Showing posts with label faith. Show all posts
Showing posts with label faith. Show all posts

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Hope for the Animals

[Cant you just tell when a girl knows she's pretty:)?]

I have been feeling just a tad depleted of late and, in those times, I tend to draw inward and rest and try to replenish the old spirit a bit. I have been having a rich time of it today. I've been  watching k.d.lang Live in London, with her band and the BBC Orchestra behind her, as she absolutely nails one number after another.

She did a killer job of Jane Siberry's The Valley, Jane being one of Canada's under-appreciated artists, as k.d.lang explained. Then she followed it with  Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah. Wowzers!

Faiza called, full of "Habibi"'s and "Sweetheart"'s, to tell me that, though she remains very tired from weeks of not sleeping, in order to care for Bill through all of his night-time wakings, he has begun to move around just a little, from his chair to his commode, without assistance. This is very good news. Faiza thinks that maybe by next week, he will be able to manage in the bedroom and she can return to sleeping in a bed at night.

"I thank God for everything. Remember, He knows everything we need and if we ask, and we have good hearts and try our best, He will give it."

It is snowing here tonight, so we arranged for me to come over the first day the roads are clear. I told her I was very happy to hear the news about Bill.

I am reading, right now, Jane Goodall's Reason For Hope: A Spiritual Journey. Of course I am loving the story of her love affair with the natural world and animals and insects, which began when she was a small child. And her time in Africa, place of my dreams.

I feel a small tie to her, in a convoluted way.  When I was a single mom, living in Kelowna and longing for the ocean and the west coast of Vancouver Island, I read a newspaper article about a single mom named Alexandra Morton, who was living her dream, living with and studying the whales in the Broughton Archipelago, off north-eastern Vancouver Island.

At the time, I cut the article out, and told myself, "If she can do it, I can do it too." A few years later, I made the move to Tofino. One night I was sitting waiting for some friends alongside their huge old Norwegian clipper ship, the Duen, down at the 4th Street dock at sunset.

A tall woman with long hair came up to me and said "Hi, I'm Alexandra Morton." My response was "Wow!" and after we exchanged some info about where my friends were, that she was supposed to hook up with, I told her about how she had long been my hero, that I so admired the work she was doing with the whales.

Our friends came, along with the film crew from National Geographic, who were to go out with my friends the following day on the Duen to film  some action footage of whales. We all wandered over to the Weigh West pub, where I turned out to be the local color at the table. I was making everyone laugh, telling them about the five-foot-tall old salt who hung out in town in his captain's hat, with his long frizzy hair, whose laugh was so loud and could be heard over such vast distances, that apparently someone had filed a nuisance report on him and he had been ordered, in court, not to laugh out loud in the village  after 11 p.m. (True story!)

In a quieter moment, I told Alexandra how, years before, I had seen the article about her and told myself that if she could do it, and live her dream, I could too, and that she had been my inspiration for coming to Tofino.

She looked at me, and smiled, and told me, "Well, when I was younger, my inspiration was Jane Goodall, and I told myself that if Jane could make a living out of being with the animals she loves, I could do it too. And I have just come from being with Jane Goodall, and telling her how she was my inspiration. So here we are, and it has come full circle."

Cool, hey? I love it when life does stuff like that!

Anyway Alexandra has devoted years up-Island trying to save the wild salmon from the illnesses caused by fish farms the Department of Fisheries allowed to set up right in the migratory path of the young fry. The young fish have to pass through the effluent from the fish farm; they get coated in lice, and are too young to withstand it. The effect on the fishing industry is obvious, but it also impacts the killer whales, who depend on salmon for food.

Alexandra has worked tirelessly to alert and  inform the  Department of Fisheries, but changes are slow in coming and time is running out for the salmon. At this moment, she is  contemplating a change. She has been approached about running for public office, and is trying to decide whether she will be of more value continuing her work for the salmon, or trying to effect some change from within the system. Whatever she does, this woman has my vote and my trust, for certain. She has devoted thirty-plus years to her study of the whales, the survival of wild salmon and the well-being of the Broughton Archipelago.

There is a quote from Reason For Hope which resonated with me. If Jane still has hope, then I must, too. She tells of a story she was told as a little girl, about the birds having a competition to see who could fly the highest. The eagle was sure he would win, flying higher and higher, passing all the other birds, until even he could fly no higher. And at that very moment, a little jenny wren, who had hidden herself in the feathers on his back, flew up, and won the competition. Jane said that she, too, has ridden on the back of an eagle, whose every feather is a person who has helped or supported her in her work. She thanks all of these people. Then she says:

"So many feathers on the eagle. For my eagle, of course, is the symbol of the great spiritual power that I believe carries us all. That supports us when our commitment and determination are put to the test. From which, if we will, we can gain strength and new energy even when we are at our most exhausted. If we have faith, and if we ask."

Aha! That is the step I have missed, in this time of fatigue, depletion and discouragement. To remember that faith, and to ask.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Dear World

Hyakutake comet - image from telegraph.co.uk

[I came across this poem among my papers this evening: the poem Dear World,
written by Alma Luz Villaneuva of California on March 24, 1996. I thought I would post it here for your enjoyment. It has been a heavy day on the airwaves, watching footage of the Twin Towers being attacked and then collapsing. It has stricken me wordless. I thought we could use a lift, something hopeful, something Other.]
Dear World,
18,400 years ago, this comet
we call (in 1996) Hyakutake
came close to the Earth (ten million
miles away, ten million); and we
can see it with the naked
eye, floating in the sky like
a tail of light. The last
time it came within ten million
miles, humans were just crossing
the terrible, icy glaciers,
the Bering Strait, into this
land mass, North America, one
of the floating, enduring Turtles.
The Turtles whispered, "Leap of
faith, dream, leap of faith, dream,"
as the comet edged its way
ten million miles, so close. 18,400
years later, the Turtles whisper,
"Leap of faith, one planet, leap
of faith, one people." This planet
floating through the stars, comets
coming home to sing to the Turtles:
"Cross the terrible, icy glaciers,
the human heart, leap."


