheel which we set up in the basement. 

As artists, we all played with it. Even though we enjoyed the wheel, both Odia and I realized that we weren't utilitarian artist -- wanting to produce something that people could use - but more sculptural.  She went on to other things. 
 
The feel of clay intrigued me. As an artist, I am always working with perspective, drawing it, giving the illusion of it and entertaining  with it. Sculpting gave me an entirely different relationship with three dimensional objects. I  shaped a man laying in the grass aiming at something with a rifle... and loved it.
 
But it was actually Syras that excelled at the wheel – and was about to pursue it when he was sidelined and became a psychologist  instead. But the wheel had served a purpose -- I had fallen in love with ceramics... that would eventually show itself again. 

This was a bit of healing in the middle of my breakdown.

After our breakdown - a year of selling newspapers and walking out our failure. We decided to find new directions. 

My wife  finally embraced her new identity and applied to Mennonite Central Committee where she found her peace and fulfilling work as Director of Victims' Voice.  
 
At fifty years of age, I too needed to reinvent myself. This time I bought my own business - a delivery truck, a gray and black Chevrolet with a "real bumper" and a tough gas line pipe rack that could carry 3,000 pounds.  It came with lucrative Pony Express accounts. I was an independent - "sub contractor.

Finally it was just me - in a truck.   I was my own boss. 

​I started to enjoy the freedom of that truck.
 
I got good at it. I carried around more cargo than anyone… I got to know the city.

I was now reconstructing my life. It was a far cry from what I had hoped for my life - but I was on the move again. 

Love my visitors!!! 
I am so blessed. The flowers get more beautiful! Close up! 
​
"What do you call it when it rains chickens and ducks?" Foul weather.

The drama continues.....

*******
 
Then I made the biggest mistake of my life.
 
Everything was going so well at Camps with Meaning.
 
There were a few things that felt a little strange. The conference culture was an adjustment and being a director of three camps rather than one, was a challenge. But I had great administrative help and I felt the support of an entire conference. I felt I was wanted, needed, and successful. I really should have stayed.
 It was a dream job…!
 
But then I received another phone call!
 
Would I meet with the Camp Arnes board?
 
Apparently shortly after I left the camp, Dave Loewen, who was experiencing some duress, had left. They were wondering if I would take his place.
 
Can you imagine taking over for Dave Loewen…. The Mr. Dave Loewen. My instincts told me "no"…. Never follow the steps of a great leader especially if their leave is somewhat controversial. There had already been one interim director casualty - did I want to be the second? 
 
Besides Camp Arnes was an exceptional challenge to manage with its sprawling network of different programs, most of them on the cutting edge – hard to keep track of, much less control. Dave loved it on the edge. I preferred the tried-and-true methods of management.
 
And, why did Dave leave?  What went wrong? No one was forthcoming. The reasons weren’t clear – that should have been a clear sign.
 
But yet – Camp Arnes felt like home. There was that swimming pool named after our daughter.
 
We owed Camp Arnes so much for their support, shouldn’t we help them now that they were asking?
 
I remember discussing this all over and over again. I remember weighing it all… and in the end – I considered it!
 
I think it was ‘wanting to go home’ that won out. Or was it the allure of being the director of the largest camp in all of Manitoba?
 
In any case I said “yes.”
 
At first it went well….
 
But very quickly I learned that Camp Arnes was feeling a financial crunch. It had expanded too quickly and the board was trying to gain control of the budget.
 
There was a fundamental change, a shift away from the summer camping program being the priority purpose of the camp to the rentals being the priority! All changes were being made strictly for financial reasons. Making money became the priority! Immediately summer programs began to suffer in light of this.
 
This led me to suspect the spiritual quality of the leadership of the camp. This was not the way things were done when Dave Loewen was director. Dave had faith – the board had faith that God would lead the way – and always had.
 
The last straw came when Camp Seton was put on the chopping block. I personally had fond memories of the place.
 
Camp Seton was an exceptionally beautiful wilderness camp site situated along a river that was even more beautiful through a camera lens. 
 
I had first hand experience with this. One summer weekend, Dave had sent Wilma and I on a photo shoot of Camp Seton. We had a lot of fun experimenting and taking sunset shots on a cliff, appropriately called Inspiration Point, overlooking the river.  We tried some tricky photography in one spot where the campers looked as if they were jumping dangerously off a cliff into thin air— but landing safely on a pile of soft sand right below.
 
I especially liked the way the camp was laid out.  The horses were fenced down in a valley, surrounded by the tents.  No matter what we did, we could always see those gorgeous animals moving gracefully in their corral.
 
