THE northern winter temperatures would soon drop to forty below zero. Without running water, electricity, or indoor plumbing, to stay on the farm in that house after harvest was not an option. Though I already began third grade at Carrot River, we packed up and headed back to Saskatoon for the winter where we rented a basement apartment.

My new school was called the Princess Alexandria, but third grade was not in the Princess building. I remember telling the children around my desk about the magic water I brought to school in a tiny bottle. They were in complete awe, until someone dropped the bottle and all the magic spilled on the floor. I also told one of my new friends about Jesus. She even asked Him into her heart when she came to visit me one day.

After Christmas we moved in with a grumpy old German man named Mr. Brietkrietz. He said we could live with him if my Mother cooked and cleaned for him, since she “vas a goote farm voman.” Neighborhood kids came and pressed their heads against the screen door to see if we could play. Mr. Brietkrietz pounded little nails through a board, painted it white to camouflage the nails, and put it where the kids would get hurt if they leaned on the screen. My Daddy decided to take it off.

That spring I loved to ride my bike on paved streets and go to the paddling pool. My neighbor friend told me we could also explore a field at the edge of our neighborhood. We rode our bicycles there and discovered a hole in the field big enough to hide inside and use for our secret fort. However, we needed to furnish it so we rode our bikes back to the swimming pool and borrowed people’s towels from the dressing room. We took them to our fort to cover our dirt couch. The next few days I felt deep conviction. I had stolen those towels and needed to repent. I rode back to our fort by myself, rescued the towels, and returned them to the dressing room at the pool. I came home, sat on my bed, and sincerely asked Jesus to forgive me. I sang, “Into my heart, into my heart, come into my heart, Lord Jesus.” He already was there and did forgive me.

Some days later as I rushed down the stairs to the basement, I slipped and bounced all the way down on my bottom. When I hit the last stair, I could not breathe, although I screamed, “I’m going to die!” Mother had just left for the store, but Daddy came running. He got me to lie down and calm down. After they took me to the doctor, who said I just had the wind knocked out of me, it still hurt to breathe. They decided to take me to Mrs. Friesen (“Bukka Friea”)—a large, strong, Russian woman amazingly gifted in what I can best describe as a combined massage therapist and chiropractor. People came from all over the country for her treatments. She covered me in Blitz Ale (Lightning Oil) and got to work. She said my ribs had pushed into my lungs, but in one treatment I was better.

What bothered me most was how afraid I was to die. Christians aren’t supposed to be afraid to die because we go to heaven. However, my mother assured me that not wanting to die was okay because Jesus gave us the will to live. Otherwise we might all want to die now and go to heaven, and that was not God’s plan. My Aunt June had me memorize Psalm 23 when she and my grandparents came to visit us from Oregon. I never ever forgot it.

We were glad to move back to the farm again that spring. In my eagerness to rediscover my toys in the winter storage shed, I did not wait for anyone to help me. I began to move stuff around so I could get out my dolly carriage. Reaching it, I lifted the little blankets and without warning, something suddenly bolted into the air! I fell backwards over the garden tools while a whole nest-full of frantic little mice ran over the top of me! In sobs of terror, I ran back to the granaries to tell my Dad what happened. He just laughed. Sympathy did not come easily on the farm.

At the end of that school year, I remember sitting in my cottage classroom while our teacher read the names of the kids who passed. I was scared to death that my name would not be read. We had some really big kids in class that had been kept back, some more than once. To my great relief, the teacher read my name and I passed into grade four. That year faded into history but the geographical changes and heart changes continued to affect my life.