Yesterday I had my angel children come over and clear snow – bring food – a thermometer and humidifier - and tons and tons of good counsel. We are all becoming experts on cancer care.
Here’s another story – my humble beginnings.
*****
It was October 27, 1945, on a Saturday morning in the city of Saskatoon located in the “have not” province of Saskatchewan, Canada where I made my presence known with a “wail of surprise,” having just taken in my first breath of the fresh cool prairie air!
I was identified as “Boy Derksen” on the hospital form. In addition, my identification was confirmed with heartwarming ink prints of both my right and left feet on the inside page. I had arrived!
I would consider my first years idyllic growing up on one of the smaller mixed farms in the Borden Mennonite community.
On our farm we grew wheat, oats and barley. We had horses, cows, pigs, a dog, a number of cats and eventually 6 humans – my parents, three boys and one girl.
Being the oldest and living miles from any neighbour children, I had no children to play with but I did have one companion. I had a pet dog, “Ricky!” I loved this dog! He was considered a good farm dog because when he was asked to “sic-em” on the cows he would chase them from the back into the barn. He was able to herd them – an extremely important trait for my father.
Ricky was a white dog with large tan spots. We were buddies and were together most of the time when I played outside. Either I followed him or he was following me.
In the back of our house, we had a wide yard with a big sand box and two swings as well. Most of it was a bush of trees and long tall grass tall as I was that I would walk through to make a labyrinth of trails, always trying to sneak up on Ricky which was highly impossible
One day as we were exploring together, we ended up at my Uncle Henry’s farmyard one mile away. My aunt Esther called my mom and told her where I was. Then she came to get me! Poor Ricky had to find his way home on his own. They came by car to get me – dogs weren’t allowed in the cars during those days.
When I got a little older, Ricky and I would play with piles of hay bales. I’d pull up the bales laying on the ground and he’d have a great time catching mice that came scattering out from underneath them! Or we’d climb to the very top of the stack of bales, just sitting side by side viewing the prairies and feeling the wind.
I was a dreamer, always exploring. I remember finding a magnifying glass and studying ants for hours.
I remember rescuing a nest of tiny birds, housing them in our red granary, covering them with a heavy blanket for night so they would be warm, and found them dead the next morning. I had suffocated them – I was heart broken.
I remember being chased on my tricycle by a hot-headed rooster, to the delight of my mother laughing on the side. I did out distance him eventually – but never did like hens and roosters after that. In fact, I remember once throwing a random rock at a cocky rooster - hitting it on its head and knocking it out completely. I actually thought it was dead and was extremely relieved when it got up, spun around dizzily, and carried on clucking furiously. I had just taken care of my "rooster resentment."
The biggest event was when the extended family got together to butcher pigs and chickens.
It was dramatic- especially since the adults, aunts and uncles, were so engrossed in their roles that we as children had the freedom to observe it all.
Uncle Henry was the one to shoot the pig – and we had a regular rodeo when he missed one and it got away. He was the one also who chopped the heads off the chickens and we were fascinated headless chickens running every which way! Our job was to pick them up and bring them to the summer kitchen where the women were plucking the feathers. That was another warm memory – those summer kitchens teaming with women, plucking, gutting and cooking. It was like a tiny factory.
Perhaps all the violence and the killing made me finicky about eating meat because for a while there I would eat only peanut butter and jam. My parents were worried and took me to see a doctor who said that I looked healthy and not to worry. “Just leave him alone, and he’ll find his way...."
My growing up years were ideal except for one thing… my father. I was afraid of him. To everyone else he was a lovely, hard working, good and faithful man. They called him “smiling Ernie.”
But he wasn’t smiling at me. He had a leather strap hanging visible and threatening in the main family room of the house - always ready and always close by.
When my grandfather came to visit one time, I immediately loved the old man, took to him, sat on his lap and played with his beard. I thought he was safe. Then my grandfather noticed the strap. He got up took it off its hook. “I will help you raise an even better son,” he said to my father, slitting the ends of the leather strap with his pocket knife. The message was clear.
My father was listening – and in hindsight was expecting far too much from me and my siblings. We were essentially good children who would never be perfect.
He was being an overly conscientious father who believed the phrase “spare the rod, spoil the child” meaning that if a parent refuses to discipline an unruly child, that child will grow accustomed to getting his own way. He will become, in the common vernacular, a spoiled brat. The saying comes from Proverbs 13:24, “He who spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is careful to discipline him.”
My Mennonite parents known for their forgiveness lifestyle practiced no forgiveness when it came to their Mennonite children.
Actually, I never spanked our children. I tried once and found myself too harsh – enacting out what my father had modeled - so I never did it again.
And it was only years later that I realized the harm that my father had inflicted on me. When he died, my younger siblings all expected me to preach and eulogize my father. It was one of the hardest things I had to do. But in the process and in review of his life, I came to understand him and forgave him for it.
I was able to deliver a heartfelt eulogy at his funeral about describing this very humble man who had truly been faithful… and deserved to be ushered into the heavenly realm with the words… “Thou good and faithful servant.” Matt 25:21
Here’s another story – my humble beginnings.
