Five Minute Friday: Change

Change is hard for most humans, although moreso for some than others. I am part of those who have a harder time with change. Curiously, I have a harder time with small changes (setting up and sticking with a new routine, or trying out a new way to do something that I've always done differently, for example) than with larger ones (such as moving to another country for months, or making a big life change like getting married).

Within a few months, Jonathan and I will be in the midst of a change. He is set to finish his master's degree in December and we will most likely be moving to wherever he gets a job. This coming change is already affecting me mentally. Although I am glad he will be finished his schooling and moving into a new chapter of his life (and he is probably much more excited about it than I am!), I'm apprehensive about picking up our lives here in Maine where I'm finally becoming fairly comfortable and moving to a new place where we'll have to start all over again in finding a place to live, a new church family, new friends, new favourite places to explore, etc.

Change can be rather daunting (especially for an extreme introvert like me), but I must continually remind myself that change in life is good. Change keeps us from growing stagnant and set in our ways, change can invigorate us and help us to see things in a new light, and change can rekindle our lives spiritually as we learn to let God lead us to go where He wants us to go and to do what He wants us to do. And that is what I'm going to focus on for the next few months as we get closer to another big life change.

--------------------

My musings on the prompt 'change' for Five Minute Friday. Join in next week if you feel inspired!

Five Minute Friday: Tell

Ty and I hanging out on a Provincetown, MA beach

My younger sister and brother and I decided to spend our 2009 spring break in New England to take in all the Northern states we were missing from our "States We've Been To" count. (At that point we needed all of New England (excluding Maine), Delaware, and Louisiana. We got all except for LA on that trip.) We based ourselves in southern Rhode Island and took day trips around the area to experience as much of New England as we could get to in seven days.

One day near the end of the week we drove to Provincetown, Massachusetts on the tip of Cape Cod. After exploring the beaches and town, we headed back in the late afternoon. And on our drive back our conversation led my brother Tyler to suggest we give mini "eulogies" to each other. Although that may sound creepy and weird, it wasn't. It was beautiful and a really special time of sibling bonding where we told each other all the things we loved and appreciated about each other. We spent the drive telling each other things that might have otherwise only been said about the person at a funeral -- rather than to the person while they are living.

This idea had been brewing in Tyler's mind since the summer before, when one of his high school buddies had died in a terrible motorcycle accident. That incident had made Ty realize how important it is to tell people, while they are living, why you appreciate them, how they've made a difference in your life, and, above all, what they mean to you.

And that simple but heartfelt conversation in a 1989 Honda Accord with no heat on a drive from Cape Cod to Rhode Island will never be forgotten. Sometimes, or more like, often, it gets pushed to the back of my mind when other "more important" things crowd in the way. But when all the other distractions are cleared away again, I remember that the most important things in life are relationships, and that one of the most precious things you can do to maintain and grow a relationship is to verbally acknowledge it to the other person.

I'll let a few paragraphs Tyler wrote finish up this post for me, because I could never write these thoughts out as well as he already has:

"Scott's death was painful for me, but out of it grew something beautiful. While Scott's death took away my chance to express my thanks for his friendship, it also gave me thousands of new chances. His passing made me realize how many people in my life are constantly making a positive impact on me, and how few of them are ever thanked for it. As a result, I've thought long and hard about these opportunities, and how I can make the most of them."   . . .

"You see, I believe that there are incredible possibilities right at our fingertips. Thousands upon thousands of human beings are within each individual's sphere of influence, and if we work at cultivating this potential, there is no telling what we might be able to achieve. Appreciation is key. Simple affirmation of a person's positive abilities and tendencies makes them want to continue doing good. Expressing your love and thankfulness of another individual causes them to be uplifted and proactive in doing the same to others."
~ Tyler

Take time today to tell the people you love and appreciate why they are special to you. And tell them again and again, whenever you think of it, as much as possible. Because you never know what effect your words might have on them.

--------------------

My thoughts on the prompt 'tell' for last week's Five Minute Friday. Please read the link for more information on why the word 'tell' was chosen. And, of course, join in tomorrow if you feel inspired!
It took me a while to collect my thoughts on last week's prompt, but late is always better than never. :)

Five Minute Friday: Close

As we were growing up, people always commented about us. "You guys seem so close." "You three don't fight like other siblings. You must be really close." "What makes you all so close?" We would either just smile and nod at the statements, or shrug at the questions. We didn't know what made us close, we just were.

As we grew up, we stayed closely-knit, even all eventually attending the same university, across the continent from our hometown. The first year all three of us were there together, we found out, quite awhile into the school year, that many people wondered which of us girls was dating the guy. They were always relieved to find out we were siblings rather than a strange love triangle. We found it all rather amusing.

After college we all went our separate ways -- my sister Bryna to Eygpt as a student missionary preschool teacher, me to Tanzania as a student missionary doing public relations work for an NGO, my brother Tyler in his last year of school. The next year Bryn started a one-year preschool certification, Tyler set out on his own student missionary stint teaching two missionary kids, and making and editing videos for the mission organization in Guyana, while I got married and moved to South Korea with my husband where he taught English and I worked at a textbook office. For two years we were spread across the globe, then the next year Tyler and Bryn worked and lived together back in our hometown while I moved east to Maine where my husband started a master's degree. Now my brother has moved here, too, while my sister still lives in the west. But it didn't matter how long we were apart. Each time we got together again, no matter how long or short a time we had to spend with each other, it was always like we'd never been apart. We fit back together again like a jigsaw puzzle.

