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Focused Reflections

Searching For Something That Fit

By Marcia Lee Laycock

Published in Beyond Ordinary Living, Jan/Feb. 2007

    There is a beach on the north shore of Lake Superior that fascinated me as a child. It was a bit hard to get to, unless you had a boat, because the only land access was up over the back of a high cliff. My brother and I made the trek often to spend time on that beach, searching. It was a pebble beach, its entire length strewn with rounded stones of all sizes and colors. My favorites were black. They absorbed the heat from the sun and felt warm and comforting when you held them in the palm of your hand. I spent hours searching for the perfect stone, the stone that fit my hand as though it had been cut from it. More often than not, I walked away from that beach, dissatisfied. I would carry a stone or two around for a while, but usually drop it, in favor of another that looked more promising.

   As I think back on my life since those days of childhood, I realize much of it was spent searching. Just as I searched for that perfect stone, I searched for something in life that fit, something I could hold on to, that would bring me satisfaction and fulfillment. I picked up a lot of stones that didn’t fit: jobs, hobbies, diversions, even friends and closer relationships. All were efforts to fill the void in my life. All were attempts to find something that fit. Like my search for the perfect stone on the shore, I was never totally satisfied.

   An episode of childhood abuse coloured my outlook on everything. I was convinced God would not accept me, no-one would love me and the future would only hold more pain. I wandered from one unfulfilling job to another, afraid to dream of a career, afraid of failing. I bounced from one relationship to another, always frustrated and angry with my inability to make it work. I traveled, thinking new places and new people would somehow fill the void. I tried education, enrolling in different institutions, launching into programs as varied as fine arts and philosophy, journalism and sciences, but I could not settle on any pursuit. When I thought of the future, it all seemed empty and pointless. Finally, I ran to the wilderness of Alaska and the Yukon, thinking that going “back to the land” and simplifying my life would surely give me what I sought. But living an “alternate” lifestyle, within a culture of drugs and alcohol, only led to more anger and frustration. The bitterness became even more entrenched. The restlessness was unrelenting.

   It was not until years later that I discovered I was going about it all wrong. I was trying to fit something external to my shape, my way of thinking, my way of dealing with life. It wasn’t until I turned to spiritual things that I realized I was the one that had to fit. I was the small round stone that had fallen away and had to find its place again, in God’s hand.

   I discovered that fact when God gave me the desire of my heart. Tests had revealed that my husband and I would likely never conceive a child together. A deep emptiness overwhelmed me, but I covered it up. No-one knew how much I wanted a child. No-one but the One who was able and willing to do something about it. The morning I realized the strange flu I had been experiencing was indeed morning sickness, I was overwhelmed with a new sensation. The love of a God who had deliberately intervened in my life flooded through me and I at last allowed that love to satisfy my mind, my heart and my soul. For the first time in my life, I experienced peace.

   As the Lord began to reveal Himself to us, my husband (who had also been seeking spiritually), and I sought out the places where people were talking about Jesus. We devoured Bible studies and opened our home to regular times of praise and worship.  The highlight of our week was Sunday, when we gathered with others to worship in a tiny mission church.

   Friends noticed the change immediately. One woman, who had known me for several years commented, “you have a kind of calmness now.” The joy I felt seemed boundless. The future looked full of hope and promise.

   I had finally found the place where I fit – in the palm of God’s hand.

 Marcia's novel, One Smooth Stone will be released in Sept. 2007                                                                                                                                                                                                         

Cultural Context Paramount in Kenyan Orphanage

By Marcia Lee Laycock

Kathy and Larry Hopkins were serving with AIM as church planters in Kenya when they saw the need to help children whose parents have died due to AIDS. In 1999 they took in a nine-month old boy named Riziki, and an orphanage was born.

As pictures of smiling children flash on an overhead screen, the Hopkins address congregations across Canada , explaining their philosophy. “We are looking for sponsorship for our children, but we will not assign one child to a donor. Nor will we allow correspondence between them.” Neither do they encourage large work groups from North America . The Hopkins have seen a disturbing trend in their years in Africa and  hope to avoid the same pitfall.