*****
It was October 27, 1945, on a Saturday morning in the city of Saskatoon located in the “have not” province of Saskatchewan, Canada where I made my presence known with a “wail of surprise,” having just taken in my first breath of the fresh cool prairie air!
I was identified as “Boy Derksen” on the hospital form. In addition, my identification was confirmed with heartwarming ink prints of both my right and left feet on the inside page. I had arrived!
I would consider my first years idyllic growing up on one of the smaller mixed farms in the Borden Mennonite community.
On our farm we grew wheat, oats and barley. We had horses, cows, pigs, a dog, a number of cats and eventually 6 humans – my parents, three boys and one girl.
Being the oldest and living miles from any neighbour children, I had no children to play with but I did have one companion. I had a pet dog, “Ricky!” I loved this dog! He was considered a good farm dog because when he was asked to “sic-em” on the cows he would chase them from the back into the barn. He was able to herd them – an extremely important trait for my father.
Ricky was a white dog with large tan spots. We were buddies and were together most of the time when I played outside. Either I followed him or he was following me.
In the back of our house, we had a wide yard with a big sand box and two swings as well. Most of it was a bush of trees and long tall grass tall as I was that I would walk through to make a labyrinth of trails, always trying to sneak up on Ricky which was highly impossible
One day as we were exploring together, we ended up at my Uncle Henry’s farmyard one mile away. My aunt Esther called my mom and told her where I was. Then she came to get me! Poor Ricky had to find his way home on his own. They came by car to get me – dogs weren’t allowed in the cars during those days.
When I got a little older, Ricky and I would play with piles of hay bales. I’d pull up the bales laying on the ground and he’d have a great time catching mice that came scattering out from underneath them! Or we’d climb to the very top of the stack of bales, just sitting side by side viewing the prairies and feeling the wind.
I was a dreamer, always exploring. I remember finding a magnifying glass and studying ants for hours.
I remember rescuing a nest of tiny birds, housing them in our red granary, covering them with a heavy blanket for night so they would be warm, and found them dead the next morning. I had suffocated them – I was heart broken.
I remember being chased on my tricycle by a hot-headed rooster, to the delight of my mother laughing on the side. I did out distance him eventually – but never did like hens and roosters after that. In fact, I remember once throwing a random rock at a cocky rooster - hitting it on its head and knocking it out completely. I actually thought it was dead and was extremely relieved when it got up, spun around dizzily, and carried on clucking furiously. I had just taken care of my "rooster resentment."
The biggest event was when the extended family got together to butcher pigs and chickens.
It was dramatic- especially since the adults, aunts and uncles, were so engrossed in their roles that we as children had the freedom to observe it all.
Uncle Henry was the one to shoot the pig – and we had a regular rodeo when he missed one and it got away. He was the one also who chopped the heads off the chickens and we were fascinated headless chickens running every which way! Our job was to pick them up and bring them to the summer kitchen where the women were plucking the feathers. That was another warm memory – those summer kitchens teaming with women, plucking, gutting and cooking. It was like a tiny factory.
Perhaps all the violence and the killing made me finicky about eating meat because for a while there I would eat only peanut butter and jam. My parents were worried and took me to see a doctor who said that I looked healthy and not to worry. “Just leave him alone, and he’ll find his way...."
My growing up years were ideal except for one thing… my father. I was afraid of him. To everyone else he was a lovely, hard working, good and faithful man. They called him “smiling Ernie.”
But he wasn’t smiling at me. He had a leather strap hanging visible and threatening in the main family room of the house - always ready and always close by.
When my grandfather came to visit one time, I immediately loved the old man, took to him, sat on his lap and played with his beard. I thought he was safe. Then my grandfather noticed the strap. He got up took it off its hook. “I will help you raise an even better son,” he said to my father, slitting the ends of the leather strap with his pocket knife. The message was clear.
My father was listening – and in hindsight was expecting far too much from me and my siblings. We were essentially good children who would never be perfect.
He was being an overly conscientious father who believed the phrase “spare the rod, spoil the child” meaning that if a parent refuses to discipline an unruly child, that child will grow accustomed to getting his own way. He will become, in the common vernacular, a spoiled brat. The saying comes from Proverbs 13:24, “He who spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is careful to discipline him.”
My Mennonite parents known for their forgiveness lifestyle practiced no forgiveness when it came to their Mennonite children.
Actually, I never spanked our children. I tried once and found myself too harsh – enacting out what my father had modeled - so I never did it again.
And it was only years later that I realized the harm that my father had inflicted on me. When he died, my younger siblings all expected me to preach and eulogize my father. It was one of the hardest things I had to do. But in the process and in review of his life, I came to understand him and forgave him for it.
I was able to deliver a heartfelt eulogy at his funeral about describing this very humble man who had truly been faithful… and deserved to be ushered into the heavenly realm with the words… “Thou good and faithful servant.” Matt 25:21
"Over the years I have felt the truest,
purest love—the love of God, really,
I imagine that's what God's love feels like
—is the love that comes from your dog."
Oprah Winfrey
purest love—the love of God, really,
I imagine that's what God's love feels like
—is the love that comes from your dog."
Oprah Winfrey
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