Last night it was like that again. The three of us siblings, and now all of our significant others, hanging out together, conversations overlaid one on top of another, never a lull or a time of awkward silence. We are close and I can't think of anything that will ever keep us from being close. No matter where we end up living, what we end up doing for work, we will always slip right back to where we left off. I am so glad it's like that. And I hope my children will also have that same kind of relationship with each other. It's just...comfortable. And awesome!

Siblings in late 1989

Siblings after a performance in the early 2000s

Tyler, I'm so glad all of us, and many other family members and friends, are converging upon Maine this weekend to help you celebrate your marriage to Amanda. We love you both so much!

--------------------

My musings on the prompt 'close' for Five Minute Friday. Join in next week if you feel inspired!

Five Minute Friday: Glue

She was the glue that held us all together.

She was the one who organized our annual family Christmas name draw and kept it going year after year, for several decades. The one who sent out the birthday cards - and later included homemade birthday chocolates - early so they would arrive on or before the actual day. The one who gave advice when asked, but held her tongue and let us figure it out on our own sometimes, too.

She was the one who started our family e-mails, and was always faithful to write every day unless she was on a trip or sick and in the hospital. And she was the one who prompted those of us who weren't as faithful to keep on writing because what we had to say was interesting and important.

She was the one who invited large groups of people to her house for Sabbath meals, who planned family game nights and pizza suppers, who got excited when all the relatives would be in town for a holiday or a family event, and made sure the occasion included a meal or two at her house.

She was the one who did so much to make everything flow smoothly, but the one who probably never got enough praise or recognition. She bound us all together with love tighter than any ropes.

And now we all feel unglued without her.
What do you do when the glue in your life suddenly disappears?


My Grandma's birthday was a week ago today. She would have been 86. Two days later marked the third month since she died. Some days it feels too real; others it doesn't seem real at all.
Her name was Esther Linda. I always found it so fascinating that her name was so similar to the word Easter, and I often told her that I thought her parents should have chosen the name Lily rather than Linda for her middle name. All I will be thinking about the whole day this Easter Sunday is Gram.

--------------------

My musings on the prompt 'glue' for Five Minute Friday. Join in next week if you feel inspired!

Five Minute Friday: See

Every time I talk to someone from home, my parents or my sister, they tell me how my grandmother is doing. They describe how things are going for her, how she looks, what living day-to-day is like for them all. And I can't imagine it. I have seen people - close family friends and church members and an uncle - wither away because of the cancer racing through their bodies, but somehow I can't seem to see my Grandma in that shape.

I am not there to see the changes that have happened to my Grandma since I left BC in early December. I can only read or listen to my parents' and my sister's descriptions. I'm not sure which is worse, which is more sad.

--------------------

My musings on the prompt 'see' for Five Minute Friday. Join in next week if you feel inspired!

Five Minute Friday: Fight

First it's something that our parents are proud of.

"Yep, he's a real fighter," a new father exclaims to his friends as he passes the kicking and screaming newborn over to his wife to be fed.

But after that first, proud stage wears off, it's something we are told not to do, something we are admonished against.

"Don't fight with your sister." "I hear you two fighting. Don't make me come up there!" "If I see you kids fighting you're all getting a time out!"

Somehow we get through those early years, learning every day how to get along with each other, and using more mature methods to work out our differences.

Next we're told to get scrappy.

"You need to work hard, and fight to get in to that university." "Just fight through this down time. Keep your spirit up and keep on applying. You'll get your dream job soon." "If you want to get to the top of your company, you need to fight your way up there."

Then we become the parents, the ones who tell our own children not to fight, and the cycle is repeated.

And then...then someone we love and care deeply about starts to lose their health or gets into an accident or gets a dreaded illness. Then, it's an urgent plea.

"We know you can get through this. You just need to fight through this hard patch." "You've always been a fighter. Don't give up now!" "I don't know what I'm going to do without you. Please keep on fighting to live, to breathe that next, hard breath."


Fight. It's a little word that can mean a whole lot.
What will you fight for this year?

--------------------

My musings on the prompt 'fight' for Five Minute Friday. Join in next week if you feel inspired!

Five Minute Friday: Truth

• Truth: I live in Maine.
• Truth: While a large chunk of my heart - the chunk belonging to my husband - lives here in Maine with me, other pieces are still back in BC with my family, and in Tanzania with my babies.
• Truth: Those three pieces might never again be reunited on this earth.
• Truth: I can't wait for heaven.

--------------------

My musings on the prompt 'truth' for Five Minute Friday. Join in next week if you feel inspired!

Five Minute Friday: Grace (Part 2)

Continued from yesterday. Read Part 1 here.

I had another grandmother, and still do! While my dad's mother was always Grandma Q to us kids, my mum's mother was simply Grandma. She has been part of my life since day one, part of my special family support system as virtually my second mother. When my mum went back to work in her kindergarten class when I was a few months old, Grandma was there to look after me. In my early years I grew up half at my own house and half at Grandma and Grandpa W's house. Our time together only grew when I turned five and we moved into a house right next to our Adventist school. From our new house it took less than a 10-minute bike ride to get to Grandma and Grandpa's house. My cousin, my siblings, and I biked back and forth all the time.