Well-meaning people, missionaries and others, groom promising young people for leadership. Then they send them to North America or Europe for further training. The hope is that they will return, but the sad reality is that few of them do. “They become isolated from their own culture and no longer feel connected to their own people,” Larry explains.

The Hopkins are working hard to ensure this does not happen to the children at the Riziki Children’s home. They are cared for by nationals and encouraged to look to them for all their needs. When there are problems the staff cannot deal with, they come to the Hopkins for advice and guidance. The home has been in existence for only four years and already the Hopkins are about to hand over the administration to a national pastor and his family.

 “We want to see these children remain within their cultural context as much as possible. We want them to love their own country and their own people, not always look to the West as some kind of promised land that will provide for them,” Kathy explains. The Hopkins have begun a fund to provide for the continuing education of those who are capable of going on to high school and college. Those who are not will be given trades training and assisted as they return to their villages.

“Riziki means our daily bread.” Larry smiles. “We thought it was appropriate.” The Riziki home now houses seventy-five children, from infants to early teens, and the Hopkins have a great hope for all of them - that they will know that it is God who provides for them, within their own country, their own culture, to the benefit of their own people and to the glory of God.

By Marcia Laycock

Lately, all across Canada, there has been a lot of debate about the same-sex marriage issue. Recently many of us attended rallies across the country to show our opposition to the proposed changes in legislation coming from the courts and our places of government. The arguments on both sides have at times been heated. As I’ve listened and watched I have cringed at some of the invective that has been increasing and I pray that we Christians will remember that Jesus, above all, was a minister of grace.

We have heard that marriage is the foundation block of our communities and our country and none can argue that it has been so for centuries. We have heard that we must preserve the sanctity of marriage. This begs the question, why? We have heard that God created man and woman to be joined in a bond of love that He ordained and blesses. Again, we might ask, why?

The Westminster Catechism states that the chief end of man is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever. John Piper, respected author, speaker and theologian has asked another intriguing question – what, then, is the chief end of God? What is God’s purpose? Is it to love man, to provide for him, to make sure he is comfortable and happy? Is it to do battle with evil? Although God does all those things, and more, according to His will, John Piper suggests that the chief end, or purpose of God is to glorify Himself. And this is where we seem to have missed something in regard to marriage.

God ordained marriage, not just to make us happy, not just to ensure the stability of our societies, but to glorify Himself. That’s why marriage is said to be sanctified. Marriage is used as a metaphor in scripture, for God’s relationship to His people. He is the bridegroom, we the bride. Marriage is not just a social institution, nor even just a good thing God wants us to do for our own benefit. Marriage is a picture of God’s love, a picture of His very character. When we allow marriage to be corrupted by allowing the word to be attached to something He did not intend, we are allowing the very character and name of God to be slandered and corrupted.

Unfortunately we live in a fallen world where that happens every day, and no doubt will continue, but those who are "called according to His purposes," (Romans 8:28) have a responsibility to stand against the corruption of that name. For Jesus has said, "If anyone is ashamed of me and my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, the son of Man will be ashamed of him when he comes in his Father’s glory with the holy angels." (Mark 8:38)

The list of medical complications accompanying the infant in Val Carlson’s arms was longer than he was. Believed to be deaf, blind and severely mentally handicapped, he was diagnosed with cerebral palsy, hypertension, thyroid problems and renal failure. He weighed one pound, thirteen ounces. When she first held him, Val says, "I told Chuckie I would love and care for him. One eye focused on me, and I knew he had some sight. Then a bonding happened, as strong as any I’d had with my own children." After a crash course on caring for the seven-month-old, Val and her husband, Blaine, took Chuckie home. No one expected him to reach his first birthday.

