In honour of this special day, I thought I’d share an excerpt from the book I’ve been working on lately about embracing peace while living with hardship.
I wrote this excerpt last night while sitting with a special group of creative friends working on projects. We meet every so often in my home. (Everyone is welcome, so if anyone reading this wants to join the group, leave me a message in the comments section or on Facebook and I’ll send you the details on our next meeting).
Peace in Brokenness
By Jenna C. Hoff
I sit with a group of friends in my living room, my skin warmed by the heat of the little fireplace next to me. It is a fake, electric fireplace without real flames; it’s imitation logs glow orange-red into the quietness of an evening punctuated by frequent laughter.
My face is smiling, my heart is open, I am happy- and yet hidden deep inside my spirit is the ever-present drummer’s dance, pounding in line with my heart’s ever-present rhythmic beating. A dance of fear- of not being enough, not being accepted, not being worthy.
I sip hot tea as I sit so quietly in my broken body that cannot walk without a walker and is often in a wheelchair. But In my spirit I run and run and run until I can run no more. I run until I finally remember peace.
Remember the peace that has come at a hard-won cost for me. Remember that peace is always a choice, joy is always an option, and love is the way I want to live my life. To live each day as I can, knowing that I am not perfect and that that is okay. To live the moments of my life in gratitude, with a heart that embraces those God brings across my pathway.
To remember that we are all, every one of us, hurt in some way inside, and that when I try to hide my own hurt with smiles, I not only deny my truth, but create an artificial environment for those around me.
Because true peace doesn’t mean perfection. It doesn’t mean saying that everything is alright all the time- it means embracing our wholeness in all our broken humanity. And also embracing the healing too that comes into our lives.
It means being real. It means accepting others, and filling the world around us with love.
It means accepting with an open heart that most of those around us also hurt in some way- and creating an environment of acceptance.
And so, I take a deep breath, and open my heart, with all its wounds and scars and brokenness. I smile and laugh- and this time it is real. I relax my shoulders, let that little electric fireplace bring genuine warmth far past my skin and all the way down through me to the person I really am inside.
And then. Then the warmth brings love, which pours inside me, mingles through my spirit. I thank God for the moment, for life and love and friends who share an evening of laughter.
What does peace mean for you?
I used to believe that peace meant perfection. The brightest smile, the happiest spirit, a life infused with joy. No cracks showing.
I took me a long time to learn that true peace means embracing with loves both our whole selves- and those around us. Peace means admitting our brokenness, feeling it, knowing it. It also means relinquishing that brokenness- allowing heat and light and warmth and love to flow into the cracks in our souls.
Like molten light and red lava warmth, when we open our spirits, in flows healing. And the shatteredness of hurt and cracks can come together. In fact, it is through those cracks that healing best flows into our spirits. When we hold our spirits tightly in perfectionism, we close off ourselves to God’s healing flowing in. When we open ourselves, through those cracks will flow that lava of love and peace and joy.
Peace means accepting those around us where they are at. Accepting them with love, embracing them with a welcoming and open heart. It means building a life where people feel both safe. Safe to be themselves as they are, with all the pretenses brushed aside. Safe to know that imperfection is okay- in fact it is welcomed, because it is the story of our shared humanity.
It is from our imperfections that we grow, learn, and become more centered in the trueness of who we are and begin to live lives of healing, love, and true peace and joy.
Yesterday was a crisp, blue-skied September Saturday. My family and I, along with Sam’s best friend, paid a visit to the Kaleido Family Street Art Festival.
We had a blast participating in various forms of street art, watching an African ariel and drum cirque perform, and experiencing a powwow. I got to paint bright purple dots on a giant duck, as part of a collective community painting project.
There were food trucks galore, but my kids especially loved the bannock given out at the powwow.
The festival was down the block from where my grandma lived in a tiny house for five decades, my second home all throughout my childhood. It’s in a neighborhood that over the years has had its share of socioeconomic challenges and crime.
Ten years ago, after a frightening encounter with local troublemakers, one young mother decided to “take back the neighbourhood.” She implemented various initiatives including this annual street art festival, which now draws tens of thousands of people from all over the city. It’s a story of how one determined person can change everything.
It’s a blue-skied kind of story. In writing this blog post, I looked up the deifinition of blue-skied in The Free Dictionary and was enchanted: Notlimited by conventionalnotions of what is practical or feasible;imaginative or visionary.
It’s how I dream of living: to not be stopped by the obstacles in my life, but to seek imaginative and visionary solutions.
Last year when we were asked if Joe could move in with our family on one day’s notice, I had people tell me it was a terrible idea and I was absolutely crazy. On paper, my disabilities and own needs were too high to become a fulltime, live caregiver of a young man with disabilities. But God put an imaginative, blue-skied spark in my heart, and I knew in my spirit it was the right decision for my family. And, while it certainly has not been an easy situation, having precious Joe join our family has been one of the most wonderful things to happen to our family.
