Category: Journal

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A Tragedy in a Long Line of Tragedies

I haven’t been able to fully collect my thoughts. After the twin suicide bombing that took place outside a church in Peshawar yesterday, killing over 80 people with far more wounded, I struggle to know what to say, or even if there is anything that should be said. Often silence is the deepest form of grief. I watched as people gave their support and prayers on facebook, passing on news and changing their profile pictures to a black box, showing their grief over the incident. The community of people who care about Pakistan and the Christians there grieved for what had happened. But somehow I felt like this wasn’t the end, or the beginning. It’s another tragedy, a terrible tragedy, that seems to stain the world with innocent blood.

Only the day before, on Saturday, members of the Al-Shabab, attacked the Westgate shopping complex in Nairobi. With over 60 people killed, and many wounded, the death toll continues to rise as the fighting continues to rage to this minute. People continue to cry out, mourn and pray for the situation there and wonder why in the world something like this happens. And yet it does – again and again.

With the conflict in Syria still raging on, catching countless people in the fighting, it seems there’s a never ending story of tragedy. For myself, having Pakistan so close to my heart, the attack there seems even more significant, and yet for those with family in Nairobi, or Damascus nothing cries louder than the pain suffered there. The deaths of innocents are no anomaly today. It seems that not a day goes by that we are reminded again of the evil and the darkness in the world, and that we see this same darkness overtake helpless people caught in its tracks. A tragedy in a long line of tragedies.

I don’t know that there’s anything I can say to make sense of it all, but I know that it has continued, and will continue to do so. My heart breaks for the suffering and the loss that is experienced by so many, even when their stories are far from me, or lost amid the jumble of international news. For the mother who has lost a child, a single life is tragedy enough to shake the world. These victims’ blood cries out for justice, even when few hear it, and one day there will be an accounting for every drop. Until then, we mourn, and we must continue to live and love, and be a light in this dark world.

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A Black Rhinoceros

I had a very strange dream last night – strange enough that I remembered it, which is not normal for me. In my dream I found myself inside my old high school in Pakistan, an old british garrison church. However, in my dream, the building itself seemed to be about eight times the size of my school divided into two sections. Inside the building were a great number of trees and bushes, growing like a small jungle within the walls of the building. All very strange and dream-like.
The very strangest thing about the whole dream though, was the fact that a friend (I have no idea who it was) and I were trying to escape from a raging black rhinoceros. Black as the night, and with a thick strong body, it would wander around the trees, charging at us when it saw us. I can remember running as fast as we could to duck behind the trunks of trees, trying to get away from this frightening beast. I even climbed up into the thin, spindly branches of a tree to get up away from it at one point, scared to death that this rhinoceros would kill me for sure. I can remember desperately searching for some way to capture the rhino, and do something about it, but the only thing in the building was a cage, which only big enough for a large dog or something of the sort. I never did manage to get a hold of anything though.

The whole dream was somewhat terrifying, and I woke up in the middle of the night, heart beating a little fast, to puzzle over why I would dream something like that to begin with. What on earth goes through someone’s mind to make him dream of trying to escape a black rhinoceros in a jungle inside their Pakistani high school? What on earth is wrong with me?

The biggest shock, however, was something that I learned this morning while on my computer. Much to my surprise, today, September 22, is World Rhino Day! Unlike a fear-filled dream about a black rhino, World Rhino Day is designed to raise awareness of the ongoing poaching and illegal trade of rhino horns. With five different species of rhinos, some populations are facing endangerment and even extinction, and the World Wildlife Foundation and other organizations are trying to put an end to the killing of rhinos and the trade of their horns. I still have no idea why I had a dream about a black rhinoceros on the same day as World Rhino Day, but for all those who didn’t know – today is World Rhino Day.

