The outside air blasted through the windows like a furnace! The overheated engine did not allow use of the air-conditioner, and I arrived in Fresno, California sick with heat exhaustion. My beloved “Pink Farm” was now replaced by a corner-lot, ranch style house in a subdivision with a peach tree in the back yard and a palm tree in front. However, our side view included horse pastures surrounded by white fences and palm trees lining a long driveway to someone’s sprawling ranch house.

I began my first real job in the college library that summer while my parents and siblings left on vacation. I stayed with a Mennonite family around the corner whose daughter would also attend FPU. Marilyn and I became wonderful friends! Working with people in the library also eased me into college life. I remembered a girl in high school who came from California her senior year and became student body president. She said hi to everyone by name, even to me! I resolved to reach past my relational fears and follow her example. Soon nobody believed I was an introvert, and I blossomed into what I believe God had intended for me all along.

That fall my boyfriend attended a school on a ship that traveled around the world for a semester. We agreed to casually date others. The next semester he returned and enrolled at FPU, but it wasn’t the same. Yet, I wouldn’t think of hurting him. One night a bunch of us girls hung out in Marilyn’s dorm room discussing relationships. I painfully realized I had to be honest with Steve. Our relationship ended, but when I think of how close I came to never telling him, I can only thank God for giving me the courage to be honest with my heart and with him.

One day, while trying to study in the college library, I felt angry with something my mother did or said, which was not unusual since her favorite words were “discipline” and “obedience” and my favorite word was “freedom.” I decided to write out my feelings to God. He met me there and changed my attitude. That was the first of many times, many years, and many reasons for prayer journaling. And always, God met me, speaking His word into my mind and heart.

Also during this time, God tested my faith. The pride of intellectualism on the college campus became a slippery slope on which to lose one’s faith. I was tempted. I loved the heady conversations with my classmates who read The Koran and other philosophy books. I enjoyed my philosophy class and did well. I remember feeling troubled and going for a walk one day to think things over. The invisible God walked with me and protected me from the evil one who sought my destruction. That day I decided not to question my faith in God or His Word. I would no longer walk in the counsel of the ungodly, or stand in the way of sinners, or sit in the seat of the scornful (Psa. 1:1). This choice had absolutely nothing to do with religion. It had everything to do with my own personal relationship with Jesus. Joy and peace returned to my heart.

I can honestly say my college years were the best relationally joyful years of my life! My parents said I could live in the dorms for one semester to experience dorm life, which I did, and which helped me to feel part of the college culture. God graciously gave me some wonderful friends. Judy, a beautiful tall girl, was Marilyn’s friend first and in Concert Choir with me. She also lived off campus, and we became dear friends. Then I met Shirley and Carol, both originally from Canada, and our birthdays were (and still are) September 25, 26, 27. We related as transplanted Canadians, in our shared faith, as concert choir buddies, social interests . . . . College life—that time-limited, unique microcosm drew us all together like nothing else could. We studied, shared, laughed, sang, played, and made memories in that short space of time, but remembered and cherished for always.

Gratitude for such amazing grace still fills my heart. I never even imagined going to college because I really believed I wasn’t smart enough. Embedded childhood deceptions of feeling stupid still effected me. However, my parents said I should go for one year, which stretched to four and a Bachelor of Arts degree! Amazing and miraculous! I can only bow before such grace and mercy. The next step of my life, ordered by the Lord, waited just over the horizon. Soon I would meet the love of my life . . . .

Cautiously I made my way down the side hall, hoping to pass unnoticed on my way to “High C” in the music room. I feared the social rejection of identifying too closely with this Christian group. My heart was divided. Mother told me years earlier to wait until I was twelve before baptism. By that time, my baptism with the other eighth graders was a formality. Though a child’s heart may be tender toward God, not until adolescence does the real testing come. Jesus says, If anyone is ashamed of me and my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, the Son of Man will be ashamed of them when he comes in his Father’s glory with the holy angels. Mark 8:38.