Grandma and me on my first birthday

Grandma is also a great cook. My personal favourite Grandma foods have always been her homemade buns and pies. Coming into her house on Friday afternoons you would be greeted with the glorious smell of buns baking. I also loved her canned peaches and cherries. I remember helping Grandma with her cooking and baking. Her pantry storage area was downstairs, off the laundry room, while her kitchen was upstairs. Often she would ask me or one of my siblings to run down to the pantry to grab ingredients she needed. I always loved it when she asked me to get flour. I would take the flour container down to the pantry, and pour the flour in using a small cup left in the large flour barrel. When that task was done, I couldn't resist plunging my hands (and arms) deep into the flour, feeling the soft, silky grains between my fingers. (I confessed this to my mum a few years ago and she said I should tell Grandma. Thankfully she found it funny after all these years and said, "Well, I guess it wasn't that bad. None of us ever got sick from it!")

Grandma was always able to make up fun games for us grandkids to play or ideas for us to do. Instead of simply pouring candies into a bowl and giving them to us, she had us run down the porch stairs, stand on the grass looking up at her on the porch, and then would toss Ju-Jubes down to us. In hindsight, this might have been a cunning way to get us out of the house and out from underfoot for a bit, and if it was, it sure worked well! Doing chores at Grandma's house never seemed too tedious as there were stories to listen to while drying dishes or peeling vegetables. And picking fruit from the bushes and trees in the yard was just plain fun, not a chore at all. Grandma often had us race to see how many we could pick before her timer went off.

Not only was Grandma very clever, but she was also amazingly smart. She had been a teacher at various one-room schools back as a young woman in Saskatchewan. Later she did substitute teaching once in awhile when her girls were in school themselves. She helped me through elementary math far better than any of my teachers. When I was learning to add and subtract she got out her old deck of Busy Bee cards and we would play endless games while I was charged with keeping score and adding up the columns of numbers. When fractions and rounding stumped me in grade six, she spent lots of time with me, writing out multitudes of fraction and rounding problems on scrap paper for me to answer while we sat in the car waiting for my siblings' piano lessons to be over and my turn to come. After weeks and months of that, something finally clicked for me and rounding made sense. Soon after fractions also started to come easier for me.

Games were a big priority at Grandma and Grandpa's house. On Sabbath afternoons we played Birds and Animals (by the Review and Herald), Egypt to Canaan, or Life of Christ. On Saturday nights we played Yahtzee or Probe or Wide World while chomping fruit salad and popcorn laden with brewer's yeast. As a treat Revello ice cream bars or Fudgsicles could usually be found in the freezer, and if not, there was always ice cream. In winter Grandma showed me how to warm it up in the microwave for a sweet, warm treat.

Through the years Grandma has always been a huge source of inspiration. When my family moved to Alberta when I was eight and a half, Grandma told me to write her letters, and when I did, she praised my writing abilities. High on Grandma's praise, I decided to become an author and penned quite a few novellas on small pads of paper, sending them to Grandma as presents. She kept them all, and when she showed them to me years later and gave them back we both had a few laughs at my ridiculous plots. :) I think it's safe to say that Grandma kick-started my love of writing, which might have otherwise subsided once I moved from Language Arts to English classes during elementary school.

Gram and me at Bryn's wedding in September

As sad as I am that I never got to know my Grandma Q very well, I am thrilled that I have been able to form strong and positive bonds with my Grandma. And I am so glad for the hospitality and grace both my grandmothers modeled for me. I am definitely the person I am today because of their positive influences. I love you both so much, Grandma and Grandma Q!

--------------------

My musings on the prompt 'grace' for Five Minute Friday. Join in next week if you feel inspired!

Five Minute Friday: Grace (Part 1)

"She's beauty and she's grace."

Remember that scene from Miss Congeniality? The one near the end when miss United States is crowned, and while chaos insues, the announcer keeps repeating the Miss United States lines:

From sea to shining sea like lady liberty
She reigns over all she sees
She is beauty and she is grace
She is queen of 50 states
She is elagance and taste
She is miss United States
(source)

Funny movie aside, beauty pageants have never played a role in my life and I've never really been too influenced by the media's portrayal of women. I attribute some of that to very little TV viewing as a child and teen. But I attribute most of it to the women I've had in my life. Strong, confident (or so it always seemed to me) women who exuded beauty from the inside out. My mother, my two grandmothers, women from my church, and a few exceptional women teachers in both school and music. The two women I want to mention in this post, though, are my grandmothers. I am blessed to have called two wonderful, gracious ladies Grandma.

Me, Mum, and Grandma Q after church

My Grandma Q was a wonderful homemaker and an excellent cook. Her house was homey and always smelled amazing. While us kids didn't always enjoy going to Grandma and Grandpa Q's church (there were never many kids at that church), we did enjoy walking across the street to their house after church for our Sabbath dinner. I will always remember the amazing gluten that often graced Grandma Q's table. I have never ever tasted better gluten. Another perk to going to G&G Q's house was the little glass bowls of treats that conveniently lived on the dining room table, the living room coffee table, and on a small bookshelf leading down the main hallway. Peanuts and chocolate chips or licorice mixes lived inside, and us grandkids often took little walks around the house to check out the little dishes (usually several times before the meal as well as quite a few after).