A poem by G.K. Chesterton reads – "Here dies another day .... And with tomorrow begins another. Why am I allowed two?" Chuckie and his family live with that profound mystery. At age three, while on kidney dialysis, he almost died from a bleeding ulcer. High fevers caused grand mal seizures. He suffered with asthma. In 1997, glaucoma took his right eye. When a kidney transplant almost failed, the treatment caused his ulcer to haemorrhage. Six months later he was diagnosed with Lymphoma. Again, the Carlsons took him home to die. But God had another plan.

It has not always been easy to keep God’s plan in perspective. After the transplant, Val remembers, "I was in tears, crying out to God because I did not have the physical strength to continue." It was at these times Val’s family responded. "Blaine deserves a lot of credit, and so do my kids. My sister would also help when I couldn’t cope. And God gave me poetry. I’d write and cry and there would be a release, and I knew God had helped me."

"As far as our faith is concerned," Val states, "taking Chuckie home began a new chapter." There have been hard times, nights of crying and praying. "Often I didn’t know it," Val admits, "but God was always there." Perhaps Chuckie says it best, himself – "When my mom and I pray at night, she closes the door and Jesus is with us."

There are those who question the effort and expense of sustaining Chuckie, but the Carlson’s have never doubted his worth. "I’ve seen people watch Chuckie with a kind of awe, Val says quietly. "We can tell everyone he’s a living miracle, but when they meet him, they see the miracle for themselves."

November 17, 2001, the Carlsons introduced ten-year-old Chuckie to The Independent Order of Foresters, sponsors of the Miracle Child Networks, as their Champion Child in Northern Alberta and the Territories. The original kidney disease has not returned, his body has not rejected the new kidney and the cancer remains in remission.

The Carlsons kept their promise to Chuckie, but they do not see themselves as heroes or martyrs. "Chuckie’s faith has been an example to us," Val states. "For God to have chosen us to raise him, at times I’m overwhelmed by that. I truly feel I’m not worthy to have been given such a gift."

(In March, Chuckie and his family will travel to Ottawa to meet with the Prime Minister, then on to Orlando Florida for the filming of the Miracle Child Network.)

"See what you have to look forward to now?" The whisper in my ear came from a friend in the pew behind us and it made my smile widen. It was Dec. 10^th and we were on our first outing with our new baby. She was only 10 days old, but we braved the frigid Yukon winter to attend the Christmas pageant at a small mission church. I knew the service wouldn’t be a grand production. The "church" was just a hall, tiny and dilapidated. The carols were sung acappella, without a pianist to help keep us in tune. The "pageant" consisted of six or seven children dressed in bathrobes, their heads swathed in kitchen towels, and the backdrop was made of cardboard stars covered in tinfoil. But I was seeing everything attached to Christmas in a new way. The tinfoil stars glittered more brightly than a chandelier. The carols were as harmonious as though sung by angels. And the children...ah, the children made the story live!

I was bursting with thankfulness. I had just been given the desire of my heart, the precious gift of a child of my own. We had been told it wouldn’t happen and after 5 years without conceiving a child, my husband and I tried to resign ourselves to that reality. I took great pains to hide the deep sadness I found almost unbearable. No one knew how much I wanted a baby, but the clues were there. I was angry much of the time. Convinced God was punishing me, I hated Him. The bitterness poured into all aspects of my life.

Until the day God laughed. It was on the road to Mayo, Yukon. I was going to visit a friend, determined not to think about God or religion or any of the baffling questions my husband kept bringing up. But no matter what I tried, my mind would not rest. The question of God’s existence and what He had to do with me, would not go away. In desperation, I pulled my vehicle into a look-out point above the Stewart River.