One night our youth group went to a Youth For Christ rally. Shortly into the film, several of us decided to sneak out and go to a drive-in movie instead. We didn’t have enough money, so one guy hid in the trunk while we drove through the pay gate. Mennonite kids were not allowed to dance or go to movies, but worse than the movie, I was deceitful. Afraid of being found out, the guys made sure to get us home on time. However, the other kids went for ice-cream after the rally so got home later than I did. Busted! Daddy came up to my room and confronted me with the truth. I actually felt relieved! His obvious sadness was punishment enough.

They gave an altar call at the next rally. I knew I was spiritually miserable; I knew how angry I often felt, how vulnerable to temptation, and how easy it was to yield. Acceptance by classmates had become more important to me than a relationship with the Lord. I would not surrender that. The appeal ended. Suddenly a greater fear tore at my heart, and I silently prayed for another chance.

Sometime later my mom and I went to hear a visiting missionary at another church. At the end of his message he asked for a standing commitment to Christ. I felt the Holy Spirit saying, “MarJean, I want ALL of you!” Breaking into a cold sweat, my heart pounding, I stood to my feet. Suddenly it didn’t matter who was there. I only knew Jesus wanted all of me and I wanted all of Him! That night the attitude of my heart and the direction of my life changed. God took me, cleansed me, and began to transform me. Even my parents seemed so much nicer, when actually, my attitude changed toward them. I experienced a new zeal for the spiritual growth of my friends and youth group. A love for God’s word grew in my heart and I wanted to read my Bible every night. Even at my slumber party, I invited the girls to join in my devotions. I became president of my youth group, and felt passionate about the leadership and planning sessions we did together. Obviously—GOD’s work.

I began dating a young man from our sister church in Salem. Because of the distance, we could not spend too much time together, which God used to protect us. It also kept me from interest in anyone else. One weekend our families got together at his parent’s cabin on Devil’s Lake. On Sunday morning, Steve drove the boat and I prepared to ski. I decided to take off from a sitting position on the dock. It worked great and off we flew! As we approached the dock on the way back, my dad waited with his camera. I swung across the wake (showing off) intending to grab the dock without getting wet. However, I was going way too fast! I envisioned the inevitable, fatal crash into the dock. In a split second, I leaned toward a two-foot grassy space between the dock and asphalt boat launch. I hit the grass, fell sideways, and rammed my thigh into the edge of the decking. My thigh turned black, my life was spared, barely! I did not get wet, but to this day I have a lump in my thigh at the point of impact. I remember Mother saying, “I never feel good about missing church like this.” Obviously for me, Sunday on Devil’s Lake was a bad idea, but also a harbinger—a message of warning to keep a relationship with the Lord my top priority. I’m not sure if I realized how serious God actually was about me.

Our youth groups used to travel from Oregon to California for Mennonite Youth conferences, which meant all night travel in a school bus, a lot of kids, a lot of action, and complete exhaustion. My senior year the conference offered a music and poster contest. I entered both and took first place trophies. I sang before all the surrounding Mennonite Brethren congregations with passion and conviction. At the end of that conference the president of Fresno Pacific University came over and congratulated me on my music and art work. Then he said he was looking forward to having my Dad work at the college. I was shocked! I knew I was attending the college that fall but I did not know the school had just hired my dad as their Director of Development. I wept, knowing I’d be leaving our “Pink Farm,” and. . . my childhood forever.

Over all and in all, my Creator-Sustainer had kept His hand upon me—guiding, providing, correcting, wooing, forgiving, cleansing, and loving me. My commitment to Him could not be a one-time event, but a daily relational renewal to survive all that was to come.