Grandma Q was also a creative lady who had one daughter followed by four sons. She had to be creative with a bunch like that, eh? :) Well, in reality I'm not sure how creative she was able to be while her children were young, but when I was in the picture, she certainly was. She quickly turned old clothes into patchwork quilts and gave them away to family members who could use them. If my older or younger sisters or I needed a slip for Sabbath, she would get busy sewing. Nightgowns and doll dresses and knitted slippers came our way from Grandma Q's capable hands. And when I went through my wanna-be Laura Ingalls Wilder stage, she bought pretty blue material and a bonnet pattern and sewed both me and my younger sister "Laura bonnets." I was thrilled and wore mine all over the place for quite a few months!

Grandma Q also painted. I didn't know until I was older that she hadn't always painted; she taught herself to paint when she was in her 60s. Her sewing room might as well have been called her painting studio. Paintings of gorgeous nature settings - she only did scenery paintings - hung from the walls, with tall mountains, rolling hills, running rivers, and straight, green pine trees bursting from the frames. She gave each of her children and grandchildren a special painting, and mine hangs proudly on the wall of my apartment after traveling across the continent with me more than a year ago. On my bed lies a special quilt Grandma Q made and gave to my parents years ago; as I was packing my things to bring eastward I found it unused and forgotten in my parents' garage. My dad let me adopt it and bring it with me, and I am so glad. I love it to death! The pink and white quilt features hand-painted pictures of the 12 provincial flowers (Nunavut wasn't a territory when Grandma Q made it) as well as maple leaves and a few other types of flowers.

Grandma Q's hand-painted quilt on my bed.

Every time I see it I am reminded of Grandma Q. Two days before my little sister's fifth birthday, my Grandma Q had a sudden stroke. She was in the ICU for a day or so, but wasn't able to recover. I so wish I had known her longer, had been able to make more memories with her and create special bonds with her. But I thank God that I was able to know her for eight years of my life. And I look forward to seeing her again in heaven. Seeing her again has always been part of my incentive to go there, and I can't wait to meet her again and get to know her better in that perfect place.

Read Part Two here.

--------------------

My musings on the prompt 'grace' for Five Minute Friday. Join in next week if you feel inspired!

Five Minute Friday: Belong

I don't belong here. Not in Maine. Not in the U.S. even. And maybe not even in my home country of Canada. I don't think my heart belongs to the continent of North America anymore...

Because nearly three years ago I went to Tanzania for eight months. And I fell in love as I've never fallen in love with another country before. My heart is now torn in two. The one side, the patriotic born-into-me love, reaches west to the sharp-pointed mountains of my home province, British Columbia. The other side pulls far east, diagonally across the Atlantic to the exotic soul-exhilarating love I found halfway around the world.

What's a girl to do when her heart lives in all the places where she does not?

--------------------

My musings on the prompt 'belong' for Five Minute Friday. Join in next week if you feel inspired!

Five Minute Friday: Present

Being organized is in my blood. I'm nearly 100 percent German and it shows. I like my life neat and tidy, organized and in a good routine. So the past year and a half, I've been making an effort to organize my digital life. Making more folders, choosing better folder names, clearing thumb drives, backing up documents on my external hard drive, making decisions about which things to save on my computer or put on Google Drive. And now sometimes I find myself so caught up in this web of digital organization that I don't know how to stop. How to pull back, leave the computer, and rejoin the real world. And when I realize that, I shake my head in wonder, push back my chair, and find something else to do. Something real and tangible. Find my husband and talk to him. Go make something in the kitchen. Grab a book from the shelf and read it instead of catching up on the latest blogs I follow. Being organized is good, but - as much as I think it might be - it's not vital to my life. This world, real life, being present, that is vital. Vital to my home, my happiness, and my soul. Less time on the computer (even if it's spent doing valuable things) and more time in reality is my goal for the rest of this year. Being present for those around me should always be my focus.

--------------------

My musings on the prompt 'present' for Five Minute Friday. Join in next week if you feel inspired!

Five Minute Friday: Beautiful

The homey lights shining through the windows and the easy conversation floating into the still night air. The beat of rain against the roof, and the promise of a lazy day indoors. The grandeur of high, sometimes-covered mountains seen from van windows traveling up a winding highway. The brilliant green of grass and forest against the grey backdrop of a rainy sky. The next day dawning bright and warm. Too warm...so down to the lake for a swim and a boat ride. Kids screeching in joy as the tube bounces over the wake. Cheers as first one cousin, then another, gets up on a knee board, a wake board, water skis. Loon families floating together on still evening waters. Their shuddery calls echoing across the water-filled valley. Games together in the cabin on moist, warm evenings. Looking out from a high ridge to flashes of fireworks popping into the darkening sky from all across the expansive landscape below.

Togetherness, fellowship, memory-making. A week of beautiful at the family camp in southern Maine.

--------------------

My musings on the prompt 'beautiful' for Five Minute Friday. Join in next week if you feel inspired!

Five Minute Friday: In Between

In between. Like the PB&J in a sandwich or the blueberry filling in a pie. I'm stuck in the middle right now. Last June I had a job I loved. Then my time overseas ended and I came back to North America, but couldn't work while I waited for my green card. After months of sitting around trying to fill my time with small jobs for relatives, I finally got my green card at the end of April. But I'm still sandwiched between those two pieces of bread, the bottom crust and the top. With five weddings, and two small family reunions on both sides of my husband's family this spring and summer, there's been a lot of time spent traveling and not enough time staying in one place to start working in earnest.