Yesterday at the festival, we had some interesting blue-skied interactions with strangers. Because of my atypical wheelchair with leg extenders that have my legs sticking out, I don’t tend to blend in with the crowd, and so as almost always happens when I go out, a lot of strangers approached me to say hello. I’ve met some interesting people this way and yesterday was no exception.
In the first blue-skied interaction, the cutest little boy ever, his face covered in blue face paint and his smile bright and friendly, zipped up to me in his power wheelchair. He was eager to interact and seemed to have none of the self-consciousness that I sometimes feel in my own wheelchair. This was a child determined to live life well on his terms.
Not long afterward, there was a black-skied interaction that brought me to a blue sky realization. An elderly woman using a walker approached Eric and me to tell us she “raised a handicapped child who could do nothing” and it was amazing to see me “being taken out in public.”
This saddened me for her former child. The thing is, nobody can do “nothing.” Even a child with extremely severe cognitive and physical disabilities who cannot move, communicate or intentionally interact is doing “something” through their presence, life, and selfhood. In my former career as a physical therapist specializing in pediatrics, I met incredible individuals with the most severe forms of physical and cognitive disabilities, whose souls touched mine and who I remember vividly to this day.
The lady then added it must have taken a lot of courage for me to go out (given my disabilities). This upset me. To tell me this is to put me in the class of “other” and to stay a step away from me, seeing my differences instead of my personhood.
It isn’t truly courageous for me to do something anyone else would do, such as go out to a public art festival with my family. There is little difference between a person who can’t walk so uses a wheelchair to be able to fully participate in a fun festival, and a person whose eyes don’t have clear vision, so uses a pair of glasses to be able to fully participate in a fun festival.
Yesterday was just me living life as large as I can, celebrating a sunny September Saturday with joy- just like the thousands of other festival goers. Just like the endearing little boy with the bright smile that I’d earlier encountered as he zipped energetically along in his power chair. He was a happy little boy having fun on a blue-skied day.
I was steamed for a while. However, I’ve been reading a great book this past week that has encouraged me to try to realize people typically do the best they can with the tools they have on hand. And also, to try to find the best possible reasoning for why someone may do or say a certain thing. I couldn’t think of anything positive about this woman’s reasoning and was thinking she was ignorant, so I asked Eric for his thoughts.
“Maybe she was scared herself to go to the festival,” he answered quietly.
That stopped my angry heart in its tracks. How quick I had been to judge this woman with a heart of superiority, to think her ignorant. However, a heart of compassion is open to noticing the fear a person may be feeling themselves, or the pain they may be in. Pain that is kept so close to their own hearts that it cannot be readily seen by me. How easy it is to judge, but if I really want to have blue-skied thinking, a heart of compassion is the way to begin.
The final blue-skied interaction occurred a little later on when I locked eyes with another elderly woman with a gentle smile. She too was enjoying the festival, and like me, she too was being pushed in a wheelchair by her loving husband. But unlike my husband, her husband was quite elderly and a little frail. Pushing a wheelchair did not look easy for him, but I watched as he carefully, painstakingly, pushed her up and down the street, all around the festival.
Earlier in the festival, I’d participated in a “share your love” booth covered in hearts where I wrote in chalk my definition of love. I’d written, “Love is gratitude for life, each other, and shared connection.”
But as I watched this sweet elderly couple having a grand time together, delighting in a blue-skied day, I thought to myself, “now that is a picture of what true love really looks like.”
One afternoon in early spring, I was sitting out on my front lawn, the sun startlingly warm against my face, in the pleasantly shocking way spring sunshine is after a long winter. I spotted two blue jays eagerly eying the large old pine tree in my neighbour’s yard.
They seemed to be “house shopping,” flying around the tree and hopping from branch to branch, perusing the tree for suitability for their spring nest. I was rather pleased when they deemed it just the right niche to raise the young that would soon come, building their nest high up in the old pine.
All spring long, I saw the two birds happily flying around the tree, swooping from the towering old elms on the nearby boulevard before gently landing way up high on the pine’s sturdy boughs. Although their nest was too high up for me to see, I knew it likely possessed the treasure of the ages- new life.
As time passed, I imagined them tenderly caring for their new spring chicks; I couldn’t wait for when they’d begin to emerge from the nest and begin to fly.
Then, a couple of weeks ago, something terrible happened. And, while the ending was very sad, it taught me some lessons on the fragility of life and on what it means to fight for that which is most precious of all.
My neighbour’s little granddaughter was out playing in the magical, sun-lit fairy world that exists beneath the trunks of pine trees when she found one of the jays’ babies. It was tiny and injured, having fallen from the high up nest and crashed down to the hard concrete ground below.
