Serenity

I came across this bird drawing a year ago on Papa's birthday

After my papa died, not long after, I had a dream about him.

I stood inside an ancient church at the very back. Everything was dark, and everything was cold.

I looked down at the stone floor, at the dust on the stone floor, and at my bare feet in the dust on the stone floor.

I looked up and ahead, and I saw light and I felt warmth emanating from the front of the church. And there stood mon beau Papa. He smiled, and his smile was beatific. He lifted and cupped his hands and motioned me to come forward and see the secret that he held in his cupped hands.

I cautiously moved towards him, and when I reached him, I finally also smiled. He did not speak, but gently nodded at his hands. I looked into his blue eyes and then down to his hands. Inside, within a soft warm glow he held a little bird.

The next day I called La Sorcière, ma maman, and told her about the dream.

She barely let me finish. "Your Papa always worried about you, and what he wanted more than anything was for you to find serenity... the little bird is serenity."

Making Pies and Rememberance

On Sunday I volunteered to make pies at St. Luke's Anglican Church for their Lunch Club and Drop-In Centre.

There, I met a young woman whose sweetheart is on a peace-keeping mission in Afghanistan, and it made me think to remember the sacrifice our present soldiers and their loved ones are making in the name of peace.

As I was rolling out pastry tops, I remembered my elderly friend, May, who lived through the bombings in London during WWII. Her father would insist that they make tea, eat biscuits, and sing happy tunes while the bombs fell all around them. "If we die tonight, we will die happy," her father would tell his family. They survived, and May recounted those terrifying times with a tenderness in her heart for her father's brave attempt at keeping them sane.

I was using my maternal great-grandmother's rolling pin to roll out the pastry, which made me remember my grandmother's cousin who survived a grenade blast in World War II. He was saved by his best friend who threw himself on the grenade. My grandmother would get misty eyed whenever she told me this story. I always wondered if she had been sweet on the boy who died so bravely.

We made the pastry,

peeled, cored, and cut up apples,

peeked,

decorated,

laughed,

taught,

guided,

beamed,

filled,

and we produced over one hundred pies!

Miner Wisdom

My Papa passed away 8 years ago. We did not converse much, and yet he has left me with a heart full of dialog. I am guided daily by the advice and opinions he imparted on me - wisdom which I obstinately chose to ignore or argue while he was alive.

Tonight as I was awkwardly struggling with a drill, a hammer and a hacksaw, bloodying my knuckles, and straining muscles in an attempt to dismantle a broken sofa bed, I remembered a funny moment between us.

I was recently separated, and Papa was over to help me fix things around my new home. As we accomplished task after task (with him doing most of the hard labour and me assisting), I repeatedly and proudly exclaimed, "Ha! Who needs a man - see I can do all this myself!"

Abruptly, Papa grabbed me by the shoulders, held my attention with his calm blue eyes, and said, "Hey, you can ask Maman if you need proof, but I do happen to be a man... and here you are... needing me!"