The beautiful river valley stretched out below, but I barely saw it. In a turmoil, I challenged God to do something to prove He was there. Then I realized how foolish I was, talking to a God I did not really believe existed. At that point something happened which I have never been able to describe adequately. I "heard" laughter, like a grandfather chuckling, and the words, "Yes, but I love you anyway." None of this was audible, yet it was shockingly real. I thought I was going insane. The turmoil had finally pushed me over the edge and now I was hearing voices! I stomped on the gas pedal of my truck, turned the radio up as loud as it would go, and fled. My visit with my friend turned out to be more discussion of spiritual things, but by the time I returned home I was determined not to pursue Christianity. Besides, I had something else on my mind. I had been suffering from a strange flu - the kind that happens every morning. My friend said, "sounds like morning sickness to me." But that wasn’t possible. The tests had told us so.

Soon after, I woke with the realization that I had to get to the washroom. It was about the 7^th day of the "flu." As I repeated the morning’s routine of the past few days, the realization I was in fact pregnant flooded over me like a warm rain. With it came a searing thunderbolt of truth. This was the "something" I had challenged God to do. The child growing in my womb was His answer, the proof of His love. He gave me the desire of my heart. She was born Nov. 30, 1982

"See what you have to look forward to now?" Oh yes, I saw. I saw a future filled with the knowledge there is peace without measure, grace without limit and love without conditions. I saw a future suddenly bright because I believed the Christmas story. A tiny baby, whose sole purpose was to die for me and my child, was born in Bethlehem. I saw the reality that the Christ is still intimately involved in our lives here on earth. Though the church may be just a hall, the music less than perfect, and the costumes home-made, the story is exquisite. The story is true!

"I'm not going!" If my husband, Spence, wanted to go to church, he could go right ahead, but it wasn't for me. I got up from the breakfast table, avoiding his eyes. "Why not?" He sounded hurt but I refused to let it get to me. "I have better things to do, and I don't like being there." We had been attending a small mission church every Sunday for several weeks, but I still felt uneasy when I walked through the door.

I had turned my back on the Catholic church when a teenager and had vowed never to get involved with an institutionalized religion again. I had hoped Spence was just going through a phase, needing religion temporarily because of the traumatic events of the last several months, but when he persisted in it, I began to worry. He had not been the same since his best friend had taken his own life, just two months before our wedding day. His dark mood had intensified when another friend also shot himself and a neighbour's baby was drowned in the river that ran by our home.

Spence's use of marijuana increased and he often spent hours in the bar after work, but neither of these abuses alarmed me as much as his present insistence on church attendance. We had been married by the missionary pastor, so Spence began visiting him, seeking answers to difficult questions when the drugs and alcohol failed to kill the ache inside. Reluctantly I went along, thinking eventually he would give it up.

As I walked away from the breakfast table that morning, Spence followed me into the living room. He surprised me with a direct question. "Marcy, do you believe there's a God?" It was a question I had been avoiding for years. As a teen I had known people with real faith, and I tried to pretend I had it too. I did as they did, but I knew there was something missing.

In frustration I turned away from God, sure that if I could not drum up faith from somewhere inside me, the "faith" of others could not be real. For many years I sought to fill the void of loneliness, the lack of purpose, the lack of hope, with a "live now, tomorrow you die," philosophy. I latched on to the alternative lifestyle and eventually found myself in a faraway northern town, living a life centered on the pursuit of pleasure. By that point I had convinced myself there was no God, but now Spence's question plagued me.

I grudgingly admitted, "well, I guess there's something, a force out there somewhere." His next statement rattled me. "If there is something, a God, out there, don't you think it's a good idea to find out about Him?" The silence was tense between us until he finally broke it. "Well, I do. Now get dressed, we're going to church!" That Sunday's service was the worst I had ever attended. I refused to sing and scowled at anyone who dared smile at me.

The following weekend I had promised to visit a friend. While packing, my eye fell on a small book in my suitcase. It had been given to me while visiting friends several months earlier and had lain unnoticed in the suitcase ever since. I flipped through the pages and was startled at the words, "Why do you resist Me, who has created all things?"

As I drove, the question filled my mind. Is there a God? I could think of nothing else. I pulled over onto a scenic lookout and stared out at the vast northern landscape. "All right," I challenged, "if you're out there, show me! Do something!" I put the car into gear, turned the radio up as loud as it would go and sped down the road. Every now and then I peered at the sky but saw nothing unusual.