Knowing we have had pet birds for years, my neighbours called for my help. As I wheeled on over to where they had all anxiously gathered in a circle, my deep hope was that this was a case of mistaken identity. Perhaps it was not an injured baby nestling, but instead, a fledgling learning to fly, taking it’s first tentative foray out of the nest and into the world. That kind of little bird definitely would not need human intervention.
However, my heart sank as I saw the little bird. It was definitely more nestling than fledgling, too young and underdeveloped to be on his own outside the safety of his nest. It would have been cruel to leave him lying there, injured, to fend for himself against the myriad of cats that live on our street.
As my neighbour scooped him into the safety of a cardboard box, he gave out a plaintive cry- a heartwrenching baby cry that any parent- animal or human- recognizes.
Several of us ended up spending 90 minutes trying to figure out how to help the little one. We tried calling our local animal wildlife rescue organization, but couldn’t get through their phone lines. We nearly took him to a nearby veterinarian. However, after I turned to Google, we learned the best thing to do would be to try to return him to his nest (apparently it’s a myth that the mama bird would reject him if handled by humans).
Another neighbour, who lives across the street, arrived with a big ladder. He attempted to climb up high in the tree- but still couldn’t reach the nest. So, we decided that if we couldn’t get the baby to the nest, maybe we could create a little nest on a lower branch for his parents to come to him. There’s nothing like a parent’s love for a hurt child, and we hoped the mama bird would come feed him and care for him in the box in the tree.
Carefully grasping the box in one hand, one neighbour climbed up the ladder, then balanced it on a branch.
Sure enough, soon Mama and Papa Jay were flying around the box chattering anxiously to each other. Mama even clambered on to the edge of the box and peered down at her baby. However, this caused the box to wobble so much that we feared the box and its precious cargo would soon crash on back down to the ground.
After retrieving the box, another neighbour, came by with an ice cream pail, which was soon lined with branches and the softest of moss.
The baby was carefully transferred into the pail, which was hung up in the tree. We all left quietly, hoping against hope that magic would happen and the Mama Jay would come save her baby and make everything right.
Except, she didn’t. She couldn’t
From a window in my house I waited and watched as the Mama flew near, then away, then near again, landing plaintively on the fence by the tree. Her anxiety was palpable.
I knew exactly how she felt.
One of our kids has had some challenges the past few weeks. It is incredibly hard as a parent to see your child struggle. I’ve had a lot of days where my heart has been in my throat, trying my best to help but wondering often if my chosen actions are what is needed to help.
As a mom of a teen and young adult, one of the themes in our family over the past year has been preparing our kids for the day when they will eventually leave the safety and comfort of our nest. (Or, to attain as high a level of independence as possible, even if that looks like disability- assisted or supported living).
This past year has been awash with working to help our kids gain skills, such as riding the transit, learning basic money handling, safe decision making, and being able to go into the community independently.
The years prior to when kids are getting ready to fly the nest aren’t easy for any child/ parent but are especially challenging when developmental disabilities are present, and also when the child didn’t come to the nest in the typical way, such as in my family.
When you are parenting children who have lived through trauma and who joined the family at older ages through adoption/ caregiving- sometimes the stakes seem that much higher, and any potential fall from the nest that much harder.
There’s a reason why people say the early years are incredibly important in a child’s development and health. When those years are difficult or full of hardship and loss, the impact is life long. It can make for some very, very challenging times for the child as they transition into young adulthood.
And so, my heart went out to the mama jay as I watched her from the window. I was sure that she would do everything in her power to help her own hurting, injured little baby.
But then…. she flew away…. and didn’t return again to her baby. I cried.
Cried for the baby bird…. and cried because sometimes the obstacles seem so high for my kids that I just don’t know what to do to help them. Those are the days I hang on for all I’m worth, my tears and prayers leaving tracks through my soul.
Some time later, my neighbour crept up the ladder to peer at the baby. And, I cried some more: all the pitching in of so many people had not been enough to save him. He had died in the tree in which he had begun his life, swaying in the gentle wind, under the big blue sky.
I reflected later why so many of us on my street had all stopped everything in our busy lives and taken so much time and effort to help the baby jay. The answer, I realized, was that he was precious to us. He was worth the time and energy and effort, and even though we had not been successful, we had done what we could for the precise reason that this tiny bird was precious to us and we were invested in its well-being and success.
The analogy to my own kids hit me really hard. Things in older child/ teen adoption or caregiving are often not easy- for child or parent. But, it is worth it. Worth it because, so much more so than a baby bird, a child’s life is precious, the most precious thing in all the earth. All children are precious. And when a child has gone through hard times that have wounded his or her spirit- we as the adults in that child’s life are called to do all we can, to drop everything, and devote our lives to helping that child in a healing way.