Therefore, I urge you, brothers, in view of God’s mercy, to offer you bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God–this is your spiritual act of worship. Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is–his good, pleasing and perfect will. Romans 12:1-2

Our new two-story Cape Cod house was painted a soft pink, as was the small hip-roof barn on six wonderful acres that my dad purchased a few months after we moved to Dallas. I still sometimes dream of that home. I’ll never forget the day I came home from school and my mother told me to look in the pasture. I caught my breath and ran to the corral. There by the pink barn I broke down into heaving sobs! All my life I had longed for a horse, drew horses, and fantasized about riding. There in the pasture was a beautiful bay mare. . . for me! My parents, too frugal to actually buy one, were offered one to lease. As far as I was concerned, “Angel” was all mine! I spent many hours riding my Tennessee Walker on our acreage, through the woods, around local strawberry fields, in a parade, and on many adventures. God truly granted me the desire of my heart!

One very gusty October day I braced against the wind as I got off the school bus. Mother had gone shopping in Salem so I was free and eager to go horseback riding. Galloping bareback in the wind felt absolutely glorious! However, my freedom flight suddenly turned scary as things began flying through the air. I brought Angel into the barn and ran for the house. Suddenly Daddy saw the front of our doorless garage begin to lift off the foundation. He anchored it the best he could, then we knelt down and earnestly prayed for Mother, my little sister, and Aunt Ruth to get home safely.

That was the Columbus Day Storm of 1962, which struck the Pacific Northwest coast. As a contender for the title of most powerful extratropical cyclone recorded in the U.S. in the 20th century, the system linked 46 fatalities from heavy rains and mudslides (Wikipedia). Miraculously, Mother arrived home safely and described trees and power lines all over the road. As the power poles lifted up in the wind, she quickly drove under them before they came down again. Too obviously, life can be fragile! Nevertheless it goes on…

Besides my horse, my art class was a dream come true! The vice-principle asked for some of my drawings after our school art show, and I told him to take what he wanted. My art teacher figured he’d taken advantage of me. Naive or not, I felt very honored. Mother gave me the small sewing nook between our upstairs bedrooms for an art studio where I began oil painting.

God also gave me friends. Karen was a Catholic with long, wavy, brown hair whom I met the first day of school on the stairs down to PE. Kathy and I had fun in art class. Sandy became my dear neighbor friend. I remember talking and laughing with DeeDee and Patty in History class, which was way more fun than listening to the lecture. In Algebra, writing stories kept me awake better than doing equations. I really liked Science. In Home Economics I actually learned to sew (sort of). In English class the teacher commented to an answer I gave with, “You’re a typical teenager.” Ahhh—a balm to my teenage soul. How badly I wanted to be “typical”! I even tried to lose my Canadian accent for the same reason.

Induction into the ninth grade girls ensemble as the only eighth grader firmly established me into the church group. I also felt excited to take piano lessons. However, my first recital was horrible! All my Canadian cousins were accomplished pianists as children. As a beginner at a recital with younger children playing more complicated pieces felt so humiliating. My hands shook so badly that I made an unholy vow never to do a recital again. Although I kept taking piano and then voice lessons, I really preferred creating my own songs, and horseback riding over practicing.

At the end of the school year I was asked to sing a solo at the school talent show. Aunt June helped me learn the song, Tammy (I hear the cottonwoods whispering above, Tammy, Tammy, Tammy’s in love. . .) I was so nervous, I forgot the words to the second verse and repeated the first verse (Déjà vu). However, the kids kept clapping until the vice-principle asked for an encore. This naive, frightened, Canadian farm girl didn’t even know what an encore was. Not having grown up with television, I didn’t know what a comedian was either, which encouraged the boys to tease me unrelentingly.

Summer arrived and kids earned money in the fields for school clothes. Mom took us to pick cherries. After that season ended, Richard and I caught a school bus at 6:00 each morning to join other kids in strawberry fields where we socialized beneath the hot sun with berry fights. After that, the pole bean crops kept us until school began. It was hard labor to fill ten gallon buckets with green beans, empty them into gunny sacks, and haul them to the end of long rows to weigh. A good looking row boss gave me a nosebleed one day when he helped fill my sack. His head came up when mine went down. Embarrassment of dirty bitten nails also motivated me to stop biting them. I learned the value of money in those fields and began to evaluate everything I bought by how hard I worked for it.