To find out more about World Rhino Day, visit http://www.worldrhinoday.org and http://wwf.panda.org/what_we_do/endangered_species/rhinoceros/world_rhino_day/

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A Poor Lost Little Sign

I apologize to anyone who holds very dearly to Saskatchewan, to those who love it, or call it home. I enjoy Saskatchewan a lot myself, but I seem to enjoy it a great deal less when I have to drive anywhere in it for any length of time. Last month I found myself driving alone to Lumsden, Saskatchewan to help out at a camp for two weeks (those who have read some of my earlier blogs will have heard about some of my experiences there already).

What I wanted to share here, though, for all who would like to enjoy it, is something I drove past on my way to camp. As I was driving along, I passed a sign that read ‘point of interest’, indicating that this point was somewhere left of the highway, down a smaller country road. Naturally, I was a little intrigued, and and strained my eyes down this road to see this ‘point of interest’. In fact, this interesting place was so interesting to me that I took a picture of it as I drove by, which I share here for you to see.

photo copy

Yes, for those confused, this is the ‘point of interest’. I’m not quite sure why or to whom this would at all be interesting, but remember, this is Saskatchewan. I suppose maybe for some, the sight of another green and yellow field would be very interesting – especially if they happened to have their eyes closed for the past seven hours of travel as they passed by field after field, just like it. Or perhaps it’s a ploy to make people think twice about the monotony of fields they see – to trick those who haven’t been paying attention into believing that this may just have been the first field they’ve seen in the hundreds of kilometers they have already travelled.

Whatever reason the sign has for being there, I think it is lost. But I don’t blame the sightless sign. Poor thing, facing the road the way it is, one can’t expect it to know the emptiness that it advertises. It may never have been turned around to see the view for itself. Perhaps it has never travelled in his life and hasn’t seen that by the time people reach it, they have had their fill of green flatness – they’ve had enough. Perhaps this little sign has been fed a lie. Lost and sightless as it is, it simply stands, like a blind prophet, trying to communicate with the busy stream of traffic that hurdles on by – alone, voiceless and misunderstood. I don’t blame the sign; I pity it.

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Catching Frogs

“Do you want to wake up at five tomorrow morning?” I asked one of my campers before bed. It was the night before the closing day of that camp week, after a long day of activities.
“No!” He said. “Wait, what for?”
“To catch some frogs.”

My camper had been very disappointed. A couple days earlier I had let him and a few other boys catch frogs during our swim time in the dugout, and had lent them a container from my bag as well. He had caught a number of frogs, and had transferred them into smaller containers, hoping to take a couple home with him when he went. However, that same evening he had been told by another counsellor that he couldn’t keep the frogs in containers over night. As a result, he had let them go that evening, hoping that he would be able to catch some more the following day when the whole camp went to the dugout for games and swimming. But, once he got there, he wasn’t allowed to go to the side of the dugout that had the frogs, as he needed to stay with the rest of the group. And there he was, at bedtime that night, feeling a little disappointed about the whole thing. So, when I asked if he wanted to catch frogs the next morning he had a huge smile on his face. “Yes!”

That night as I lay on my bed, I wrestled through the situation. I had already been deliberating over what to do before I had even asked him. Taking a camper all the way over to the dugout early in the morning, by myself, with no life-jackets (they were required in and around the dugout)? I just couldn’t decide if this was something where I should be asking for permission, or asking for forgiveness after the fact, if I needed. I thought back on all my past boyhood disappointments. Rocks I couldn’t take with me when we left places. Sticks I couldn’t carry home. I can see why my parents didn’t let me at the time – and I’m glad for it now. But, how hard was it to spend some time one morning helping a boy catch a few frogs?

So, at five in the morning, my alarm went off and I strained my eyes into the darkness. ‘This is ridiculous,’ I thought. ‘There’s no way I’m catching frogs at five in the morning – in the dark.’ I closed my eyes again, and dipped in and out of sleep for almost an hour. Then, just before six, I woke up enough to look out the window again. It was just beginning to get light – enough to see frogs, at least. So, after a lot of shaking, poking and whispering his name, I finally woke my camper up. And a couple minutes later, there we were, two boys, both in hoodies and shorts, making our way up through the trees and over the hill to the dugout to catch some frogs.