All the tears, all the pain, all the struggles are worth it to invest in the life of a precious child who has not had it easy, but who deserves as much of a good life as any person does.
Older child adoption is a common theme in media- from books to movies to magazines. What nearly all these stories have in common is what I call the “Anne of Green Gables” premise: a child is moved out of difficult circumstances and then sails off into the sunset with their new family, with all traces of pain vanquished, all hurt easily gone and healed. The child, in fact, brings easy joy into the adult’s life, enhancing things for all the adults around.
The reality is often different, and there can be many hard times. That’s not the way it often goes, in large part because as adults we are to be there for the children, and not them for us. The reality, I’ve discovered through our journey and the many other adoptive and foster-care families I’ve met over the years, is that it is often not easy. There are often hardships and pain and sacrifice involved. But yet, because that child is precious, every hardship is worth it.
And, oh, there is joy too. Often deep joy.
That joy comes in bonding with a young life and knowing that no matter what their earlier years consisted of, that you are doing what you can to give them a good, happy, healthy life for the remainder of their childhood. The joy comes because there is nothing more precious than a child.
Being involved in adopting/ caregiving of children/ young adults is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but by far it is also the best blessing God has ever given me.
For all my days, I will thank God for my precious children, and I will fight with every ounce of my spirit for them.
Last Sunday night, Eric and I went to visit our favourite 101-year-old, Grandma Horne. (All photos on today’s blog were taken at that visit). She is about the cutest little older lady ever.
When I was a child she continuously invested in my life in tangible, physical ways such as through home cooked soups, handmade sweaters, way-too-competitive games of crib, enthusiastic attendance at my sporting events (with her little dog Tuffy in tow, a tiny poodle with curly white hair who looked just like her), tender advice, and warm, ample hugs. But even more importantly she offered to me the most valuable thing in all the Earth: love.
Now at 101, there are no more soups or sweaters or enthusiastic cheering. She cannot give me advice about life, even though sometimes I yearn deeply to hear her perspective on a problem I’m facing. Dementia has stolen all that.
But dementia, while a worthy adversary, hasn’t stolen everything.
Far more important than the pots of homemade soup (the recipes of which are stored in my heart anyways), is her love, which remains unchanged. In fact, she brims with love.
Sunday night she kept kissing my hand and exclaiming things like “Jennifer, I just love you so much!” or “I’ve loved you from the first hour of your life!”
Sometimes my life can have pretty big challenges, but how can I ever complain when I’ve known love like that in my life?
Having experienced the transforming power of love in my own life challenges me to prioritize love towards those God brings across my path.
That sounds good on paper, but unfortunately, at various times in my life I’ve been pretty hit and miss with that. Words come easily to me, and I cringe sometimes when I think back over the years of my life to times I’ve used hurtful, creatively cutting words that may have wounded others. I can tell myself that the other person deserved it because they were being hurtful first- but that is an excuse.
Because the truth is simple: when love is shared, people stand tall. When love is absent, spirits crumple.
Grandma Horne has also taught me about love shown in the form of forgiveness when hurt.
Many, many years ago, I was a minor party in an event that caused my grandma an afternoon of pain and embarrassment. I regret it to this day.
However, my Grandmother’s response to the situation became a great teacher to me. She never once wavered in her love for me, didn’t hold it against me, and continued on treating me with the same gentleness and care she always had. She never made me feel less than because I hadn’t taken a different course of action that day.
It is a pathway that I want to follow in loving others who have caused me pain.
However, it certainly isn’t easy. Long, long, long ago, someone hurt me in a way that caused me such great pain that all these years later I still feel the aftershocks in my daily life. An area I’d like to grow in is to find a way to love that person despite their actions.
Because, love means opening our hearts to another, even when they have hurt us.
However, let me clarify that love doesn’t mean not setting boundaries or being cautious. It doesn’t mean allowing someone to cause continual abuse or hurt or pain in our lives.
Sometimes the most powerful way to love someone is with an emphatic, very firm: “NO.” Sometimes love means making known what that person did in the light of day, so that they cannot perpetrate harm towards another. Love doesn’t mean allowing ourselves to continue to be a victim.
Love does mean genuinely, in our heart of hearts, truly wanting the best for another person’s life. Of wanting successes and blessings and joy and peace and happiness to fill the other person’s life and heart. Of being gentle and tender in spirit towards that person.
My Grandma’s love, as well as love I experienced from others such as Eric and my parents, has been a healing balm to my spirit. It helped me to grow into a woman today who has a heart and desire to genuinely love others. I know what it is like to hurt deeply, and so I want to be someone that never causes pain in another like that. I want to be a force of peace and joy and love in others’ lives.
