The Ups and Downs of Camping

Marty loading up the van for the camping trip.

When I informed Mrs. Z. that our family would be away for about a week on a camping holiday in the Ottawa area—convenient for visiting our son and his wife—she questioned, “That’s to save money?”

“No, we like camping,” I sounded somewhat defensive even to myself. This must have had something to do with the weather forecast: rainy and cold.

“Of course,” she said in that ‘I know better’ voice she sometimes uses.

I spent Wednesday afternoon and evening shopping and packing, adjusting my list according to the forecast:

umbrella - yes

playing cards - yes

board games - yes

bathing suit - no

sweatshirts - yes

socks - yes

...everything for a wonderful wet time.

( continued)

The Holy Spirit in My Life

pruned story

“We have different gifts, according to the grace given us....” Romans 12:6a (NIV)

When I visited the Toronto Vineyard in the mid-nineties, a member of the prayer team prayed I would receive the gift of prophetic intercession. After that, praying became my favourite pastime. I liked to pray all day long, especially while doing mundane tasks like ironing, folding laundry, vacuuming or dusting. Sometimes I would pray in tongues.

A concern or a person’s name would pop into my head; or I would meet someone who could use a prayer. One day, I met a friend. “Marian,” she said, “Someone told me you know what to do about blocked tear ducts.” My friend looked at me, her eye askew–the whole area beside her nose painfully swollen.

As babies, four of my children had blocked tear ducts: that made me an expert. “You massage it like this,” I said, poking my finger at the swollen corner of her eye.

“Ahwwww!” she pulled away, wincing.

I’ll pray for it,” I offered lamely.

That afternoon I prayed that she would be healed.

Later my friend told me how the swelling and soreness had disappeared during a 10-minute afternoon nap the very day we had met.

On another occasion, I prayed for help finding a bike for Michelle. I decided to look at garage sales in the more well-to-do areas of town. While sitting in the van waiting at an intersection, I noticed a sign for a garage sale at a nearby townhouse complex. I had already disregarded that particular sale, but the Holy Spirit was directing me there.

Michelle and I went and sure enough we found a pink bike, just the right size and in great condition. Michelle liked it immediately. We bought it for $25.

I also perceived the Lord cleaning up my life. When I became confused, thought bad thoughts or had ugly dreams, I knew something was wrong. I would rebuke the evil and examine myself for sins. I reviewed the day. Did I sin while talking to the school principal? To the secretary? To my neighbour? Yes, I did. I told her I would leave Amanda with her 10 minutes when I knew very well it would be more like 30 minutes. I lied.

“Forgive me, Lord. Thank you for paying for that lie on the cross.” Through this process, the Holy Spirit showed me the sinful habits he wanted me to leave behind.

Of course, the Holy Spirit had started working in my life since long before my Vineyard experience, but I was never so aware of Him.

Talking to to Dead ( a novel)

Talking to the Dead
by Bonnie Grove
David C. Cook
Colorado Springs, CO
2009
368 pages

10 Things I Like About This Novel

1. It's serious
2. It's humorous
3. I care about the characters, even the dead guy Kevin who I don't like
4. It's mostly believable
5. The author understands people
6. There's suspense
7. There's drama
8. There's romance
9. It's Canadian
10. It's well-written

I've lent out my copy twice already and I've only had it a few weeks.

The Trials of Pool Ownership

A pruned story
When I started repairing the major leak in our in-ground, metal-walled, vinyl-lined pool I knew exactly what I was doing–or so I thought.

A diver with a reliable Dutch name had showed Marty and me where water was seeping out of the pool at an alarming rate and welling up between the vinyl liner and the metal pool wall. He pointed out how someone had used three chrome-plated screws and one ordinary screw to hold the white plastic ring-plate at the jet opening where the water circulated into the pool from the filter. Of course the ordinary screw had rusted and was likely a major source of the problem. The diver advised us to lower the water level to below the jet-opening and then to replace the rusted screw as well as the washer behind the plate. “It’s not a big deal, you could do it yourself,” he said as he looked at Marty.

Marty was rather tied up with accounting work when the water had drained to the required level, so I picked up the challenge. After all, it was not a “big deal,” we’d been told.

Leaning over the edge of the pool I reached two feet down to the jet opening and easily removed the three chrome-plated screws and then attacked the offending rusted one. I had to use a vise-grip and some elbow grease but I got that sucker out, in two pieces, mind you. I then took the plate and the chrome screws to the pool shop where they sold me a matching screw, a washer, and a piece of vinyl liner to ensure a watertight seal at the jet opening.

I glued this vinyl in place, waited a day and then neatly screwed on the plate. There was only one problem: a quarter inch gap between the end of the pipe leading to the jet and the metal pool wall. I removed the plate and tried again. At this point Marty came out and offered help, but I stubbornly told him I had everything under control.

As the metal wall of the pool was encased with little stones, I figured one of these had slipped between the end of the jet pipe and the pool. All I had to do was dislodge this stone. I could just get my index finger through the jet opening and around in between the end of the pipe and the metal wall. I pulled out a stone and then another and another. Pretty soon I had a pile of stones six inches high, bleeding knuckles and a pipe so dislodged from its original position that even a determined optimist like myself had to throw up her hands in defeat.