It’s wasn’t very long before we got to the spot. With our ankles in the water we walked through the grass and small reeds, stopping when small spots of green would bounce across the grass, or plop into the water. I very quickly found out that I’m really bad at catching frogs. I really am. I would get so close – close enough to feel their little bodies slipping through my fingers, or bouncing off my hand, but I never got one. Thankfully I could at least keep them from getting to the water so that my companion could pounce on them and hold them gently in his hands. There’s something about seeing a little boy chasing after frogs that brings a smile to your face. It’s like seeing a bird in flight, or a dolphin jumping out of the surf – just to see them doing what they do best. He was a little boy, and had obviously mastered the skill of frog catching – something I must have missed out on in my youth.

Half an hour later two boys with three green leopard frogs, and one brown wood frog, headed back over the hill and across the grass toward the cabins. Their flip flops squeaked with water as they walked, and their faces beamed with smiles as they carried their precious amphibians in their little orange container. Sometimes God sends along little blessings and encouragements, just to remind you that there is a reason you are doing what you are doing. For me, this was just that.

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Fragile Places

Some places seem to be much more fragile than others. This summer, I had the opportunity to go and help out at a Bible camp just for a couple of weeks, to help as a cabin leader. At the start of the week, kids would pile into the camp with their parents, some nervous, some excited to get to know each other and enjoy the games and many excitements of camp. And for the whole week, I would find myself extremely busy and happy spending time with the nine twelve-year-olds in my cabin, counsellors, and all the other kids running around the camp as well. Doing devotions, praying together, eating together and playing games together, we soon got to know each other very well, and before long we felt like a little family – the nine boys, myself and my junior counsellor.

However, before long, the week came to a close. The kids packed up and got ready to home. Dirty clothes and numerous little injuries told the story of all the fun they had. The night before the boys had to leave, some talked about how they wanted to come back next year and do the same thing – that we should all come back next year and be together again. I was happy to hear that they enjoyed it, and to hear them long for a ‘repeat’ in a way, but I knew the truth – that this week could never be repeated again. Camp is a fragile place. It lasts for a week, and in that week there’s an amazing mix of kids and counsellors, which makes the whole time so worthwhile. But this mix of kids and counsellors and experiences can’t last forever, and it can never happen again. It just won’t. Never again will all the same kids be together, with all the same counsellors and be able to enjoy being together all over again. That’s life.

MCS, my old boarding school, is a fragile place. I can remember in my final year of high school, lying in bed, thinking about the changes that would take place when graduation day came. Never again could I walk through these halls I knew to find the same friends in the same rooms. Never again would I take my toothbrush at bedtime and seek out the company of the guys in my class while I brushed – to sit on their beds and try to talk through the toothpaste to them. We would all be replaced. Soon these rooms would be someone else’s, or they would be left empty – as they have been. Some of us might come back and visit and, by chance, may even be together at the same time, and be able to re-live some shadow of our experiences in high school, but it would never be the same.

Some places are solid. Like a tree or house – even the school building we spent so many years in, these places stay more or less the same. Of course, there are always changes. Trees grow bigger, houses change – but they are still there, they continue on. You can climb a tree you climbed in your youth and sit on the same branch, and look out to the same view and, for the most part, it can be the same.

Camp and boarding school are like grenades. All the fragments and particles share space and memories together for moment in time, but when their time is up, the pin is pulled and all the pieces explode across the world – blown into a million tiny shards. Exciting. Painful. Never again can they be put back together. Never again can they be the same.

However, this doesn’t make the fragile places less precious. I really hope my feelings are never mistaken for bitterness or anger, because it’s not like that at all. These places are still so valuable, and the experiences and memories don’t lose their meaning because of the violent separation involved. But I know that some places and experiences will never be the same. One might gather a few fragments to piece together something that looks similar, and bears some semblance of the original object, but still, everything has changed.
These are the fragile places.