That night, as I sat at the dinner table, my friend looked directly at me. "So, I hear you and Spence are getting into religion lately. What's going on?" For the next three days we discussed the pros and cons of Christianity.

My friend made her opinion clear. "I think it's a dangerous religion," she stated. "It's so narrow-minded!" By the end of the weekend I was agreeing with her and had confirmed my resolve to stay away from church. But God had other plans.

The pastor of the mission church gave me a book called Evidence that Demands a Verdict, by Josh McDowell. I took it reluctantly, sure it was propaganda, but quickly became fascinated as I read. The evidence presented was substantial, and, much to my amazement, logical. It made sense that either Jesus was who he claimed to be, or he was a fraud and a liar. There could be no middle ground.

My mind began to be convinced that He was indeed the Son of God. It took a very common miracle to convince my heart. Several months previously my husband and I had undergone fertility tests to discover why we had not, in five years, conceived a child. The Doctors told us it was highly unlikely that we would ever bear a child together. The tests confirmed what we already knew, and we decided to go ahead with plans to adopt.

Shortly after challenging God to "do something," I began having morning sickness. The realization that I was pregnant came with an absolute assurance that God had given me the sign I had asked for. Not only was He "out there somewhere," He had just taken an active part in my life and given me my heart's desire. Overwhelmed by what was happening in my body, I suddenly became aware of my spirit. I asked Him to forgive me, recognizing that I was one of the "all" who "have sinned and come short of the glory of God." (Romans 3:23) I remembered another verse often quoted in the sermons I had listened to so reluctantly: "For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life." (John 3:16)

Receiving God's forgiveness, knowing that He had given His own life to pay for my sin, filled me with an unexpected overwhelming joy. I had always felt that God, if he existed, could not be approached, that I was not good enough to be involved with Him. Now I began to understand what the word grace meant. I was showered with God's love, not because of anything I had done, but simply because Jesus loves me. He was holding my hand as I stood before God, introducing me as his child, his friend, to His Almighty Father! I knew that as long as I came to God with Jesus I could come any time, under any circumstances and always be forgiven. Christianity was no longer "narrow-minded," it was all encompassing. It was the freedom I had sought for so long.

I began to look forward to Sunday services, the mid-week Bible studies. Before long we were hosting fellowship nights in our home. One Sunday morning, Spence told our pastor: "We've decided to give our lives to Jesus."

After accepting Jesus as my Saviour, a woman who had been away on vacation at the time approached me. I had to smile when she said, "You were one of the most miserable people I'd ever seen. Now you're smiling. What a change!" Some of the changes were that visible, many were on the inside. I no longer felt sudden surges of anger and frustration. I had a lot more patience and an inner calm when dealing with people. I no longer used the Lord's name as a curse, but with a sense of awe and adoration. I no longer wanted to socialize in the bars or join the parties every weekend. I could spend quiet times alone without the blare of rock and roll. The silence was no longer frightening. When I tended my garden and walked along the river I saw not just growing vegetables and the beauty of nature, but God's creativity and generosity in the way He provides for us. Jesus had made many changes in my life. Changes that turned misery into joy, loneliness into a sense of belonging. That's a lot to smile about.

The first time Teri walked through the doors of our church, she extended her hand to my husband, the pastor, and said, "I want you to know I'm infected. I have AIDS." Perhaps it was the shock of her bluntness, but I immediately felt something give way inside me, as though the parameters of our safety had been breached. Panic rose to replace my sense of comfort. My husband and I had visited a friend who had died of AIDS not long before. The mental picture of his emaciated face was still very real, but that had been far away, in another city. Facing an AIDS victim in the doorway of our own little church was much different. It abruptly threatened my cocoon-like world. It shattered the illusion of well-being and forced me to look in the face of pain and struggle.