Unfortunately, anyone who has lived on this earth for more than a short period of time has known hurt at some point. It is, terribly, a painful reality of living- and that means that there are a lot of wounded people walking around with pasted on smiles on their faces that hide bleeding hearts.
And sometimes the result of a bleeding heart is a person who isn’t gentle. Which is where in the past I’d jump in with my own caustic words. But where from now on I hope that I instead seen an opportunity to bring gentleness and love to someone who might be facing things I don’t even know about.
One thing I truly believe is that all of us, no matter our stories or backgrounds or life experiences, truly desires to be deeply loved. And when we receive love, we are changed forever.
Never, never, never underestimate the transforming power that love can have on those around you.
Love can help heal a multitude of broken hearts, and love is what changes our world for the better.
Love really is the most important thing in all the Earth.
There is a little field in the midst of the forest, a five-minute walk from my house. I used to walk often to this field, at least a few times per week if not daily. If I needed a break from life I’d head this way- sometimes early morning, sometimes mid day, sometimes even late at night, admiring the moon as She peeked through the tall trees.
This is the field where Sam has spent the last four years building a log fort, perfecting it more each year. We took our family Christmas photos here in the field a couple years in a row, and shared countless picnics here too.
I can’t tell you how many times over the last 16 months that I’ve missed this field, have mourned the loss of being able to dart out my front door and walk through my friend, the forest, to this beautiful little spot. Of seeing it changing through the seasons.
It is technically accessible by my power wheelchair (not my manual chair)….but it isn’t easy. Although I could once walk here in five minutes flat, practically with my eyes closed, the wheelchair ride is a longer one, in large part because the wheelchair can’t cut through the secret forest pathways I used to take to the field. I have to circle the neighbourhood and go through several streets to reach it. The length of the ride is longer than my typical riding endurance, and it isn’t a smooth ride.
It involves riding the chair along a busy street, down a big hill, up another hill, and then navigating over a hard ledge to go from the pavement onto a gravel forest path. Then it is a bumpy ride down a jagged, slightly sideways slanted dirt path in the forest that, with a little rain, can turn into muddy hazards for wheelchair wheels.
I haven’t even attempted to make it to the forest’s edge since last autumn, and haven’t been back all the way into the field since I could still walk.
But….today is a beautiful day in May and more than ever my spirit needed to be in the field today. So I got Eric to get Sophie (as I’ve named my power chair) out of the garage before he went to work this morning. Then, I gathered my courage this afternoon, clambered onto Sophie, and road off towards the field.
Several times I almost turned back. At one point I got terribly stuck in the mud. That was after I had ridden 2 FT off the trail to look at my favourite marsh that appears each spring in a hollowed out spot in the trees, a genesis spot for new life. Sure enough, I did get a good look at the marsh as the sun sparkled over it, but then I could not get back on the trail! Back and forth, I forced Sophie’s joystick…. to no avail: the wheels kept spinning in thick mud. What to do?
You sure realize in a moment like that just how vulnerable a position it is to be a person who can’t walk! I was imagining being stuck in that muddy spot for hours until Eric finished work and could come rescue me! However, I gave the joystick one last try…and fortunately, somehow the chair twisted out of the thick mud!
As I approached the final hill, a small hill that nonetheless felt like Mount Everest, with the field in sight, an older man walking with his 3-legged dog asked me if I really thought my chair could make it down the hill and through all the mud.
I looked and it was muddy….but not as muddy as the mud I’d just gotten out of! It’s amazing how empowering it is to have extracted oneself from a muddy situation!
“I don’t know but I sure hope so!” I wrote back on my writing board with a wide grin on my face. Then I zoomed down that hill with nary a problem!
And…..I made it into the field! I got myself off Sophie and onto a raised wood platform at the field’s end. Here I sit now, penning this story on my phone.
Beside me, as I soak up the sun like a contented old tortoise, stands a big beautiful tree. It is the only tree in the field that bursts into flowered bloom each spring. It is Loveliness herself, this beautifully blooming white tree, bedecked like an early spring bride.
I still have to ride home, and I know I’ll be paying for this ride tonight……but it is well worth it.
Worth it because some of the most beautiful, meaningful things in life come with a cost. The cost can be high, but there is no price too high for living life fully and well.
And so, as I sit here outside in my favourite field, enjoying the sun on a May afternoon, listening to chickadees sing, watching dogs frolic through the field, and seeing the trees wave in the gentle breeze, my heart bows down and says, “thank you.”
“I feel sorry for trees,” I mused to my husband Eric some months ago. We were sitting outside together on our back deck under the big old pine tree I love. A cool, late autumn wind was whipping through the nearly barren branches of the apple trees across our yard.
“While the rest of the world moves around where it wants to go, experiencing new sensory delights and interacting at will, trees spend their entire lives standing in one spot,” I continued. “How boring it must be to never have a change in viewpoint, to always experience the same location over and over.”