For this photo expedition, the Seton Program director had planned a chuck wagon ride especially for us to photograph at the end of our second day.  The lighting was perfect, and it promised to be even better with a full moon rising.

The director started harnessing the horses. I think the full moon was having its affect, the kids were hyper and the draft horses were fidgety.
 
The plan was that we would videotape the team as they came down the dusty trail, and then once they were at the bottom of the hill, we would get on the wagon and videotape from the wagon.
 
We went down the hill ahead of the team to scout the place looking for the camera angles.  The winding trail lent itself to the classic S-curve picture. 
 
Wilma found some bushes and I had just positioned myself at the end of the trail, when I heard a strange sound.  The sound of pounding hooves. I looked up - the horses were bolting - kids and duffle bags were flying through the air.

"They're coming...and they're out of control!" I called out to Wilma.
 
She crouched in behind her little bush. But the team veered off the curved road and heading straight for her. I was helpless. There was simply no way I could get there in time to protect her. 

And she was ducking behind bushes thinking she was safe... bushes that would not deter a stampeding team of Clydesdales.  She would not expect them to come her way, plus I noticed that there was a barbed wire fence between them. She thought she was safe.
 
The hooves were thundering, they ignored the curved road and went straight for the tiny bushes, barbed wire fence and Wilma. I was screaming. They were almost on her -  when  she jumped at the last minute.
 
When I got to her she was lying on the ground very still, .  tangled up in a mess of barbed wire.
 
I gently untangled her from the wire, thanking God that she was alive.  
 
Once I knew she was safe, we looked up.
 
The wagon had lodged behind two trees. The horses had shaken off their harnesses and had begun to graze as if nothing had happened.
 
The director and the one camper in the wagon weren't hurt at all.
 
That night around the campfire, we experienced a love fest like never before. God had been with us.  
 
This was a little to close for comfort but these were exactly the kind of stories Camp Arnes thrived on! Dave had always said that everyone – especially young children need safe challenges to face and overcome. There was such a thing as  “safe fear.” Camp Seton offered many such stories in their normal camping program.
 
People donated to Camp Arnes because it was exciting. But the board, instead of going on the offensive and putting effort into fundraising, went on a program of downsizing and trimming the good programs.
 
The first cut was Camp Seaton! This was done on the board level with little discussion.
 
Something died in me as I saw the best of the camp being challenged and shut down. And it all went down hill from there.
 
I don’t want to go into detail, but it became more and more evident to me that this board – though filled with good people was highly dysfunctional – violating all the principles I held dear. I found it increasingly hard to support this new board – and they found it increasingly difficult to deal with my consistent resistance.
 
The tension got to me, I became physically ill and landed up in the hospital for three days…. Something that had never happened to me before. Under doctor’s advisement I finally resigned.
 
I was wounded, hurt and shamed! I hadn’t last two years ----
 
Something broke inside of me.  I lost my drive, my ambition. I had lost myself. I went into hiding!

Just a little announcement. This Sunday May 15, Maplecrest is holding a inspirational service for me. I hope to attend at around 10 to receive prayer and encouragement. My goal is to finish writing my story and to encourage everyone to live their story or write it -- Life is worth paying attention to.... Park Theatre 698 Osborne Street, or watch and pray for me watch  Maplecrest Church - Youtube. Blessings! 

The beauty of these flowers reflects the generosity of friends who pop by...delicious muffins, special words, communion, fruit baskets... at a time when I should be thinking about endings, I am celebrating friends.

Smiley:
Why are fish so smart?
​Because they swim in schools!


**********
We thought we had found our new normal.

We were all dealing with our grief of losing Candace in different ways. I missed her terribly even in the little things -- the annoying things - like Candace and me fighting over socks, but I found that I could distract myself the way most men do by burying myself in my work  at Camp Arnes, which was continuing to satisfy my creative side as well as my ministry side.
 
Wilma was still grieving, but had found full time work as the western regional editor of the Mennonite Reporter  which was challenging and fulfilling as well. 

We did freak out when Odia - now a budding teenager - started to attend, MBCI, which meant she had to travel the same route that Candace had taken the day she disappeared.  It aroused all kinds of irrational fears in all of us, so we moved. It wasn't a well thought out move - we just moved to an affordable house on Hazel Dell which was close to a school that Syras could attend as well.

Our church had a few issues and since we were in avoidance mode, when the conflict presented itself, we looked for another church and started to attend McIvor MB church. There is nothing like a good sermon once a week and those hymns that made us cry.  We continued to gain comfort as we settled into their solid biblical teaching.

