Reminisce

Today I read the things Grandma wrote…

and it feels like she’s just talking to me again. I heard her read so many of her devotionals and poems to me over the phone that it seems like I can hear her saying them herself. Pausing often to cry a bit, or add a comment. And using expression that must come only when the writing was an inspiration born in the heart. I miss her so much when I read her stuff, but it brings her closer and feels like a part of her is still here.

I’ll tell you when I miss her most of all.

The other day I was snooping around in my computer and found a poem that I had written shortly after Grandma died. It was about arriving at Heaven, receiving a crown, etc. inspired in part by contemplating the place where Grandma had gone. Anyway, as it happens many times, I had written the poem and forgotten about it, dismissing it as something that wasn’t too promising. When I found it and read it again the other day with a fresh outlook, I liked it and thought I should persue it, edit it and make it public. Guess what. Every single poem, song or writing I have published in the past 20 years has come to that same point. I wrote it, left it, took a second look, and eventually decided to pursue it and show someone else. The very next step has always been obvious. I take the thing, just as it is, to Grandma. I fax it, or call her and read it to her. Years ago, I would have the bus drop me off at her house after school and show her what I had written. It’s always been a crucial part of the process. To get my stuff out to the front lines, it just has to go through Grandma first. She always, without exception, makes the thing better. Sometimes she rewrote whole verses, and often she saved the writing from certainly flopping. She had a knack for that, a vast vocabulary and knew just how to pull on hearts. I always felt bad putting just my name on the songs I have written, because she usually rescued the lyrics from embarrassment. But she wouldn’t have it any other way. Anyway, the other day that’s just what I needed to do again. to fax that poem to her and then call her and cringe a little while she read it, waiting for the verdict. I shed some tears when I faced the fact that I didn’t have that option anymore. What was I supposed to do with this thing now? It was at that point, and I had nowhere to go with it. That’s when I miss Grandma the most now.

Way back, Grandma always liked to see my compositions that I wrote at school.

I started writing poetry, really cheesy stuff, as early as age 7. For some reason I soon started showing Grandma voluntarily the things I wrote. I think she made me feel good about it. I think of some of those poems now and shake my head. They were a total mess. But I don’t think Grandma ever told me to start over or that the poem was no good. She just gave me some suggestions, which I always took, and probably laughed her head off after I had left. She also taught music one year at school, and I would say that was when the love for music was given to me. In those days, I would riddle her with questions about chords, and timing and notes. She answered most of them, and laughed off the rest.

Then she moved to BC…

and I kept going to school, and over those years I remember talking to her over the phone frequently. Often the talk centered on music, about songs she had written and singing she had liked. I remember one time she called me, of all people, to sing her new song, “I Have A Question, Tell Me”. She was so enthused about that one, and so was I. I didn’t write a lot of songs during that time, but the ones I did write went straight to Grandma.

And then she moved back to Saskatchewan. We shortly bought a music program for her Mac computer. I paid half, and I was allowed to go to her place anytime to play with notes. Her desk always intrigued me. There were manuscripts lying around, letters from people requesting permission, floppy discs, and a hundred little scraps of paper with Grandma’s handwriting. Some were complete poems, others were just two inspired lines written on the side of a completed crossword puzzle out of the Meridian Booster. I would browse through them, and marvel at the inspiration that must flow through her heart.

She taught me how to use words.

She told me many times to just spend time with an old hymnal and study how the great composers wrote music. She tried to show me what good progression was, and I don’t know if I ever caught on to that. Often her advice was an encouragement to deepen the message of the song. She could read what I had written and get right into my inspiration, often shedding tears about it and going deeper than I ever did. She would point to a line and tell me we needed to emphasize a thought. And then she would rewrite it in a way that truly added another measure of depth.

Grandma had a whole collection of songs by that time that had not been properly published…

and I had finished a half dozen or so. I will always treasure the fact that she showed me some of those songs when they were still in the making. Sometimes I came in the door and she would show me something she had written that very day. She was always so excited about the last inspiration she had written down, and would tell me how it had come about. These were the times that she taught me more than just music and lyrics. There were tough situations in her life, and she knew countless of others who faced trials that burdened her like they were her own. I think of all her songs, the one that expressed who she was the best was, “Let my heart be broken with the things that break the heart of God”. That wasn’t just an idle prayer. I saw her heart broken with things that she wouldn’t have had to be concerned with at all. And many of her songs express the depth of care she felt for others.