Eric looked over at me with compassion. He knew the heart of my comment wasn’t really about trees. It was about me. About what it is like to go from being an able-bodied person who could easily move wherever I wanted to go to one for whom mobility is a challenge.
About requiring physical assistance to leave my own home (ie to carry my wheelchair down our front steps and lift it into our van), meaning that I now spend the majority of my days inside our home.
I do get out a little: now that it is spring, I can get myself to a chair on my front lawn to visit with neighbourhood passerbyers, And, on evenings and weekends when Eric isn’t working, he and I do take the kids on adventures to restaurants or parks. My parents are also great about driving me to needed medical appointments during the week.
But it is a far cry from my old life of independence and mobility. Truly, losing the ability to just dash out my front door whenever I want, and spending a lot of time in the same continuous physical environment (my home) has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever faced, harder than losing the ability to walk or easily speak (I can still speak at little at times).
And so, I felt like I could relate to a tree that spends its life rooted in one spot while the rest of the world moves on by.
Eric’s next words startled me. “Of course trees move,” he said quietly. “However, instead of moving across the ground like animals do, trees grow in an upward direction.”
The profound simplicity of Eric’s word’s stunned my spirit. He was right. From the earliest moments when a seed drops into the ground, trees (and all plants) are in a constant, vibrant state of motion. A true, upward dance of life.
In fact, it is one of the greatest miracles I’ve ever witnessed, to push a tiny seed into naked dirt and then over time to watch it grow into a beautiful, strong plant. A tree that reaches towards the Heavens.
From the moment that plant begins its life until it dies, it grows. Upwards. Towards the sun. Towards the sky. Towards Life Itself.
And sometimes, when the tree is big and strong, it nourishes the lives of others. Not just through its fruit, but when a mama bird chooses to build her nest within it’s safe boughs.
In a flash, I realized that the same can be true in my life as well. Even though I cannot easily move around and no longer have the physical abilities I once had, I can choose to grow in an upwards direction. I can continue to grow in spirit and heart and love and compassion.
And it doesn’t just apply to my life: the same is true for every person on earth. For you as well as for me. No matter where one is in his or her life or what obstacles one is facing, upward growth is always a choice.
Not everyone’s situation is the same as mine: most people can easily leave
their homes and go to the places they want to go. However, each of us will face times in our lives where we are not where we would be if we had the choice. The challenge is to find the way to grow upwards, like a tree, even during those situations when moving forward is not an option.
It could be that your obstacle is a frustrating, unfulfilling job that doesn’t seem to be moving you forward in the direction of your dreams.
Or maybe you are at home with a cranky toddler, cleaning up toys and messes and spills day after day that never seem to end. Maybe you are in a relationship that is struggling. Or maybe you are not in a relationship at all but wish you were.
Maybe your once noisy home is now too quiet because the kids have grown and moved off to start their own lives and the partner you envisioned loving forever and growing old with is no longer here.
Or maybe you sometimes wonder if you are doing enough…if you are enough. That is something I worry about frequently, particularly since I’m Iiving a life so vastly different than the one I envisioned.
However, Eric’s words encouraged me to grow my life from the ground up. Starting from where I’m at and stretching my spirit towards the sky.
Even though I can’t drive on out to coffee shops on my own, I’ve made a point the past few months of opening up my home to invite friends, acquaintances, and neighbours over for tea. I’ve opened my door and heart to people both younger than me and older than me, people from various backgrounds and life circumstances vastly different than my own. I’ve gotten to know and love some really neat people who I may otherwise not have had the opportunity to build relationships with.
I stumbled across a letter writing website that asks for letters of love and encouragement to be sent to folks all across the world experiencing hardships. Somehow, when I sit down to pen a letter to someone facing hard times, my own problems are put into perspective.
When I have a bad day, sometimes I still look out the window at the world passing by and cry. But other days, more and more, I’m able to remind myself that hardships are a part of life. We can either let them hold us back and break us, or we can let them be springboards to upward growth. Every obstacle can be a seed we plant in the ground that will grow into a strong tree that grows upwards towards the sky.
The choice is always ours to grow wherever we are. To find ways to live and love and laugh and smile through the hardships, to give deeply to those around us. To dance through life like a tree, growing ever upward towards the beautiful sky.
My family came over for Sunday Supper the other night, a tradition started years ago when I was small and we’d all pile in the car and drive over to my Grandma’s house.
Some things have changed over the years, most notably that the meals are no longer held at Grandma’s house, but mine.
And also that the hearty meat- and- vegetables- and- potatoes- and apple pie types of meals Grandma would always cook for Sunday Supper have been replaced by either takeout or a potluck where everyone contributes something.