Life was doable. We were developing a routine when... I received a telephone call from the interim director of Camps with Meaning (CMW) wondering if we could meet.
 
I was intrigued. Of course we could meet. We were all in the same business!
 
We met, and without too much of an introduction, he invited me to the position of directorship…. I was stunned and strangely excited.
 
Next to Camp Arnes, Camps with Meaning was one of the largest camps in Canada , well known. It wasn’t just one camp but three camps, three gorgeous camp sites… run by the Mennonite Conference.
 
The first and largest site was Camp Assiniboia nestled in a mature river bottom forest and meadows on the banks of the Assiniboine River southwest of Winnipeg
 
Camp Koinonia was located on the shores of Lake Max, the largest lake in what is now Turtle Mountain Provincial Park in the southwest corner of Manitoba.
 
Camp Moose Lake is near Sprague in the extreme south east corner of Manitoba, also on a beautiful lake with clear water and a sandy bottom. 

It was a heady offer, full of potential, creativity and honor. The only draw back was that it was the General Mennonite Conference camps.... If you know anything about Mennonite dynamics, for me it was a little like crossing enemy lines. We had been taught as children that the members of the General Conference were all sinners because they smoked and danced... all of it silly.

Now we saw them as solid God-fearing generous leaders in practical theology with their support of MCC  etc. Wilma was already working for their denominational paper. For me as a conservatist, traditionalist at heart, it was a bit of an adjustment.

But we took the time to process it - saw the opportunity  and then resigned from Camp Arnes. Dave Loewen gulped a few times and then wished me well. He could see it as an important opportunity.

When I met with the CWM board, they were very clear about the reason they were interested in me and that was mostly for promotional reasons.
 
The conference owned these three beautiful sites which remained under utilized - almost empty -  mainly because people didn’t know about them..
 
It felt as if my giftings were being recognized.   
 
My other main contribution was to introduce a staff training program. I fashioned it after the Leadership Training Program that had been designed by Lily Loewen at Camp Arnes. An orientation  program that started the summer  which set the tone for the whole summer. It too was well received.
 
I did have to adjust my philosophy of camping. Camp Arnes  was known for their emphasis on adventure - challenging campers to accept Jesus as  their savior. 
 
Camps with Meaning's philosophy was to nurture each child with an  invitation to faith by role modeling and by using aids taken out of nature and biblical stories. Even though it was different, I saw it as good. 

All of this took training, planning and programming. I remember spending the day at Camp Koinonia devoting an entire day to do just that.  We were in a spacious dining room surrounded with large windows which gave us the feeling of being outdoors.
 
No sooner had we started when we noticed two adorable camp brats (our term of endearment for the staff children) moving furtively around the yard and forest areas.
 
We learned from the Koinonia director that their child's goal  together with another camp brat,  "two 8 year old boys" had woken up that morning and decided that they were going to hunt something with bow and arrow that day, kill it, cook it and eat it. They were not going to eat anything else until they had accomplished this feat!
 
Reminding me of my own farm years, growing up and wanting to be a "real man"! The squirrels and rabbits as targets for the hunter! I saw these two boys doing the same, replicating the skills of the hunters, trying to move through the bush without a sound!
 
As the day went on, we watched the boys crouching and moving slowly around the yard, not one animal or bird in sight. However whenever the boys were out of sight,  the rabbits, the birds, and the squirrels would hover and re-appear around the building, even a big racoon waddled across the yard. All of the camps living creatures knew how to avoid the little hunters scouting the grounds.
 
By supper, the two boys were famished….
 
The Camp director  took pity and offered the boys some help. He took them down to the lake… to the dock, took out a pot – and scooped up a few minnows for them.
 
He then helped them build a fire. Though seldom spoken about - and certainly never bragged about, minnows from clean water sources are actually safe to eat! They are rarely the first choice, but  they are considered easy prey.
 
Then it was instruction time and we all learned that to prepare minnows they must be gutted which  can be done with the help of a knife, or in extreme cases, can be done by squeezing out the waste matter with your fingers. Once gutted and cleaned, minnows can simply be tossed into a frying pan covered with oil and fried to your liking.
 
Then the director served them to the boys but the boys couldn’t bring themselves to eat them and opted out for wieners in-stead.
 
We all smiled… this was the beauty of camping.

With relatively little effort - a little advertising - we were able to turn things around and see remarkable growth in all three camps. It was all very satisfying - so satisfying.

​It all felt so right... so wonderful... and then....