As Teri stood in the doorway that day, I felt the parameters of my theology also begin to crumble. "Do unto others".....I tried not to stare, aware of the weakness of my smile. "Love one another"..... I resisted the urge to step backward as she coughed into a tissue. "Greater love has no man than to lay down his life"..... I put a sheltering hand on my five year old's shoulder as she introduced her own little Brittany, also suffering from AIDS. I watched as they were guided through the lobby, into the sanctuary. I sat on the other side.

For the next few weeks I observed while others in the congregation cared for Teri and her daughter. I watched as some stood back and voiced all the concerns that had been on my mind, concerns born of misinformation and suspicion. One of the ushers said he would not shake Teri’s hand. I understood his fear, yet something inside me screamed against it. Some in our congregation knew Teri had led a very promiscuous lifestyle. Some felt she was reaping what she had sown and was not worthy of sympathy nor care. As I watched people avoid her eyes, the carpeted foyer of our church seemed to echo with Jesus' words. Words like, "whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me." (Matt. 25:45) I began to question what I really believed. Did I trust God? Did I trust Him enough to involve myself in this woman's life, when that involvement could be dangerous and undoubtedly painful? What was I trying to protect so desperately? I began to ponder, with new perspective, what the apostle Paul meant when he said, "To live is Christ, and to die is gain." (Phil.1:21)

Then Teri was admitted to the hospital. It was with a sense of obligation that I made the first visit. She was having a bad day and barely seemed aware of who I was as she faded in and out of a haze of morphine. I thought to re-introduce myself the next time, but she was alert, she knew me. Each time after that was easier. As she settled into a routine of time in and out of hospital, her daughter and mine became friends and slowly my heart shifted from being protective of my life and my child, to being concerned for hers. My husband and I began picking Brittany up for Sunday school, taking turns caring for her with others in our church. Her sweetness won our hearts. She always seemed to be smiling, though her body grew more and more frail, and her eyesight began to fade.* Watching my daughter take her hand and lead her to the Sunday School class tore at the callousness that threatened to keep me at a distance.

I began to see Teri as a woman with fears and longings not unlike my own. But she was not always easy to be with. Those of us who visited sometimes called her demanding, petulant. We were often unwilling to let go of our own schedules and programs to meet her needs. The calls for help to do simple things like banking and shopping were often inconveniences. As I sat with her in the sanctuary one Sunday, she whispered that she had forgotten to bring an extra "diaper," and asked if I would dash to the hospital for it. I had a part to play in the service that morning and fretted that I wouldn’t be there when called. She must have seen the distress on my face. She grinned, laid her hand on my arm and said. "It’s O.K. I’ll just trust that this one will last." I realized I was seeing her from the arrogance of good health, through the mirage of physical immortality. She was living in the reality of the dying, seeing me under the penetrating light of inevitable mortality.

Sometimes she drew us so close that we, too, could see clearly what was important and precious, what was insignificant, illusion. So it was, as we spent time ministering to her, the unexpected happened. She ministered to us. She entered into our lives, asked the probing questions that unraveled our pain, showing us the barriers of fear and mistrust that were keeping us from loving as we should. One of the women who visited her was shocked when Teri confronted her with the words, "You’re having a hard time with me, aren’t you?" They were then able to talk about their lives honestly and openly, forming a strong bond of friendship.

It was through friendship that Teri came to Christ. While in hospital, a member of our church, whose daughter was being treated for high fever, struck up a conversation with Teri. In the face of her circumstances, it wasn’t long before they were discussing spiritual things. The way of salvation was laid before her and she chose to accept it. The invitation to come to church seemed a natural part of the process.

Each Sunday Teri and Brittany came. Each Sunday Teri was more weak. Soon she needed oxygen and a wheel chair, but as long as there was someone willing to be with her, she could attend the service. A nurse in the congregation showed me how to operate the oxygen apparatus so I could take my turn. We all knew we would not be doing it much longer.