But, I keep reminding myself, it's the in between times that, really, are the sweetest. What would a sandwich be without the spreads? Who would eat a pie without filling? I've been in between this year, but my life has been full of new experiences and exciting discoveries. Traveling in South Korea and Vietnam last summer. Driving a truck and trailer filled with my earthly possessions from BC to Maine. Moving our things into our first North American apartment together. Christmas at home in snowy BC for the first time in three years. Another cross-continent drive to bring my car east in January. Jonathan introducing me to new parts of Maine, and both of us exploring the area we now live in together. It hasn't been normal, but it has been memorable.

I'm ready to settle down into our life here now, come fall and the return of a less-hectic schedule. And I'm ready to have a job again, to have a routine to follow. This past in-between year has been crazy, but one thing I can say about it is that it's definitely been interesting. Normal and routine are good, but sometimes it takes chaotic and in-between to appreciate the more mundane parts of life.

--------------------

My musings on the prompt 'in between' for Five Minute Friday. Join in next week if you feel inspired!

Five Minute Friday: Rhythm

Last June I woke up every morning, went to worship in the main building on campus, walked five minutes to another building, sat at my desk, and started editing the ESL textbook pages that were set in front of me. Everything in that office had a rhythm. The clack of keyboard keys. The jarring ring of office phones and the jangling songs of cell phones. The quiet Korean chatter between colleagues, punctuated with a burst of English here and there. The occasional impromptu meetings at the table in the corner where those in the meetings would try to discuss the issues our office faced in hushed conversations so as not to disrupt the rest of us still sitting at our desks working at our computers.

Even our physical activity had a rhythm. In the ten minutes just before lunch and again just before the end of our work day, Chilli, the only man in our office, started up the exercise song - a upbeat, high-energy marching-type song. At the starting notes, he stood and urged the rest of us to rise from our desk chairs and join him in a rhythm of stretching, and arm and leg exercises. The entire first week of working in the office I couldn't keep the grin off my face while I mimicked my coworkers' actions and fumbled through the series of exercises. Even months later my mouth formed a slight grin while I expertly followed the music through the routine.

The rhythm of office work is behind me now. Most of the time I'm glad to be free of the unyielding work hours, the frustrating rule of having to stay at the office for the full 40 hours a week even when I'd finished all the work my coworkers could find for me. But sometimes I miss it. Miss the hushed conversations. Miss the mix of Korean and English fluidly filling the office. Miss the camaraderie of having others around to work with, to go to for help when I had a question, to talk to in a moment of down time, and even to join in our office exercise routines. Sometimes, I miss the busy rhythm of office life. And in those times, I dig out my copy of the exercise song and play it loudly, reminding my arms and legs of the rhythm of my ESL textbook office in Seoul, South Korea.

Me with some of my coworkers ~ June 2012
Photo by Glenda Quiring

--------------------

My musings on the prompt 'rhythm' for Five Minute Friday. Join in next week if you feel inspired!


Edit: My husband and I drove from Maine to Michigan this week for a wedding on Sunday. When we arrived in Berrien Springs on Friday evening, after the wedding rehearsal, I checked my e-mail, and to my surprise, found a new comment on this blog post from Lisa-Jo telling me that I was her Featured post on Five Minute Friday this week. I was so surprised and honoured to be chosen. Thank you so much, Lisa-Jo, for choosing me and for your kind and encouraging words! I love the FMF writing community!

My post is featured on the right sidebar of her blog

Five Minute Friday: Listen

Photo by Glenda Quiring

Listen. It was the only way I'd ever be able to learn pieces. In violin lessons I would muddle through the beginner's technique - how to stand, how to hold the bow, where to put my fingers - but when we got to the actual playing part of the lesson, I'd stop watching my teacher and just listen. Listen as he played the short, simple song first for me. Listen to how each note sounded. Listen as I started to try to replicate what my ears had just heard. Listen to the scratch of the bow sliding off the strings, to the note I was playing that wasn't quite right. Listen as I slid my finger slightly up the fingerboard and then, when that didn't correct the tone, as I moved it back down just below where it had been to begin with. The notes on the page meant nothing to me; they were just a pretty pattern. But the notes in my head, the notes my ears picked up, those actually meant something.

At home after my lesson, my mum would put on the Suzuki Book 1 cassette tape, and I'd listen to my song over and over again as I helped set the table for supper or dried the dishes after we ate. When I practiced, I had to think about my feet, then where on the strings my bow went, how to keep my bow hold loose and relaxed, if my fingers were exactly on the coloured dots covering my small fingerboard, which finger to put down to make which note, if I was supposed to be using an up bow or a down bow. But, while my bow went haywire and I seldom got the up bows and down bows right, I was learning the notes. I would listen to the song on the tape, then hit pause on my little purple tape recorder and try to mimic those notes. Slowly, slowly, I learned my song. The notes became clearer and more on tune. The bow still sometimes went back and forth in the wrong direction, but the song had become recognizable. The notes on the page still boggled my mind, but I didn't need them; I had the notes in my head. I didn't need to know how to read the music because in my brain the notes had been woven into lines, and the lines had joined to become an entire song.

When I played my song for my teacher at my next lesson he asked me how I'd learned it so well. "Oh," I replied, "I just listened."

--------------------

My musings on the prompt 'listen' for Five Minute Friday. Join in next week if you feel inspired!