I fell in love with Oregon and felt more than grateful for all the “milk and honey” God so graciously gave to me in this “Promised Land”! However, a storm raged within me and I needed to anchor to a firm foundation. God did not just want to bless me with relationships, dreams-come-true, and a land “flowing with milk and honey.” He wanted ME—ALL of me. . . .

A promised land? Yes. Giants? Yes! Our move to Oregon proved life-changing to say the least! The first few months, we rented “The Wagner House,” just a few blocks from Gramma and Grampa Schultz. They grew an apple tree and we had a cherry tree. I remember walking to the little corner store on the way to their house and buying a candy bar for a dime. My brother bought a whole bunch of candies for the same price—obviously a better deal.

Summer ended too quickly and my Aunt June tried to prepare me for school. I fearfully became aware of a totally different culture when she instructed me not so say, “How do you do,” when introduced, just, “Hi.” She also told me that in Oregon all the girls shopped for school clothes and wore a different skirt and sweater outfit each day of the week! In Canada, I often wore the same clothes all week and was very grateful to get two mail-order sweaters for Christmas one year.

The first major giant—the dreaded first day of school arrived. I felt scared to death! By God’s sweet grace, I had met Kathy from across the street who volunteered to walk to school with me and introduce me to my classmates. I wore my new skirt and sweater and we walked about nine blocks to the Dallas Junior High, which was a very large, intimidating, three story building. Hundreds of kids milled around the front entrance.

Kathy and I approached a group of laughing, pretty girls. She introduced me and asked them to show me around. I still remember them looking me up and down, then giving us a flat, “No.” Kathy looked around and spotted two other girls standing together. One was very tall and thin, the other was quite short. When Kathy asked them to go in with me, they hesitated, then said, “Oh, all right.” Kathy left us to join the ninth graders. The school bell suddenly sent my heart racing! We funneled up the stairs and through the double front doors. My escorts disappeared and I was on my own. Somehow in my panic, I still found each of my classrooms.

This certainly was a different planet from Carrot River. I found so many cultural giants to get used to. Instead of one classroom and one teacher per grade, there were many classrooms, each with a different subject and teacher. PE was on the lower floor and every day after class we all had to undress and take showers together. The washroom was called a lavatory, an unfamiliar word to me. What we wore was very important for acceptance. I learned the difference between popular and unpopular, between the haves and the have-nots, which simply never existed in Carrot River. I suppose because everyone there were basically “have-nots” so we didn’t know the difference.

We attended a Mennonite Brethren church just a few blocks from our rented house. The giant of dismay loomed when I found myself as the only eighth grade girl among a group of eighth grade boys and a whole bunch of ninth grade girls who all, but one, attended a private Christian school in Salem. Two church girls befriended me. One was kind and conservative, the other, crazy about boys. Hanging out with her, I soon had a crush on a handsome older boy who never knew, yet I entered a dangerous time of life. I decided I did not want to be a “goodie-goodie” Christian because I feared personal rejection for being religious.

If only my relationship with Jesus had remained stronger, which has nothing to do with religion. The awareness of Jesus’ presence could have strengthened me and made me more discerning. As it was, I succumbed to fears, temptations, and even lost my temper when the boys teased me about being Canadian. Junior high boys let girls know of their interest by teasing them, but I was too naive to figure that out.

Part of the PE curriculum included dance lessons. However, the Mennonite kids got written permission from parents to be excused to the library instead. A really nice boy wanted me to go with him to a movie, but I couldn’t do that either. Later in high school, a boy sincerely asked my “Christian” friend, “What do you do at a movie or dance that you don’t already do?” I know our religion purposed to protect us from immorality, however, unless conviction comes from the heart, rules alone only strengthen temptation. My younger cousin once said I was boy crazy. I disagreed. I was the new girl and I figured the boys followed me, I didn’t follow them. Even so, I have since fervently prayed with Job and King David:

“For you write down bitter things against me and make me reap the sins of my youth” Job 13:26. I also relate to King David who writes, “Do not remember the sins of my youth and my rebellious ways; according to your love remember me, for you, LORD, are good” Psalm 25:7. Yes, God is good. He not only forgives the sins of our youth, but draws us back to Himself and patiently, graciously, mercifully, tenaciously, and often painfully teaches us His ways.