Friday, August 13, 2010

A Miracle in Africa

photo from commpassionatejourneys.com

[This was sent to my inbox today and I looked it up on the internet to verify the author. I consider myself to be a "spiritual" rather than a "religious" person. Having been rather scared away from organized religion, I prefer a wider view of matters spiritual.

The priest who related this story says that God knows our prayers even before we are born, and answers them before we even ask. This brings a certain comfort on this lovely cool-ish sunny late-summer morning, and it is such a beautiful story I decided to pass it on. We can take from it what we wish.

I sit here, so grateful for the sun, the trees, the freshness of the air, my morning cup of tea, my two doggy companions..........and connection with all of you, each starting your day somewhere else. Blessings abound!]

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Many stories and "urban legends" make their way around the world through the Internet. Some cannot be verified, many can be proved fictional, and some, like the one below, can be authenticated.

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THE HOT WATER BOTTLE - A True Story By Helen Roseveare, Missionary to Africa

One night, in Central Africa, I had worked hard to help a mother in the labor ward; but in spite of all that we could do, she died leaving us with a tiny, premature baby and a crying, two-year-old daughter. We would have difficulty keeping the baby alive. We had no incubator. We had no electricity to run an incubator, and no special feeding facilities. Although we lived on the equator, nights were often chilly with treacherous drafts. A student-midwife went for the box we had for such babies and for the cotton wool that the baby would be wrapped in. Another went to stoke up the fire and fill a hot water bottle. She came back shortly, in distress, to tell me that in filling the bottle, it had burst. Rubber perishes easily in tropical climates. "...and it is our last hot water bottle!" she exclaimed.

As in the West, it is no good crying over spilled milk; so, in Central Africa it might be considered no good crying over a burst water bottle. They do not grow on trees, and there are no drugstores down forest pathways. All right," I said, "Put the baby as near the fire as you safely can; sleep between the baby and the door to keep it free from drafts. Your job is to keep the baby warm."

The following noon, as I did most days, I went to have prayers with many of the orphanage children who chose to gather with me. I gave the youngsters various suggestions of things to pray about and told them about the tiny baby. I explained our problem about keeping the baby warm enough, mentioning the hot water bottle. The baby could so easily die if it got chilled. I also told them about the two-year-old sister, crying because her mother had died. During the prayer time, one ten-year-old girl, Ruth, prayed with the usual blunt consciousness of our African children. "Please, God," she prayed, "send us a water bottle. It'll be no good tomorrow, God, the baby'll be dead; so, please send it this afternoon."

While I gasped inwardly at the audacity of the prayer, she added by way of corollary, " ...And while You are about it, would You please send a dolly for the little girl so she'll know You really love her?" As often with children's prayers, I was put on the spot. Could I honestly say, "Amen?" I just did not believe that God could do this. Oh, yes, I know that He can do everything: The Bible says so, but there are limits, aren't there?

The only way God could answer this particular prayer would be by sending a parcel from the homeland. I had been in Africa for almost four years at that time, and I had never, ever received a parcel from home. Anyway, if anyone did send a parcel, who would put in a hot water bottle? I lived on the equator! Halfway through the afternoon, while I was teaching in the nurses' training school, a message was sent that there was a car at my front door. By the time that I reached home, the car had gone, but there, on the veranda, was a large twenty-two pound parcel!

I felt tears pricking my eyes. I could not open the parcel alone; so, I sent for the orphanage children. Together we pulled off the string, carefully undoing each knot. We folded the paper, taking care not to tear it unduly. Excitement was mounting. Some thirty or forty pairs of eyes were focused on the large cardboard box. From the top, I lifted out brightly colored, knitted jerseys. Eyes sparkled as I gave them out. Then, there were the knitted bandages for the leprosy patients, and the children began to look a little bored. Next, came a box of mixed raisins and sultanas - - that would make a nice batch of buns for the weekend.

As I put my hand in again, I felt the...could it really be? I grasped it, and pulled it out. Yes, "A brand-new rubber, hot water bottle!" I cried. I had not asked God to send it; I had not truly believed that He could. Ruth was in the front row of the children. She rushed forward, crying out, "If God has sent the bottle, He must have sent the dolly, too!" Rummaging down to the bottom of the box, she pulled out the small, beautifully dressed dolly. Her eyes shone: She had never doubted! Looking up at me, she asked, "Can I go over with you, Mummy, and give this dolly to that little girl, so she'll know that Jesus really loves her?"

That parcel had been on the way for five whole months, packed up by my former Sunday School class, whose leader had heard and obeyed God's prompting to send a hot water bottle, even to the equator. One of the girls had put in a dolly for an African child -- five months earlier in answer to the believing prayer of a ten-year-old to bring it "That afternoon!" "And it shall come to pass, that before they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will hear." Isaiah 65:24

Helen Roseveare a doctor missionary from England to Zaire, Africa, told this as it had happened to her in Africa.

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