Five Minute Friday: Comfort

Comfort. It's all around us.

Photo by my mother, Glenda Quiring

It's coming home. It's the smell of freshly baked bread, or cookies baking in the oven, or soup simmering on the stove. It's easing into your favourite armchair at the end of a long, hard day's work. It's the feel of sliding into crisp, clean sheets the first night after they were changed. It's curling up under a warm, thick quilt to fall asleep.

It's slipping into well-worn jeans. It's wearing comfy clothes on the weekend. It's putting on soft, fuzzy pajamas and cozy slippers before bed. It's splashing and jumping into puddles in your gumboots on a rainy afternoon. It's walking on new grass with bare feet, and digging toes into warm, brown earth.

It's making mud pies and play-eating them with your siblings. It's planting bright flowers in colourful pots. It's pressing small seeds into the ground and waiting to watch them grow. It's playing tag, hide-and-seek, or sardines in your backyard in the evening twilight.

It's the relief of entering a building with air conditioning on a humid August day. The warmth of coming inside after enjoying the cold, wet snow in winter. The special family meals on holidays. The snow finally melting, and green spring grass sprouting again. The leaves morphing into glorious oranges, browns, and golds in autumn. It's watching the day fade into night, the dazzling colours of the sunset, the promise of a new sunrise tomorrow.

It's the crash of ocean waves hitting the shore. The gulls' familiar cawing overhead. It's the quiet of mid-afternoon in a sleepy little town. The gentle buzzing of a busy bumblebee moving between blossoms in the community garden. It's the ripples on a mountain lake. The call of a loon in the evening. It's the stillness of night. The twinkling of heavenly stars shining down.

It's the sip of hot chocolate sliding down your throat, instantly warming you from inside out. The first bite of your favourite dish. The juicy crunch of fresh fruit just picked off the tree. The cool glass of water on a hot summer day.

It's cuddling a kitten or being chased by a puppy. It's petting a cat or taking a dog for a walk. It's watching a powerful horse gallop across a pasture. It's hearing the honks of Canada Geese as they fly overhead.

It's the lilt of a fiddle piece. The strum of a guitar. It's the sweet clear soprano voice or the deep rumblings of a bass. It's the lyrical piano solo. The strains of a familiar old hymn being played on the organ.

It's entering your place of worship, feeling reverent and awed. It's kneeling beside your bed, knowing the God of the universe is listening to what you say. It's an answer to earnest prayer. It's witnessing a miracle and knowing others can happen, too.

It's laughing with your friends while eating out, or playing board games, or watching a movie. It's working together to accomplish a common goal. It's having deep talks with a person you trust, a person who knows you almost as well as you know yourself.

It's a baby falling asleep in his mother's arms after nursing. A child drifting off knowing her parents are in the next room. It's riding on Daddy's strong shoulders or jumping into his arms from the side of the pool. It's a Band-Aid on a cut finger. A tight embrace after a heartbreak or the loss of someone you love.

It's having a child wrap their arms around you. It's a healing talk after a fight with your teenager. It's watching your offspring leave the nest and knowing they'll make it on their own because you've trained them well. It's holding grandchildren for the first time. It's grown-children bringing their own children to visit you in the nursing home.

It's snuggling with the person you love. It's visiting with an old friend. It's seeing someone you've been missing for a long time. It's the sight of a beloved place. It's returning from a long trip away and coming―

Home.

--------------------

My musings on the prompt 'comfort' for Five Minute Friday. Join in next week if you feel inspired!

Five Minute Friday: Brave

The oldest is supposed to be the brave one. But I never was. It was my little sister, Bryna, three years younger than me, who was the brave one in our family.

Holding newborn baby Bryna in the hospital

As soon as she could sit up, then crawl, then toddle, Bryn was always getting into something. I first realized Bryn was brave when she was probably around 10-months-old. Bryn was taking her afternoon nap while Mum and I snuggled on her bed as she read to me. A thump interrupted us. I hopped up to check on my little sister. Easing her bedroom door open and peeking in, I was stunned to find a happy Bryn sitting on the floor beside her crib, back to the door, playing with some of the toys she'd thrown from the crib. No bumps or bruises, no crying, just a happy baby playing quietly on her own. These capers continued. Bryn went from climbing out of her crib in the day to sneaking out at night. My parents once found her standing beside their waterbed with a fistful of kitchen knives in her hand. The next day new child-locks went on every drawer and cupboard in the kitchen and around the rest of the house. New because my parents had never had to use child-locks with me. "Ali, no. Don't touch!" was all they ever had to say. The one time I didn't listen, after dousing my hand in water as they wallpapered my bedroom, I flung my hand toward the electrical outlet in the wall and received a nice shock for my efforts. It was a quick and efficient cure to disobeying my parents.

Bryn soon learned that the opposite of climbing down is climbing up. One afternoon I went into the bedroom we both now shared, in preparation for a new little baby to join the household, and found Bryn contentedly sitting in the top drawer of our five-drawer-high dresser. My drawer. As I watched in horror, she calmly reached deep into the drawer, pulled out a pair of my underwear, and sent it floating to the floor below, which was already littered with undershirts, socks, and other pairs of underwear. "Mum," I turned and yelled, "Bryna's ruining my drawer! If she wants to play in a drawer she could just climb in her own messy bottom one."

