Tag Archives: Family

Hope and faith: Something missing, something coming

On the four Sundays leading up to Christmas we light Advent candles—one candle per week, each with a different word associated with it: Hope, Peace, Joy and Love.

Usually the first Sunday of Advent falls on the same date as an important Canadian sporting event: the Grey Cup. [The championship game for the Canadian Football League.] Usually we host a gathering of neighbourhood friends for a Grey Cup party involving unhealthy food and beer. A kind of Canadian Superbowl party. At some point in the evening, we still the TV, quiet the conversation, and take time to be peaceful, to appreciate each other’s friendship, and to light the candle of Hope.

This year the Canadian Football League did not play at all due to COVID. There was no Grey Cup. There was no gathering of friends.

We lit the candle of Hope, but something was missing.

But that’s when we feel hope, isn’t it? When we feel that something is missing. That’s when we yearn.

This year, there is a whole lot of yearning going on. So . . . many . . . things . . . we are missing.

In these times I try to remember that the sunshine side of hope is faith. That’s when we relax in the knowledge that all shall be well.

When we hope, our bodies are taut, we lean forward with fists clenched. In faith, we relax, drop our shoulders, breathe . . .

We hope because something is missing. We have faith because someday, somehow, something’s coming. Get ready.

Advent wreath with one candle of Hope lit. — The Candle of Hope

On Easy Street . . . again

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I’m taking a mini- vacation. I’m re-posting something from nine years ago, because I love it.

Our family was heading to our favourite bakery to pick up cream-filled doughnuts. But . . . our way was blocked by road construction. We had to detour.

We grumbled. The detour stood between us and our doughnuts, and we weren’t happy.

That is, until we read the sign for the upcoming cross street.

My husband said: “Look. It’s Easy Street. I’ve got to turn down there.”

My daughter said: “Awesome! Wouldn’t it be cool to live on Easy Street.”

My son said: “You know, there are never any streets named Difficult Street, or Challenging Street.”

The personalities of my family revealed in a few short sentences.

We turned onto Easy Street, and immediately felt wonderfully, irrationally great.

“Oh yeah, we’re on Easy Street now, baby!”

The whole family was laughing and smiling. The name had amazing power to make our day.

But then . . . . we looked ahead. More construction at the next intersection meant that we could only enjoy our ride on Easy Street for one block. Isn’t that always the way? When you finally make it to Easy Street, it doesn’t last.

From this I learned three things:

Sometimes a detour is more interesting than the planned route.
When you have the chance to turn on to Easy Street, take it.
Once you’re there enjoy the ride, because it might not last long.

Tastes from childhood

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A few weeks ago, Tuesdays with Laurie posted about Plans & Projects. She said that she was getting “That itch to empty the house and scrub it from top to bottom. Only putting half of everything back in and donating the rest.”

At the time, the fullness of what COVID-19 would become was not clear. “I won’t be scrubbing my house,” I thought. “I’ll be free, outside, in the spring!”

More fool me.

We’ve been social distancing for two weeks. I’ve been tackling plans and projects that I thought I’d be leaving until fall.

I cleaned my fridge. At the back corner of the top shelf of the fridge I found a jar of chokecherry jelly that I had bought at a Christmas craft fair. I’d forgotten about it.

(Remember when we could have craft fairs?)

This morning I had chokecherry jelly on toast. The flavour transported me instantly back to my childhood on the farm.

My brothers and I would pick the bitter fruit from trees that grew wild along our fences. The tiny red berries always looked so good. I’d put one in my mouth and screw up my face because of the bitter flavour.

My mother would take our buckets of chokecherries, boil them and add sugar. She’d strain the juice through cloth, and from that came a jelly with the distinctive flavour I love.

It’s one of my tastes of childhood.

There are others: fried bologna, fat green onions straight from the garden, biscuits and brown sugar.

What are your favourite childhood foods?

Bayberry candle luck: A Christmas ritual to warm the soul

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“A bayberry candle burned to the socket puts luck in the home, food in the larder and gold in the pocket.”

My mother-in-law burned a bayberry taper candle down to the socket every Christmas Day, to bring the family luck for the coming year.

We adopted the tradition in our house even though I learned that my mother-in-law’s version of the tradition differed from the original. According to online sources, the candles were lit on New Year’s Eve and the flame had to continue burning into New Year’s Day to carry the luck forward.

I thought about changing our tradition to align with the legend, but then dismissed the idea. Traditions are rituals, and rituals should warm the soul, revive memories of loved ones and centre us in what is really important.

If I were to light a bayberry candle on New Year’s Eve instead of Christmas Day, it would feel all wrong.

So I’ll keep on lighting a bayberry candle on Christmas morning. When I do, it will warm my soul, it will remind me of my mother-in-law, and it will centre me in what is really important.

And that, I suspect, will bring me more luck than anything.

Roots Part III: Where we come from

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There’s something primal about the word roots. We feel it at our core.

Deep roots allow trees to stand tall, and they nourish the plant. Kind of like family. One hopes.

My roots are deep in the Ottawa Valley, in a farming community and a large extended family. No matter how old I get or where I live, the phrases “Ottawa Valley” and “farm” will always be central to my being.

Even as a child I was nosy. Here I am in our old farmhouse, listening in on the party line.

If I dig deeper, I get to “Irish,” “English,” and “Christian.” Yes, I am a WASP—a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant with all the privileges that come along with it. My parents raised me in faith and, even though it has evolved significantly over my lifetime, that rooting in faith still keeps me grounded.

What about people who aren’t so lucky?

When trees are rooted in rocky-ground, it’s difficult to stay standing.

There’s something primal about the word roots. We feel it—or the need of it—at our core.

Are you feeling well grounded?

Somerton Smith

Writing Meaningful Words