We put together all the songs we had

that were ready to publish and came up with 57. We decided to compile a book and Grandma knew all about that too. She led the way, choosing to use my song “Oasis” as the title of the book. I felt very honored. So like her to do that! She sketched a palm tree and a little desert village and I found a font that went with her picture. I remember she really wanted a good quality cover, even if it cost more. We found heavy paper that we both liked and chose a gold ink for the cover. Grandma said it look right smart, and I agreed. We split the cost to print it according to how many songs each of us had in it. It’s really Grandma’s book, I was just “tagging along”. But I am so thankful to her when I think of how she included me and I treasure the memory of doing that project with her.

We published that songbook just before Christmas

in 1999, about the same time I moved to Colorado. That marked the end of those countless afternoons spent in Grandma’s office, but our phone calls were frequent and lengthy. How did Grandma and Grandpa always have time to visit with me? I was the novice writer, aspiring and thinking and asking questions. They were so wise! And they had so many stories and bits of advice. After “Oasis” Grandma didn’t write many songs. She threw her heart into writing devotional articles, and would send me whole stacks of them to peruse through and give my comments. It was a delight, to talk with her about that one thing she loved to do so well, and that thing that always held us close together. Writing. Everything I learned about writing, I owe to Grandma.

You can see now why I always run to her when I have written something.

That is just part of the process. I haven’t written much since she passed away, but when I do, who is going to fix the mistakes? Who is going to give me advice when it seems I’m at a dead end? How can I write without Grandma? It’s a question I have thought about. I know she would never want to hear I had quit writing, so I will keep trying. But no matter how many golden hours I spent discussing this subject with her and Grandpa, I still wish I would have done that more. I wish I could have pulled every drop from that well of experience and talent and love for writing.

I could tell so many more memories about Grandpa and Grandma.

I could tell of trips we took together, or the smile on their faces when they saw the ones they loved. I can remember countless times when I saw their compassion reaching out to others. I remember when I married Teresa and how Grandpa welcomed her into the family like she was one of their own. Everyone was shown love and appreciation at their house. I could tell of younger days, when Grandpa gave us Life Savers after long evenings all together as family, or of all day trips down the South Saskatchewan River on Uncle Randy’s big raft. I will always remember too, the wide smiles on both their faces when they came and visited me in New York City. They were getting older then, but somehow kept up as we walked miles of concrete and hundreds of steps, and they loved every minute. The list of memories goes on and on, and I still want to write them down. But somehow, the dearest bond I had with my Grandma was in our love for music and writing. And so, I will leave those other memories for another day. I will write them down, and then let people read them, flaws and all. I can’t just fax them over to my world-class proofreader. She’s not writing anymore.

Through the years, I would call her periodically, and she would give me helpful advice and encouragement about my writing. I treasure the short time we spent together at the last Conference in 2003 on that evening in Wichita, and then, for sure, at Cuchara, Colorado for several days. Wasn’t that a great time? I have very fond memories of those days together. There, also, Margaret showed a personal interest, and I’m sure you all felt the same way about yourself and her.

I will definitely miss her input and encouragement in our Writer’s Robin.  She is irreplaceable.  I listened to the memories and the funeral service. It was so beautiful.

Do you think she is singing any of her songs as an honor to her Savior and King in Heaven?

May Milton and the family be comforted by all the love and prayers of her many friends.

Love, Sharon

On one occasion, Milton and Margaret were in the area and called Andree and I to see if we could join them in Salem for supper. As we met Margaret handed Andree a book, “Through the Scent of Water”. We read it often. I loved how she signed her gift to us: “Loving You, Margaret”. Loving people was one of her God given gifts and she used it well! And Milton by her side provided an anchor so she could carry out her God given talents so successfully.
I am thrilled to note as I behold the old family tree, from that old sturdy stump come the branches of our old faithful forefathers. When I was a boy I sat under preaching of Margaret’s father John Penner, and I treasure that yet. I believe Margaret also keenly listened, and God blessed us both.  Last week as I sat here by my desk the phone rang and it was Milton and we shared for a long time.

Thank you, and till we meet again.

He told me that Margaret passed away four months ago. I sympathized, “Oh, you must miss her!” I could tell by his voice that of course he did.

What he shared with me was a blessing.

“Margaret was 78 when God called her home. We have lived and loved each other for fifty-eight years. We had our share of sore trials. Yet, the Lord was present. God with us makes all the difference.”