But sometimes Bryn's fearless ways made me laugh. She was half-clown. One evening my parents had just plucked Bryn from her bath. As my dad got her ready for bed, my mum helped me into the still-warm bathwater. She left me playing with the bath toys. Suddenly a shadow fell across the door. Before I had time to figure out who was entering the bathroom, my little sister, dressed in a clean, fresh, fuzzy sleeper, dove over the side of the tub. "Mummy, Bryn's in my bath!" I cried as she splashed, happy as a dolphin, from one side of the tub to the other. When Mum arrived, she couldn't hide the smile on her face. I soon gave in and laughed with her as a dripping, wriggling Bryn was fished out of the bathtub for a second try at bedtime.

As she grew up, she was more than happy to drive around our Fisher Price scooter or car while I hitched a free ride in the wagon I'd tied on behind. Her eagerness to learn to ride a bike spurred me on to learn so that my little sister wouldn't beat me to it. When we took our birthday money to the store to buy a toy, I'd convince Bryn to go to the counter to pay for me. She wasn't scared to talk to people she didn't know, and I was terrified to, so this arrangement seemed to work pretty well.

But little by little, Bryn taught me that I didn't need to be scared of every little thing. I could try new things without getting hurt. I could talk to people I didn't know because people weren't necessarily out to get me. I'm still mostly a fraidy-cat inside, but by watching Bryn for the past 25 years, I'm slowly, slowly learning to creep out of my protective shell, to try new things, and not to spend my whole life being scared. Bryna is definitely the brave one, but there's room for more than one brave one in any family. Who knows, someday I might make it there, too.

--------------------

My musings on the prompt 'brave' for Five Minute Friday. Join in next week if you feel inspired!

Five Minute Friday: Friend

I was walking with Grandpa past the big meeting tent at our church's campmeeting when he bumped into someone he knew and stopped to talk. "Ali," he said, "this is Pastor Bruce, the pastor at our church now, and this is his daughter, Jodi." I shyly grinned hello to both of them. "What grade is Jodi going into?" Grandpa asked. "Grade six," was Pastor Bruce's reply. "Hmm, same as you, Ali, right? Ali's going to be starting grade six at OKAA in the fall. Her family just moved back to Kelowna from Alberta a few weeks ago," Grandpa commented to Jodi and her dad. While Grandpa and Pastor Bruce talked, Jodi and I stood awkwardly beside them until their short conversation wrapped up. I waved goodbye. "See you at school, I guess," I said as I turned to walk away. Little did we know that warm July night in 1996, that by the end of the first few weeks of school that fall we would be headlong into a friendship that would still be going strong seventeen years later.

Saturday night with Jodi and other friends when I was home this March

I sat with Julie on the bus down to Wenatchee, WA, the first destination on our high school choir tour in the spring of 2000. I'd always known Julie. Her family had moved to Kelowna when she was just a toddler, and they had started coming to the church I'd been born into as soon as they'd settled in to their new house. Julie was a grade below me and we'd never been very close in elementary school. But now we were both in high school, where which grade you were in seemed to matter less as you passed by all ages of teenagers in the hallways between classes and during lunch. After the first day or so of the choir tour, I was spending a lot of time with Julie and her friends in grade eight. And when we returned from the trip, Julie and I just continued to hang out - at school, at church, at each other's houses on Saturday evenings, and occasionally after school during the week, too, if we had time. That week together in the bus on choir tour had broken us out of mold of being friends only with others in the same class. And we never even thought of going back to the way things were before.

A visit to the ski hill with Julie when I was home this March

"How was Academy Days? That was today, right?" Mum asked when I came home from school one afternoon in the spring of 2001. "Oh, it was fine. I think it's going on tomorrow, too," I replied. "Jonathon came." "Hmm, I guess he'll probably be in your class then next year, eh?" Mum responded. "Did his brothers come, too?" "I think so," I said, moping. "This is horrible. I know he's really smart. I thought valedictorian was between either me or Jodi. Now we're going to have to compete with him, too. I wish he'd just stay in Oliver and keep doing homeschool or going to the Adventist school in Penticton or whatever he was doing." Mum turned from the kitchen island where she was chopping vegetables for a soup. "Oh, Ali, you know the Penticton school only goes up to grade 10. If he wants to be in Adventist school for his last two years of high school, why shouldn't he come to OKAA? Besides, maybe you need a little academic challenge." Stewing I went to my room. For the next week or two I worried about what my last two years of high school would be like, but soon enough I forgot all about Jonathon, a boy whose father had gone to school at OKAA with my own mother years ago, and whose grandfather had worked alongside my own grandfather to build our church in the late 1970s. When school started again in the fall, I couldn't help keeping my distance from Jonathon for the first few weeks, but soon his parents began inviting their sons' friends and classmates over to their house on Saturday nights. I went when I was invited, and soon I nearly forgot about the things I'd heard about Jonathon's brains before he moved to Kelowna. Although he did eventually beat out Jodi and me for the title of graduating class valedictorian, I gained much more by his friendship than I ever would have had I won the distinction myself, but lost out on the chance to get to know him and his younger brothers. They've become almost like brothers to myself and my younger siblings and we've often gone dirt biking and quadding together, played board and card games late into the evening, and visited each other's homes whenever we're in the same city at the same time.