I find myself yearning to be able to cook big meals like she did, but standing long enough at the stove to cook an elaborate meal for a large group is an ability I lost 16 months ago, along with so many other things I once saw as key to a good life, like being able to walk and drive.
It isn’t easy, but this situation is teaching me to cherish and celebrate what matters most in life.
With these Sunday Suppers, what matters most is not the elaborateness (or lack thereof) of the food we eat, but that we are amongst some of the people we most love in all the world.
After supper had ended this past Sunday night, we finished up the evening with a little walk and roll down the street. Our family parade was made up of two of us rolling along in wheelchairs, one rolling on a longboard and the rest walking along on foot. While I wish so badly that I could have been one of the walkers, what mattered most was being outside in the early spring evening, feeling the sun’s warmth as she gently kissed our cheeks.
I think Grandma, aged 101, had the biggest smile of all as she sailed down the sidewalk (pushed carefully by Eric) with the evening sun on her face. It made all of us smile to see her so happy.
I strongly believe that one of the things that matters most is fully living the gift of life God has granted each of us. However, between my physical disabilities and the other special needs some in my family live with, sometimes this feels as hard as trying to swim against a deep current.
I’m slowly discovering that a good life can be built when one deliberately seeks out creative ways to approach the challenges, with the goal of living life as much as possible in the face of disability and struggle.
It’s an approach my family, in particular my parents and my aunt, have taken with my Grandmother. Quite frail, she lives in a nursing home for people with severe dementia and high physical needs. On the surface, it might not make sense to take her out on grand little adventures. None of the other residents, many in a physically healthier state than her, have left the building in months.
However, the smile on her face when she shares a Sunday Supper with us as she has done for decades reminds us that being together is truly what matters most. She is so very fragile, and yet that is all the more reason to sprinkle her life with fun little trips out of the nursing home. Even though she doesn’t remember these outings five minutes after they end, in the moment while she is doing them she has a blast. And spending time loving on her is a way to honour her for the love she showered on all of us all our lives.
I believe it is good for my kids to be around someone whose spirit has accumulated the wisdom that comes from a life that has spanned everything from the horse-and-wagon days to the computer age. Even if she is not able to communicate that wisdom to them verbally, her wisdom shines from the gentleness of her spirit; the easy joy in her smile; the softness of her wrinkled hands.
To me, she is a great teacher, probably the most impactful one I’ll ever meet in all my life.
She and I never really had big conversations over the years where we sat down and discussed the meaning of life or other important topics. Instead, she taught me about what matters most through the tenderness of her hugs, her delight in the small things, and the deliciousness of the soups and cookies she was always baking whenever I would go to her home (which was multiple times per week for all the years of my childhood).
Now, in her fragile state, she teaches me still about what matters most. Not so much through her actions anymore: there are no more home baked cookies from her stove, no more slightly lopsided sweaters knitted with the greatest of love.
However, what matters most remains in plenty: her love for her family and her mischevious and spunky personality.
Seeing her live with joy and contentedness even in the face of her challenges encourages me in the face of my own struggles to not just persevere, but to smile deeply and to find creative ways to have fun and live well.
It inspires me with my kids to try to make my focus on their abilities and all the things they can do. And to keep striving for solutions so they can participate as fully as possible in life’s joys and activities.
And it reminds me that for all of us, our abilities or disabilities are but just a fraction of who we are as unique individuals with things to contribute and with deep, loving connections to establish with those around us.
And so, I gather my family close, draw my wheelchair close to grandma’s, and gently squeeze her wrinkled hand in mine. And then we all walk and roll off into the evening sun, cherishing together what matters most.
The late spring sunshine was streaming through an open window in the top room of my Grandmother’s small house on the quiet evening that I planned out my entire life. Using my best penmanship, my thirteen-year-old self carefully crafted goal after goal and plan after plan, each more ambitious and exciting than the last.
By the time dusk had fallen, I had decided on everything from the college I would eventually attend, to the year I would get married, to the awesome career I would have as a traveling nurse in Africa, to the names of my future six children… to a whole lot more.
I didn’t imagine anything could get in my way. Then, of course, life happened.
In the years that have passed since that quiet spring evening, not one of my plans has come to fruition in exactly the way I envisioned. Some have come partially true- I don’t have six children, but I do have two. I did go to university, but not the one I had expected to attend. Other plans were completely off base- I certainly did not become a traveling nurse, nor have I been to Africa.
However, what is most different in my life are the things I did not envision on that quiet evening when I was thirteen and dreaming big dreams upon even bigger dreams.
While life has included so much good, I didn’t envision the challenges and hardships my life would also include. I certainly never in my wildest dreams, saw myself getting into a car accident at the age of 19, an accident that would send me down a journey of progressive disability. I never expected that I would one day have to make friends with a wheelchair and a speaking device, nor that I would have to adapt my vision of who I am even when I physically cannot do all the things that others can easily do. Things like walk or talk for more than short conversations.
