Cast the Net Far and Wide

                                                    DRAMA OF A DOVE It is a beautiful piece of art.   A gift to my husband and me from a dear family member, it hangs in our huge front window, a tribute both to love of family and the talent of a local artist.   A dove, the symbol of peace, carries a small olive branch, as in the Bible story of Noah’s ark.   The dove is simply yet intricately designed, in subtle shades of brown and grey, wings held high. It appears to be flying right out of the picture, as the leaves on the twig in its mouth are carried into the border.   The whole piece is made of a square of bevelled glass, surrounded by a border of sky blue.   The artist’s mark is on the back. As I was looking at the dove pendant this morning, I thought it looked disappointingly dull, drab in fact.   Where was the beauty?   Where was the shine?   The brown colours melded into the dullness of the weather to make the work look static and lifeless. Putting the dove out of my mi

                                         GOALS                  Copyright     Frances K. Van Mil A guide’s honour is to be trusted; Loyal is she; Helpful to others, A friend to all and a sister to each other, A guide is merciful, a friend to animals; Orders obeyed– Smiles, sings, is thrifty, Pure in thought, word and deed. Yes, Girl Guides taught me many things about how to live – goals which remain in my life, and reflect the ten commandments.   Indeed, my Christian faith was strengthened at summer camp at Doe Lake, north of Huntsville , as we held our “Guides’ Own Service” on log benches, in the beauty of the woods, singing “ This is my Father’s world; and to my list’ning ears, All nature sings and round me rings the music of the spheres.   This is my Father’s world, I rest me in the thought, the rocks and trees, the skies and seas – His hand the wonders wrought.” In Girl Guides, I learned leadership, faithfulness, self-reliance, helpfulness, and many hard-e

BOTTLED WISDOM                     copyright       Frances K. Van Mil Spring had arrived.   At Cape Croker Reserve that meant, among other things, eager foraging in ditches for wild leeks and…beer bottles.   Beer bottles, plentiful and redeemable for cash, were the mainstay of the economy in some households. This spring, Cape Croker was to be the host of the AA Roundup—the annual regional conference of Alcoholics Anonymous.             I have great respect for AA.   From friends involved in it, I have absorbed much Biblical teaching expressed in practical terms.   Such slogans as “One Day at a Time”, “First Things First”, and “Let Go and Let God”, as well as the well-known Serenity Prayer have been useful in my own life—God’s big guns for those tearing-out-my-hair crises. Although the local AA group consisted of only a few members—none too anonymous on such a small reserve—the Roundup was a community event and community pride was at stake.   True native hospitality must be

                                 THE POWER OF LITTLE THINGS               “ Little drops of water, little grains of sand Make the mighty ocean, and the pleasant land.” My father used to sing this old hymn.   Yes, every gigantic ocean wave is made up of tiny droplets; yet no wave, no matter how big, can push past the beach, which is made up of an equally vast army of tiny grains of sand. Speaking of sand, I learned much about the power of little things on my last day of a holiday in Mazatlan, Mexico in January, 2015.   On the last day of our two-week family holiday, we all wanted to swim in the ocean one last time.   But to our dismay, we saw flags posted by the lifeguards which banned swimming - because of jellyfish! Yes, you read correctly:   such a huge influx of tiny blue jellyfish had washed in towards the shore that no humans were advised to swim there that day! Well that’s power in numbers!   One jellyfish alone – a spineless, brainless, gelatinous blob - would be

                                                                          THE WATCHERS -M Y HEAVENLY FATHER ALWAYS SENDS HELP 3 flights! One very long one! And a long taxi ride conducted in Spanish! Yup – and me no spring chicken any more: on the way to turning 73 at the time.   Oh, yes, and it was winter, too – New Year’s Day, 4 am to be exact, when I inched my way in the dark from a friend’s house in Sudbury, Ontario to a waiting cab to begin my 2-week trip to Mexico with my family. It was towards the end of the long flight from Toronto to Mexico City that things began to get scary.   First, I had to fill out a very official-looking questionnaire written in tiny print, whose answers could affect my entry and exit from the country.   Fortunately, I had a small magnifying glass with me because such problems crop up often with my aging eyes.   As I squinted to read each word, a lady across the aisle, speaking perfect English, offered to help.   After she had checked over and a

                    LIKE A WEANED CHILD….IN PERFECT PEACE              Surely I have calmed and quieted my soul; like a weaned child with his mother, like a weaned child is my soul within me (ceased from fretting).. Psalm 131:2 I wondered what this could possibly mean, until I pictured the baby still nursing or bottle-feeding, and contrasted it with the weaned child.   I realized that the baby is angry, terrified, loudly exclaiming by desperate cries that it needs food to sustain its life.   It does not know or believe that someone who loves it very much is listening for that cry, and ready to quickly respond to it in love.   It certainly does not realize that a whole nursery, change table, diapers, bottles and so much more have been provided just for it, nor that it is a love-child, wanted, expected, and cared for, born for relationship.   Right now, it cannot get past the hunger. `The weaned child, on the other hand, has learned that Mommy (or Daddy) will soon come to b

         FRENCH ALL WEEK AND CREE ON SUNDAY   Copyright Frances K. Van Mil             I have always loved the French language.   As soon as I began learning it in Grade nine, I began to wish that I could spend a year in Quebec.   I pictured old Quebec City, with its romantic cafes and perhaps a gallant French man to show me the sights.   Ah – and I would write poems and sit by the river…             Well, the Lord answers prayer – but in His own way: I wasn’t exactly expecting to end up in Chibougamau!   It is at the end of the bus route, just within the James Bay region – a twenty-four hour bus ride from Toronto.   I know, because I took it twice, watching over four big bags and a pair of skis all the way through five stops, each one becoming more French: North Bay, Cochrane,   Rouyn-Noranda, Val D’Or…and finally Chibougamau.             You may wonder how in the world I ended up there –being an “Anglophone” and all.             I had been unable to find a teaching job aft

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         THE MASTER’S TOUCH      Copyright   Frances K. Van Mil    There I was, working on my third painting in the art classes I was taking.   I had found a photo I liked of light grasses, dark brown water and rocks, with a backdrop of trees.   In my senior years, never having developed my artistic bent, I was experimenting:   can I paint rocks?   Can I paint trees?   Can I do reflections?   I was intrigued by what looked like a phantom bird in bright blue, just above the three rocks at the bottom right.   On the left, in the brown water, were long, blue streaks resembling bullrushes, in the same bright blue. A trick of the camera, I thought

GOD KNOWS THE EXACT SHADE OF BLUE          Copyright Frances K. Van Mil                                                                                                                       “Wherever I hang my hat is home,” I had prattled to Jeb (name changed), volunteer co-ordinator of the Christian organization with which my husband and I were serving.   At the time of the conversation, we, at ages forty-five and fifty-four had just finished moving our two elementary-aged children and a U-haul fourteen hundred miles from our home province of Ontario to Manitoba to begin living and working on our second reserve as part of an agricultural development project.   Whatever could not be crammed into the U-haul had been given away or sold at a loss because of the time factor.   It seemed that we had been living that way for years.               It’s unusual to hear a woman say that,” Jeb had replied.   “I might expect a man to say that, but a woman usually likes to feather her nes