This “promised land” did have giants and sometimes I didn’t feel any bigger than a grasshopper compared to the challenges before me, yet “milk and honey” was on the way. . . .

I figured that when I grew up, I did not want to marry a farmer. Sometimes when my dad came in from the field, only his teeth and the whites of his eyes were not back with dirt. Besides a huge garden to tend, chickens to butcher, bread to bake in a wood stove, water to haul in and out of the house, and summer guests to feed, Mother also milked the cow, churned butter, and made cottage cheese.

The Jersey milk cow we bought had big brown eyes and long eyelashes. . . and horns! I was afraid of this beautiful creature since she put her head down and chased us when we went into the pasture. One evening I leaned against a stack of bales to gaze at a prairie sunset. Suddenly, I felt hot breath on my neck—her nose nearly touching my face! I bolted to the top of that stack of bales and stayed up there until she finally wandered off.

I outgrew my little blue bicycle and Dicky grew into it, so Daddy asked my Uncle Pete to find a bigger bike for me at the auctions he frequented. He found one—a huge, ugly, faded green, man’s bike. Though it was way too big for me, I did learn to ride it because I had no other choice. One evening I straddled my bike on our bridge to observe another beautiful sunset. My feet could not reach the ground, but my right foot rested on the raised board at the edge. Suddenly, the bike began to tip! Afraid it would fall on me, I leaped and landed clear of my bike on the dry side of the ditch. Panic replaced relief because I could not breathe! After I caught my breath, I still had to haul that huge bike up out of the ditch. I did learn that watching sunsets can be hazardous to your health!

A grizzled, barking, ball of Lhasa Apso fur named Tiny joined our family. We also acquired a larger black and white farm dog. Mother did not like dogs or cats in the house or cars, so when we drove to pick blueberries on the ridge, Pup followed us. We spent the afternoon picking berries, and on the way home, since Mommy still didn’t want the dog in the car, he ran alongside. Suddenly, “Ka-bump!” She stopped the car and I dashed out! He was still alive, so then she helped him into the car. We laid him in the porch and I spoon-fed him medicine, but he died in my lap. We buried him, had a funeral, and I sang, “God Sees The Sparrow Fall.” I think my sincerity amused my mother. The long black fur of our next farm dog shone brightly in the sun from eating chicken eggs he found. Then he began to enjoy eating the chickens too. When Grandma and Grampa Schultz visited from Oregon, Mommy handed Grampa my dad’s hunting rifle to shoot Laddie, which he did. Farm life could be tough. I had to learn that economic survival took priority over pets, but I still could not reconcile the pain in my heart.

In Autumn I entered grade five and was placed in the fast class. My teacher also entered me in a vocal music competition in a neighboring town. Mother told me to smile at the audience before I sang to calm my nerves, which I remembered to do. However, my nervousness erased the second verse, so I repeated the first verse and lost the competition. However, I often sang solos in church and Mommy taught me to sing as we stood and washed dishes together every day. She always made good use of time and told us stories or taught us things while we worked—doing dishes, shelling peas, or weeding the garden.

On my brother’s eighth birthday, he saw Daddy drive to the playground at recess. He ran to the car and Daddy told him his birthday present was a brand new baby sister! The hospital didn’t allow us to see her for ten days because many birth moms hemorrhaged from working too hard caring for their large families if they went home earlier. I was ten when Karen was born and this new darling creation became my real live dolly, which replaced my other dolls.