It’s funny how goals can be like that. It’s easy to do what I did as a thirteen-year-old and set out ambitious goals and life plans for the amazing and good parts of life.
But what do you do when the unexpected hits and that unexpected includes tragedy or loss or pain?
When you find your shaking self in a crumpled, smashed car with windshield glass shattered around you? Or when you try with all your might, but you don’t get into the college program you hoped for or the job you spent years working towards? Or when you have your perfect child, and that perfect child comes with a life-changing diagnosis such as autism or down syndrome or cancer? Or when late one night you find yourself in a sterile hospital holding the hand of your loved one as with every breath they slip closer to eternity?
What do you do when the big plans you created for your life also are tempered with struggle?
Because the thing is, life is two-fold. There are the blessings, but there are also the challenges that we all face at some points in our lives.
For me, going through my own difficult circumstances has taught me some big lessons. I’ve learned that life is what you make of it, and that joy is always an option. That we can choose to let the painful parts of our lives be like a pumice stone that softens our hearts and opens our spirits to love for others. That we can allow love to permeate our hearts.
When we allow our hearts to break open and spill love to those around us, even when facing our own challenges or hurts, we discover life’s greatest gift, which is to be a force for positive in the life of another.
I used to be someone who always wanted only the best for my life. Life has taught me that “the best is an illusion.” But that it is in the imperfections of life that we truly live. It is in the struggles of life that we grow as humans and it is in the twisted pathways that find out who we really are. It is in both the joys and the pains of life that we most fully live.
The early afternoon summer sun was reflecting off the bright blue water as my pre-adolescent self, all scrawniness and gangly limbs, burst from the pool change room in a purple- dotted bathing suit.
I was a ten-year-old juxtaposition: a little girl whose eyes were sparkling in anticipation of a fun afternoon in my friend’s grandparents’ pool, and yet at the same time also a child whose spirit had taken to hunching, an attempt to self-protect in a world I already knew could be confusing and sometimes painful.
My friend’s mother, Beth, stopped me right as I reached the water’s edge.
“You are so beautiful,” Beth said, smiling down at me. She touched my shoulder gently before sending me off into the pool to play.
It was a momentary, split-second interaction, and yet I stored her kindness in my heart where it still sits on this day many many years later.
Her simple words accompanied me through the not- always- easy growing up years that followed that sweet, innocent summer day. Years where I was the uncoordinated, frizzy haired kid who wasn’t quite sure of herself and often felt alone.
The balm of her words, along with additional encouragement from others, stayed with me as more years passed and I finally began to grow out of being an awkward, nervous teen and into the happy woman I am today.
It inspired in me a desire to pass along kindness to those I encounter and to do my small part to be an encourager of others.
I once somewhere read something to the effect of that we never truly know what the people we encounter each day are facing, and so we should always endeavor to tread gently.
The tracks we leave as we walk through life can be ones of hopelessness or hope in the lives and spirits of others.
It doesn’t take having a highly accomplished career or a ton of money or an amazing personality: having our hearts open and attuned to the small needs of others around us can change lives forever. I think this is one of the miracles of our world.
“Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love.” ― Mother Teresa
Reviewers: Dad (aka Tom Schentag) and Daughter (aka Jenna Hoff)
“We just love our regulars,” Jessica, the young waitress at Route 99, confided as I paid my (reasonably priced) bill.
“In the evenings when regulars come in, I sit down to visit and have coffee with them, and marvel at how their children have grown since I held them as tiny babies. Often the owner comes out from the back to say hello too.”
Indeed, it was the friendly atmosphere that really stood out to my dad and me when we had lunch at this family owned (by two brothers) diner not far from my home. (So close in fact that my dad was able to wheel me on down 99th street to it, forgoing all the hassle of packing my wheelchair into our van).
The one issue was mild difficulty with wheelchair accessibility (door slightly narrow; no automatic button to open door; some ice obstructing ramp out of parking lot etc). It’s amazing and humbling to realize how things I never used to think twice about (ie the width of a door) now are such a big deal in my life.
However, from the moment we wheeled on in, we were embraced into a world of old-time diner charm, from the cherry red booth seats, to the fun and eclectic decor (which included a bright yellow traffic light; funky signs, multiple Marilyn Monroe posters; a
holographic Elvis; a giant silver airplane wing and much much more). This would be the perfect place to play I-Spy.
The food was so delicious (ample portions!), the staff so nice, and the cool decor so fun that it was a wonderful experience.
My dad and I gave it a 4.8/5 rating.
If you’re looking for a fun diner experience for your family I would definitely recommend this
As I left the diner, I told the waitress to add me to her list of regulars.
Want to join me on my next cafe review? Let me know in the comments and we’ll plan a date 🙂