Surprisingly, Marty was very understanding. I think the blood on my knuckles helped. Together we decided the best course of action would be to call the pool shop and let the experts handle the situation. About a week later, two young fellows showed up, cut a neat hole in the cement deck and shovelled out the stones above the pipe. They discovered that a flanged coupling at the end of the pipe had been mistakenly installed outside the pool wall rather than where it belonged inside the pool wall to anchor the pipe firmly into the wall. Once this was corrected, they shovelled the stones back over the pipe and left, promising to call a vinyl repair expert.

After this fellow fused a new piece of vinyl in place and reassembled the jet opening, we refilled the pool. Then I set about my major skill–vacuuming. Halfway through this process the motor on the pump cut out. At this point our family left on a two-day holiday.

When we came back, we called a mechanical friend who took the motor apart and found five small stones wedged inside. Now, how did that happen?

As soon as the weather warms up we’ll send the children to collect the rest of the stones we can see resting at the bottom of the pool in the vicinity of the jet opening.

Moral of the story: Self-appointed is not anointed.

Spelunking We Went

North America has the Rocky Mountains and Yellowstone Park. Hamilton has 'the Mountain' and Eramosa Karst.

Five Ways I Celebrated Canada Day

1) Put Paper Canada Flag (distributed to me at the request of Prime Minister Stephen Harper himself) in front window.

2) Worked. It's very Canadian to work on a holiday. Some people make double time and a half that way.

3) Played Cards (Crazy Eight Countdown and Spoons).

4) Served Nasi Goreng, an Indonesian Dish brought to Canada by Dutch immigrants, with Carrot Cake for dessert (Canada, Canadian, Carrot, Cake).

5) Watched Fireworks at the Bay Front.

How to Wash and Rinse a Dirty Winter Pool Cover

Wash

Rinse

Thank you God.

Fifth Baby

A Pruned Story
In the late 80’s for about three years, our three oldest children asked repeatedly, whenever it occurred to them, “Mom, when are we going to have another baby?” Or they have suggested, “We should have another baby!” And, they have wondered, “Do you think we'll have another baby?”

I let it be known their little sister, Michelle, would always be my baby no matter how old she became. Being pregnant, getting up in the night, and dirty diapers were three things I was grateful to see relegated to the past. Besides, I had given all the baby clothes away.

So when the doctor confirmed our suspicion that, yes, we were indeed receiving another gift from the Lord, I had some explaining to do.

It crossed my mind to make a special dinner, light candles and formally announce to the children, “We are going to have a baby.” Marty wondered if they could keep the secret long enough to give us a chance to follow proper new-baby-protocol and tell our parents, before the rest of the world found out. Yet, we didn't want to tell our parents immediately as a certain amount of discretion was required on that front: in their day being pregnant was almost as private as getting that way.

We knew that four-year-old Michelle would be absolutely useless at keeping the secret as she proved when I let her help wrap the gifts on Marty's birthday.

She watched as I wrapped the books, socks, underwear, and a tie. I instructed, “Don't tell Daddy.” I even drilled her, “What's in here, Michelle?”

“Socks!” she exclaimed.

“No,” I whispered, “It's a secret. What's in here, Michelle?”

“Secret,” she whispered.

We went through this endlessly with each present. At gift-giving time, Michelle beamed up at her daddy, “That is secret socks.”

A secret was definitely not safe with four-year-old Michelle.

Nevertheless, Marty and I were fairly bursting with the news. After what wasn't a formal candlelight dinner – Marty and Alison were doing the dishes; Paul was busy making a construction-paper person at the kitchen table; Angela and I were in last minute preparation for attending a girl’s club at church where I happened to be the leader of Angela's group; and Michelle was safely upstairs, talking to her stuffed pink rabbit – I gave Marty a questioning look. He winked.

“I know a secret,” I said giving Alison a kiss.

“What is it?” she asked.

Six little ears tuned up.

“It's a family secret.” said Marty.

“Tell us.” the three children chorused.

“Can you keep a secret?”

They all nodded.

“We're going to have a baby!”

“Why?” said Alison in happy astonishment.

I looked at Paul sitting at the table. He had given up asking for another boy in the family.

“We're going to have a baby.” I said to him.

“Why?” he echoed.

“Don't you want a baby?”

“Yes, yes, yes.” all three responded.

That evening, on the short walk over to the church, Angela wondered if she could take care of the baby. She hoped it was a girl. Could it sleep in her room? “Oh, why did you tell? I won't be able to keep it secret.”

“You better,” I warned.

At club Angela made a beeline for her friends. Just before opening exercises, I happened to glance her way. She was in a corner between two companions. One of these two girls, her very best friend, caught my eye, blushed and waved, shouting, “Hi, Mrs. den Boer!” Then she quickly looked away. Angela looked sheepish.

On the way home I confronted Angela. “Did you tell Janice?”

“I told her I had a secret,” she mumbled.

“And?” I said.

“She asked me if my mom was going to have a baby. What could I say?”

And what could I say?

Angela and I have a lot in common: for one thing, to people who really know us, we are open books. All I could do was hug her, thankful that already in grade six she had a close friend.

Early the next morning Paul knocked on the master bedroom door. “Mom, this is for you,” he presented me with his construction-paper person, “for going to have a baby.”

Although I've been through it four times previously, I don't remember pregnancy as being ripe with so many precious moments.

I couldn’t wait to tell Michelle.