In sixth grade, I remember having to take an I.Q. test to determine how smart I was. . . or wasn’t. Fears of being retarded still paralyzed my thinking. I’m sure I did very badly. It wasn’t long before childhood faded too soon into an unknown and scary world of adolescence. Seventh grade became a bad memory with a very strict gestapo of a teacher, Miss Denell. I was caught cheating on a test, which didn’t help. My body was changing, my emotions and sleep became erratic, and my childhood tenderness to the Lord waned.

When my dad made a deal to sell the farm, my already shaky adolescent world crumbled. Mom was from the States and they always said our next move would be to Oregon. To leave my home, my friends, my best friend, my first crush, my beloved grandparents in Dalmeny, and my beloved Canada felt unbearable. We even had to leave Tiny behind because it cost money to bring a dog across the border.

Mother tried telling me about the ocean, the fruit trees, and warm weather in Oregon. I figured the wind through the poplars sounded enough like ocean waves and berries grew on the ridge. Though God did not minimize my sadness, He also knew the plans He had for me. Somehow, He held me through my grief, stubbornness, and immaturity until He grew me up. . .  both of which He is still doing.

When they did not read my name, I felt alarm, raised my hand, and told the teacher, “I am slow.” The teachers quietly conferred, then allowed me to leave. It was the first day of fourth grade in Carrot River. The teachers read off names of the slower kids and assigned them to a cottage classroom. I had heard my mother say I was slow, but only years later did she explain that I was not a slow learner, but polio had slowed my energy. By the time I learned the truth, the damage was done. I was convinced I was slow, perhaps even retarded. The trauma, especially for a highly sensitive child, of changing schools twice a year for three years and adjusting to new curriculum, new teachers, new kids, and new sub-cultures every few months, reinforced the lie.

We moved back to Saskatoon after harvest into a house no bigger than a studio apartment with a basement. Our beds bordered the basement furnace and I played house under the stairs. Daddy sold McGeven’s Bread, my uncle delivered milk in a horse-drawn wagon, and I walked by myself to another large and strange school. Christmas programs came and went with few memories. For a short time toward the end of winter, I got to stop on the way home from school to attend a Bible Club where a very nice old-maid teacher, Mrs. Lepke, taught Bible stories with flannel graphs.

Early spring came and three girls began following me home, pulled my pony tail, kicked, and mocked me. Finally, in a rage spurned by fear, I screamed the worst thing I could possibly invent, “I hope you go to hell!” I was surprised at the shock on their faces as they backed off. Not long afterward, the girls waited for me again around the corner of the school. However, Daddy, Mommy, and Dicky came to pick me up that day in a brand new red station wagon to leave for Carrot River, and rescued me from my enemies!

Thankfully back in Carrot River, I invited kids on the school bus to come to Sunday School and told them my parents would pick them up. So when Sundays came, my parents used their new red station wagon to pick up children for church, which was miles and miles of country driving. When our station wagon became overcrowded, Daddy bought a panel truck to bring the kids to church.

That year he also put in a generator so our house had electricity. He built a bathroom complete with bathtub, sink, and honey bucket. He also built a garage onto the house and we put the milk/cream separator in the porch, since we now had a milk cow. Dicky’s and my beds had been moved into the unfinished attic on either side of the chimney, which we also shared with overnight visitors each summer. But late that fall, Daddy hired a man to finish our attic with two bedrooms and a closet between them.

Finally we could stay on the farm through the winter, and I did not have to change schools anymore. Dicky and I built snow forts and snowmen that didn’t melt until spring. Mommy still had to dry clothes outside on the clothesline where they froze. Then she brought them in and stood them up near the floor furnace grate between the kitchen and living room to finish drying. I remember being amazed how the long underwear could stand up all by itself. I finally had a friend I could keep all year. Her name was Ruthie. After church on Sundays we went to each other’s homes and made wonderful memories.