“We had talked together about the fact that one of these days one or the other of us will go home,” he related, “We have lived in such a way that we have no regrets. We have six children, and by now great grandchildren too. Our family was all there when Margaret died.”  I was encouraged by our conversation.

I knew Margaret had written some devotional books. I asked Milton how many books she wrote. He said “Eight or nine.” What she wrote were her works,” her husband said, “we worked together. She valued that. I helped her wherever I could. I gave her advice and tips. She did nothing without my approval. She never finished anything without my blessing.”  The last book she wrote was entitled “The Winds of God.” Then she remarked “I think I am finished.”
I inquired about other songs she may have written. Milton informed me that she wrote many songs. “She has a songbook printed too. She also enjoyed painting.”
Margaret wrote in her song “I Must Work”, “My life is His, I’ve promised Him my service. Today must labor in His grace.” I concluded that Margaret’s life was one of dedication, talent and beauty. Her life was not only about writing well. With her husband’s testimony I know she also lived well.
Just hearing Milton talk made me feel like I was on holy ground. It was obvious they were a couple who sincerely loved each other and faithfully served the Lord together.
He kindly gave us permission to use that song “I Must Work” on our CD.

Here is the first verse of that song:

I must work the works of Him that sent me.
The night is coming and time is ebbing fast.
So much to do! Ambassadors for Jesus!
Today! This day might be the last!

Milton and Margaret lived in Saskatchewan, Canada. Their church group is Holderman Mennonites.  I do not have any of Margaret’s books. Now I am anxious to read them. My daughter just ordered one for me entitled “Threads From His Hem.”

We were young, just into our thirties, but right there began a lifelong friendship that immensely enriched my life. We weren’t together all that much, but when we were we just picked up where we left off the time before and crammed the hours full. At times I became almost exhausted, trying so hard to keep up, but you just threw a blanket of love around me and I became comfortable. I knew I could never match you, but I liked the way you made me reach. I realized it was giving me the incentive to try harder, to dig deeper, which in turn would make me a better person. Thanks.
You became my writing mentor and edited most of my published work. Your corrections were helpful and your suggestions added depth to what I was trying to say.

I relished your 10 and 12 page letters about what you were doing and thinking.

(Phone calls were too expensive in those earlier years.) Your life was always full and over flowing–bearing and adopting children, being active in foster care, which you admitted was “no Sunday School picnic,” and having oodles of company with some staying for weeks. In the middle of all this you were writing books and Sunday School lessons, composing poems and songs, editing manuscripts. Yet you never seemed to be in a hurry. How did you do it? I would have floundered!

Although we were different in many ways, we understood each other. Your last phone call was very special. You finished with, “I love you. Goodbye.”

Did you know it would be our last conversation? I wish I would have known and told you what you had meant to me. Now I’m sorry I can’t talk to you anymore but consoled you are free from the hard things in life. You had more than your share. But you aren’t really gone. You will live on in your beautiful songs, inspirational writings, and the influence of a life well lived.
Thanks for being a dear and loyal friend and for all the good memories. I love you.

Margaret was well-known and admired for her literary expertise, but how many of you learned to know her in every day clothes where she was most comfortable?

Here she was also an amazing woman, dearly loved by her family and close friends. I will share some excerpts from old letters, dated in the 60’s and 70’s when she was in the heat of the day. While I was rereading them, I laughed, cried and marvelled how she coped with crisis after crisis, yet kept her sanity, sense of humor and then actually found time to write about them…

“It’s Monday a.m. but the bug hits me, and I must write you a letter whether the bun dough needs attention, or the beds need making, or the floor needs vacuuming.” (Three hours and many pages later), “My bun dough ran all over the oven while rising. So much for efficiency!”

“I had a request for a 50th anniversary poem. That afternoon Milton took all the children so I could be alone at the laundromat and write. I was done only half an hour before church time!”

“My folks were with us for 1 1/2 months which was enjoyable but at the same time I also had six children which needed to be clad, fed, cuddled and paddled. I chored chickens so I could be alone.

The chickens neither asked questions or gave orders.”

“I have a deep-seated yen to write.

Ideas keep cropping up when I stir the gravy, patch the jeans, mop up a cat-mess, but when I settle down with a blank sheet I’m as drained as a leaky saucepan. I slump over and fall asleep, dreaming of the day when I will be able to write in peace.”