Two days before she died, Teri sat in her wheel chair in the hospital lounge and we talked about going for a drive to see the fall colours. It didn't take long to go from that superficial diversion of my world, into hers. Then we talked about purpose. Aware of the irony of her words, there was a glint of mischief in her eyes when she spoke: "I think I've been here to teach you." She had never been a Godly role model, nor a mature Christian, yet she was teaching me what faith meant, what trust looked like, what deep healing was really all about. She was teaching us all that it is by entering into another's life, though the process may be painful, we are enriched, we are made more like Christ.

Teri's time of teaching was brief, compared to the time most of us have with each other. Her teaching didn't come from intellectual discussions or philosophical theories or even from Godly discipling. She simply presented herself, flawed, diseased. Without speaking a word she said, "Here I am. What will you do with me?" On that first day, by her very presence, Teri shattered my glass house of shallow convictions, then slowly forced me to begin building it up again with sturdy stones, precious stones. With each hospital visit, each "favor" I did for her , I stepped out of my comfort zone and moved into the realm of trust. Today I realize the Lord will be there, enriching, deepening my understanding of Him even in the presence of danger, in the face of evil, in the circumstance of pain.

Some time later my husband and I made the decision to take a missions sabbatical. The country we chose proved to be one of unrest and almost constant potential danger. I believe it is because of my experience with Teri that I was able to face those threats, accept the reality that harm could come to one of my children or my husband, yet act in obedience to God, knowing I can trust Him. Because of Teri, I learned that tragedy is not the thing to be feared, but a life lived in self-sufficiency and indulgence, in the absence of God’s grace.

I realized what James said is indeed true, faith without works is dead, (James 2:14-17) and what Jesus said is vital, "But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on sand." When the Lord brought Teri to our church, He presented us with a "treasure in a clay jar," an opportunity to build an indestructible house on solid ground, on the Rock. He presented us with the challenge of obedience, then showed us the depth of His love as we struggled to obey.

* Brittany followed her Mom into heaven in March, 1996.

The true gift of Christmas is received through self-less giving. Some of those who serve at Christmas, in hospitals and psychiatric wards, have seen this true gift of Christmas unwrapped in the eyes of their patients. When care-giving is your vocation, it can easily slip into the realm of the mundane, something that must be done day after day. But Christmas should be special. It can be, when attitudes are in tune with its true spirit.

Yvonne DeWaal’s attitude was not good as she thought of working with forty elderly patients at Alberta Hospital Ponoka. It was her first Christmas away from family. "The thought of working on Christmas day was bad enough, but spending Christmas on a ward with such sad and needy people made me feel even worse." Yvonne feared it would be "just another work day," but, after enlisting the help of other staff, special plans unfolded. They made the day ring with familiarity for the seniors.

"We cooked on the ward to stimulate their memories with the smells of traditional food. One former farm wife came out of her silent shell to tell me my pastry dough was much too rich!" Later, that same woman, mistaking Yvonne for her daughter, said, "We made a good pie, didn’t we, Sara?" Her connection to the real world was not quite complete, but she had made a significant step.

When the head nurse finally brought the turkey out, one elderly man hollered, "I’ve been smelling that bird since before breakfast! Let’s eat!" Patients who normally showed no interest in their food suddenly had an appetite. Some even asked for seconds. Staff members tuned up instruments for a time of carol singing and the patients soon caught on Familiar words poured out. Even when the music faded, one elderly man continued singing to himself: "sleep in heavenly peace…sleep in heavenly peace...sleep in heavenly peace."

"In reaching out to others, we received much more than we anticipated that day," Yvonne says, "None of my other Christmases have been quite the same."

Heather Belsey remembers a Christmas day that was far from peaceful. Most of the Alzheimer’s patients in the Edmonton extended care unit were barely aware of those around them. Any change in routine triggered agitation, which made things difficult for the staff. Trying to get the patients settled down for dinner on Christmas day was almost impossible.

this page updated March 11, 2007

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