I look back now and realize God purposes to redeem the tough things in our lives by making us aware of our need for Him and to make us thankful for good things. Without changing schools, thinking I was a slow-learner, or feeling lonely and fearful, I may have excelled and succeeded in many areas of life. . . and become arrogant and unthankful. So, by God’s severe and loving mercy, He allowed me to experience my weaknesses, sins, and inability to succeed without Him, to eventually draw me into an intimately loving relationship with Himself—a far greater gain. I am thankful!

As young children, we don’t think we know all the answers to everything yet, so we find ourselves ever discovering and learning and wondering. Do we ever want to lose our sense of wonder and imagination—that desire to enter and celebrate life without analyzing or understanding it? I close my eyes and try to recapture and experience what it felt like just to be a child on a summer’s day. . .

A little cloud of stale dust follows my fingers across the wire mesh of the screen door. Flies and mosquitos drone and whine in the midday heat, trying to squeeze through the screen into the dull old farmhouse. Beads of sweat collect on my brow. My lips taste salty.

I focus through the screen to patches of thirsty weeds and dandelion fluff dotting the path to the barn. The poplar and willow bushes to the left and right stand motionless against a strangely dark horizon. To the right of the barn is Mommy’s vegetable garden. Past the garden is Daddy’s golden wheat field.

The screen door squeaks loudly into the stillness of the afternoon and slams shut behind me as I step out onto the porch. The silvered boards feel hot under my bare feet. The air is so still. Only the sky moves.

Dark, angry clouds move stealthily over the horizon like an advancing Nipawin war party. A white flash suddenly pierces the ranks, sending gun-shot thunder-cracks echoing into the distance. The poplars and willows begin to bend and sway to the roll of distant drums. Dandelion fluff whisks across the yard, whirling and dancing to the beat. Slowly, a dark shadow steals over the barn. The air is split by another flash of flaming arrows and a deafening crack vibrates the porch. The air turns liquid!

Rain dances hard on the porch, frothing and foaming into rivulets that disappear between the cracks of weathered boards. It beats on the dry ground, raising poofs of acrid dust. The barn looms up like a grey ghost behind the torrents of rain between us. The fields and Mommy’s garden mysteriously disappear into a white-blue haze. Sounds of a million drummers fill my ears. The wind whistles around the old farmhouse and sighs heavily through the trees. Another resounding crack and rumble add to the crying wind and pounding rain.

Slowly, the shadow moves and passes over the barn. Then, almost as suddenly as it all began, the rain stops, the wind dies. Rays of sunshine ignite the barn. Everything is dripping, glistening, steaming, and sparkling! The porch feels wet and warm. Cool puddles swirl around my toes.

I drink in the clean, sweet air in slow, deep breaths. Suddenly, with an enormous leap, I’m running, jumping, splashing, dancing! I’m a wild horse—the cool ground passes beneath my flying bare feet in a blur of sparkling puddles and swirling sand. My long mane flies and ripples behind me. The tree tops gently sway to the rhythm of my pounding heart.

Slower now… I catch my breath. High overhead blue sky and dark clouds waltz across the heavens. Between them, ribbons of brilliant colors cascade down to golden wheat fields. I stop and stare in wonder and worship. My child eyes both absorb and reflect the overwhelming vastness and beauty of the living, breathing heavens. Gradually the colors begin to fade. The clouds move away. The dance is done.

I turn and slowly walk back down our long driveway, circling puddles that quietly reflect the poplar trees, the blue sky, and my shadow as I pass by. Sodden legs climb the porch steps, and weary arms pull open the old screen door. I return to the warm familiar farmhouse, and the screen door whines and slams shut behind me. . . echoing through time.

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.

Relocating to a new area and a new culture typically brings feelings of loneliness and isolation, which I’ve experienced so many times. God created us for relationship and made provision for it through His body, the Church. In my long cultural and religious Mennonite Brethren heritage, the gathering of believers is central to life. Though religion itself never saved anyone, it set for me a foundational precedent.