I’m in the hospital, alone in a room (thank God). Sleep and rest are doing wonders. When Milton came this evening, we had supper and such a close, close time together. I’m so deeply, deeply grateful for a man like him–my best friend.”

“When we moved to Neilburg, we lived in a trailer 14×70 most of the summer with never less than 15 at meal time and most of the time 25 (our children, and foster care; hired help and visitors). We went through porridge and pancakes like you wouldn’t believe. We had to go to the nearest laundromat 35 miles away twice a week to wash our mountain of clothes.”
“Our latest addition came just last weekend. He arrived on foot, very cold, very hungry and very glad to have found our place, a 25 year-old-ex-prisoner, whom Milton had been visiting. We hope his determination to straighten out willl stay with him.”

“I’m in my hospital room, waiting for surgery.

Why can’t I get infection in my toe or pneumonia like ordinary people but no it’s got to be a brain tumor–a tumor playing havoc with my vision? Before me are swirling dark patches, then light patches. If I don’t live beyond Tuesday–but no, there is no such thing. Then life is just a stepping to the Beyond.”

(This was a four-page letter, written in a shaky scrawl, proof that for her writing was like breathing–a lifeline. Who else would have written under such circumstances?)
(Later) “I have recovered to a large extent from my brain surgery.

But my equilibrium isn’t good yet so why for 4 weeks do I have 3 extra little boarders in my house–2, 6 and 8? Their mom has been emotionally ill (I think I know why now!) Sufficient to say I’m looking forward to banquets in heaven where the angels will babysit while we mothers dine.”
“There are a million things I yearn to write. O, for 1000 hours in a day to record all that flows through one’s mind. In heaven we will all be creative, writing symphonies for the angels and ditties for the wee folks–fantasy–but imagine all of eternity to do it in!”

These are bits and pieces of what she wrote, but at least you have a tiny peek into a life that gave and gave, and then gave some more.

Other than that, I have only visited with Margaret on the phone a couple of times. I feel deprived that I missed out on the summer rendezvous in Colorado. It seemed like she went away too soon. We needed more of her writing. She had a way to take words and make them come alive, inspire, and move. As a writer, she had a sense of humor, a depth of feeling, a picturesque vocabulary, and experiences in life that she stamped on the page with flourish.

To Milton and the rest of the family, my condolences to you. May God comfort you as only He can. I hope when the ache of her passing lessens, that you can smile sometimes and enjoy sweet memories of your life together.

Margaret and I also did picture sketching together and later we would get out our paintbrushes and canvasses to copy the landscapes and beautiful flowers, lakes and buildings, sunshine and clouds.  While Margaret and I enjoyed each other’s company, so did our sons. Her boys, Randy and Don, and my son Lyle had many good times together racing down the tracks with their bikes or gopher hunting in the valley near our house with their younger brothers.

In 1998 we traveled to Europe, Russia, and the Ukraine with a group of about 20 to check out the areas where our fore fathers came from. It certainly was very interesting and sobering as well to see the very places where our forebears suffered persecution. We certainly are thankful that they made the decision to come to Canada where we can live in peace and safety.
When Milton and Margaret moved to BC, our friendship continued by way of the telephone.  We had many long conversations and when the visiting came to an end we often ended the call with a prayer of thanksgiving and praise for how the Lord helped us through many a hard time.

We traveled to her funeral from Oklahoma as we winter there, and got caught in a prairie blizzard on the very day of the funeral, making it very difficult to drive. Many a car ended up in the ditch and many drivers responded by helping those in trouble. We saw God’s blessing even in the middle of a snowstorm!

In closing, I would like to say that Margaret’s poetry books were very precious to me, especially the last one, “The Winds of God”.  In her passing, she is safely sheltered by the Winds of God.

I know too, somewhere in tomorrow I will see Margaret again. Then we can sit outside my house or hers and talk about all the many things I would have liked to ask her if I would have known her longer.  She would call sometimes and it was always a special treat for me. Mostly I would listen and sympathize and laugh with her. I found it amusing she too had a little problem with not being thought capable of being on any committee. Her talents didn’t reach into that area evidently just as mine don’t.

She was a comfort to me as I struggled with being told a few things I wrote were not appropriate.  I was intrigued she was old enough to know some of the long ago elders of our church and it was fascinating to me to hear of her accounts of their discussions and struggles.

She was a warmhearted mentor to me. Her writing will always hold my admiration but a warm, sacred place in my heart treasures her friendship.
I miss her.