Jonathon, Stephen, Chris & me ~ Summer 2010

"Hey, suitemates! I'm Danielle." My sister Bryn and I looked up from our dorm room desks to see the head peeking around the bathroom door that we shared with the room next door. "But we've already met the two girls living next door," Bryn said tentatively. "Neither one is named Danielle." "Oh yeah, the other girl moved to a different room and now I'm living with Anna," Danielle explained. Later that evening the orchestra played for the university's Friday night vespers program. Afterward, Bryn and I packed up our violins, and left the church just behind Danielle. "Hey, I didn't know you played in orchestra!" I exclaimed. "Yeah," Danielle answered. "I play the cello. Neat, we'll all be in orchestra together!" The three of us talked the whole short walk back to the girls' dorm and up the three floors to our rooms. "Why don't you come into our room and talk for a bit, if you want," Bryn invited. "Tell Anna she's welcome, too, if she's back already." It was my first week attending Southern Adventist University in Tennessee after transferring from Walla Walla College in Washington state. I was rooming with Bryn, who had already been at Southern for a year, and I was hoping that I would make some friends soon. And now, after only a week, I'd made a friend who was not only my suitemate, but also would be in orchestra practices with me for three nights a week and would be traveling with me on all our orchestra trips for the year, and during the next two years that we attended Southern together as well.

Bryn, Danielle, Jonathan & me after graduation ~ May 2010

"Hi, I'm Danielle (a different one than in the story above). I just got here today and I just wanted to come say hi. It's sad that you're all the way over here in this hut, while the rest of us volunteers are in that apartment above the baby home together." I stood at the door and listened to Danielle introduce herself. It had only been two days since I'd arrived in Tanzania and already I felt alone, isolated from the five - now six - other girls living on the ADRA Tanzania compound. They were all here to volunteer with the Cradle of Love Baby Home, which was located on the far end of the compound. I, alone of the current volunteers, was here to work with ADRA, and therefore I lived in a hut all alone, made my solitary meals in the little kitchen hut next door to my room, and worked in an office by myself on the opposite side of the compound from the busy, noisy baby home. The next afternoon another Cradle volunteer, Ashley, knocked on my door. "Alison, we're making a meal together for supper tonight. You should join us! We can all get to know each other a little bit." My heart leapt. "Sure," I replied through my smile, "is there anything I can bring for the meal?" Ashley let me know what they could use and I dashed to my shelf in the kitchen cupboard to grab a few items before rushing to the volunteer apartment. Within a few days, I had become a part of the group. I wasn't alone in this new country anymore. I had new friends - from all over Europe and North America - to spend my evenings and weekends with. The next eight months didn't look quite so lonely anymore.

Our ranks grew to 12 by US Thanksgiving ~ the volunteers, November 2010

With each friend or set of friends (and this list is by no means exhaustive), I've had an awkward, bumpy beginning, but with each, as we've grown to know each other, we've made bonds that last. Bonds that stick even when we haven't seen each other for months, or sometimes even years. We can be apart, but when we're back together (or chatting on Skype when we can't be together), it's almost like we've never been separated. And that is the beauty of good friends. People who you miss when you're apart, but who fit back into your life again perfectly when you're together again.

*Note: All scenarios are written completely from my own memories. Others might have slightly different memories, but hopefully I'm not too far off the mark.

--------------------

My musings on the prompt 'friend' for Five Minute Friday. Join in next week if you feel inspired!

Five Minute Friday: Jump

Source: Norman Rockwell

I'd done it a million times before. It was easy. Just climb the ladder, wait in the line, get the go-ahead, walk to the end of the board, and jump. Before my swimming lesson I'd told my mum and Aaron, a boy she was looking after (a year older than me and a bit of a nemesis), that I'd jump off the diving board during the free time at the end of the lesson. Now it was here and I fast-walked-not-ran from the edge of the deep pool to the tall ladder. Climbing up the rungs this time was the same as every other. Wet, slippery. I didn't want to fall, so I clutched the rails as I climbed. Reaching the top, I got in the line for the stationary diving board and waited for the few children ahead of me to jump. Then it was my turn. I walked carefully to the edge of the board. Then I looked over to the observation area on my left, just a little bit higher up than I was, where my mum and Aaron sat waiting for me to finish my lesson. There they were. I smiled, then looked out over the edge of the board. The water below me churned as the child, who had just left the bouncing diving board next to me, splashed into the waves that had just been starting to smooth out from the child before. Suddenly I was scared. I'd never been scared to jump from the diving board before, but now I was over-thinking. What if I slipped just as I was about to jump and fell off the board? What if I jumped wrong and landed painfully? Realizing the line behind me was growing longer, I turned and hurried to the back of the platform. "I'll go in a minute," I said to the kid in front of me. When the line was empty I tried again. And again I stood at the end of the board, wanting to jump to prove to Aaron that I could jump from that height, that I was brave. But try as I might, I just could not get up the courage to jump. Defeated, I turned around again, and quickly scrambled back down the ladder. Then I jumped from the small diving board instead. And I never again climbed up the high dive.

In my teens I went cliff jumping once, after much convincing, in Belize and immediately realized that I do not enjoy the feeling of free-fall. Could that have been the reason for my fear of jumping that day years before? I don't know, but since then I've stuck to taking the pictures when people jump off tall objects into the water far below. My stomach is much happier that way!

--------------------

My musings on the prompt 'jump' for Five Minute Friday. Join in next week if you feel inspired!