• My roots go back to German-Dutch Anabaptists who left Holland because of religious persecution. They settled in West Prussia for about 250 years until the Prussian government eliminated exemption from military service on religious grounds.
  When Catherine the Great of Russia issued a Manifesto in 1763 to invite Europeans to settle in Russia and granted Mennonites exemption from military service for twenty years, they accepted the invitation and established colonies that produced 6% of all Russian wheat.
  Some who strongly believed in repentance and acceptance of Christ as a personal Savior, as well as discipline, prayer, and Bible study, formally broke with the main church in 1860 to become the Mennonite Brethren.
  In 1870 a Russification plan ended all special privileges. The Mennonites had ten years to conform or leave Russia. The loss of exemption from military service and their right to use the German language in their schools, started a migration to the Americas. My grandmother Quiring came from Alexanderthal, South Russia at nineteen years old. Though there is no Russian in them, all my great grandparents were born in Russia and migrated to Minnesota or Saskatchewan.

With that kind of heritage, we never even considered not attending church. Someone told us of a Mennonite church south of town, so we went. When we walked in, no one said anything to us until one man told Daddy, “In this church, men and women do not sit together.” Then he asked, “Kounst du auch Deutch?” Daddy told him, yes, he knew German. Mommy and I sat on the ladies’ side. Mommy felt very lonely since our move. She tried to make friends with a lady with little children, but the lady wasn’t interested. I recognized a girl from school but even she didn’t talk to me. We sat through Sunday School and the church service, then walked out very slowly, hoping somebody would talk to us, but nobody did. Outside the church, we found Daddy with Dicky. Mommy asked, “Doesn’t anyone want to talk with you either?”

He said, “No.” When we got into the car he added, “Well, we have been here twice. The first time and the last time.”

We noticed a building on Main Street in Carrot River called The Gospel Mission. The shabby white Mission with storefront windows was tightly sandwiched between two other old buildings. A sign in the window gave the service times. The next Sunday we arrived on time but nobody else came. Someone later told the preacher we moved there so he came to visit us. Daddy told him we had been to the church but the door was locked. He said that was a sign from last year, but they never bothered taking it out when they changed the time because new people didn’t come anyway. He said he would invite us to church but because of some trouble, they were closing the church down. We decided to visit anyway.

Just a few people came, very few—maybe fifteen. An elderly man from the Salvation Army whom everyone called “Dad Little” played an old pump organ, was happy, and sang heartily. We joined in with gusto! Perhaps the addition of a new family was the encouragement they needed. It didn’t take long and more people began to come. Pretty soon we had thirty and forty people coming and it continued to grow. We enjoyed the people, were friendly, and they came to know us. When we sang, I remember feeling a bit embarrassed because my Mother sang louder than anyone else. She was used to good, strong Mennonite music. She took the junior high and high school girls under her wing and held a Bible class for them on Wednesday nights. As the body of believers continued to grow, they hired a preacher and purchased an existing building from the country, which they moved onto a lot in town.

Many Mennonites hold strongly to their religious and cultural roots. Attending the Gospel Mission with people without Mennonite roots, I learned early that roots in a religious system mean nothing compared to a relationship with Jesus Christ and with His people. What matters is that God gave His only begotten Son to die in my place to pay for my sins, that He physically rose again to intercede for me at the Father’s right hand, that He sent His Holy Spirit to indwell all who receive that free gift of salvation, and to strengthen them to live by God’s grace and power to love each other.

His body—The Church—serves to fill that inherent longing for love, acceptance, and oneness. Of course, Satan hates the Church, but Jesus said He would build His church and the gates of hell would not prevail against it (Matt. 16:18). Through my years, I’ve seen church battles, splits, and hurt, but also victories, grace, and love. God knows the hearts of those who belong to Him and He loves His Bride! I deeply value my roots of theological and biblical conviction, of ancestors who sacrificially forged their way to religious freedom and grandparents and parents who prayed for me. Yet religious roots or pedigree without relationship is dead. It cannot compare with a personal relationship with Jesus Himself. Peter tells us, “Though you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and are filled with an inexpressible and glorious joy (1Peter 1:8).