01 04 2022 ‘Toy cars’

01 03 2022 ‘Jelly Bean Grandpa’

A visit with my grandparents, jelly beans and Grandpa’s mandolins.

01 02 2022 ‘Mom, take a picture of my room’

This girl and ALL the stuffed animals.

Personal project, year two

Two years ago, I committed to taking (but mostly sharing) a photo every day for a year. Little did I know that I would be documenting our family during a pandemic for most of 2020. I decided to continue the project for another year but 2021 started off with loss and profound grief, which left me with just enough energy to maintain the minimum and next to nothing for flexing creative muscles.

I decided to give the daily project a chance again.

In the first twenty days of this endeavour, there have been days where I haven’t had the energy to photograph anything and days when the inspiration is overwhelming. Choosing just one photo is difficult—perhaps that is an unintentional challenge for me in 2022–since the style of photography I naturally gravitate to is documentary. I see this reflecting in my writing too. I want to be a storyteller in every sense.

Posting only one photo on social media doesn’t tell the whole story, as we all well know, and this space has been significantly under-utilized, in general and for my photography. So here is my intention: I will continue to post my one photo on social, but I’ll make a concentrated effort to share the rest of the story here.

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Below are a few photos from our first day of 2022 - our youngest was upset about something not going his way but when Dad brought out a video of Max Verstappen in a F1 race, his problems disappeared.

Celebrating a life

Code Red has made it next to impossible to give others the opportunity to grieve with us and to celebrate her life collectively as friends and loved ones. There is much about the pandemic that has been difficult, and these limitations on being with each other have been some of the most trying.

Yesterday afternoon, we dressed in our best and I applied mascara in honour of the lady who rarely went without hers. Our immediate family gathered in the cemetery, around a beautiful casket built for our beautiful Momma. We shared - words, prayers, songs, hugs and tears. It was a beautifully intimate celebration of who she was to us, the tree beside her grave covered in frost and us tucked into the fog. And as we were leaving that sacred space, the sun broke through and covered us in its light.

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I’m leaving the words I wrote to share yesterday below, in a very small effort to allow others to be a part of a larger service that we couldn’t have. They feel incomplete without being accompanied by the rest of what was spoken but perhaps these words will be able to act as a stand-in for someone.

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‘You just do it’ - This is what she told me years ago when I was feeling overwhelmed by a toddler and a baby, when I had asked mom how she did everything - gardening and taking care of us kids and helping dad in the field.

It’s been the advice I remember the most - because she just did it all. Without complaining and usually, what seemed to be eagerly. I’m not sure if this was what she wanted me to hang on to most but it is, because I saw her live this out every day. I saw this when we were young, at home and in our church, and I saw this as her body began to fail. I don’t believe she said this to me, intending to keep her response so brief, because I think she was already having a hard time talking much. I think if she had been able to find the extra words she would have told me that she didn’t do it on her own, that it was strength you gained by leaning into God and your faith. That because of that, she wasn’t uniquely gifted to do ‘this’, and that I could do it too. And sometimes, the dishes just needed to be done and so you have to do them. (She always knew dishes were my least favorite chore)

Not only did she get things done because they had to be done, but she was also bold and seemingly unafraid to try new things. I remember her often learning something - learning folk art painting and taking piano lessons, willow furniture building classes or joining a women’s hockey team. While I’m sure she felt nervous or some trepidation during those times, I saw her unwilling to miss out on something fun, creative or new for that reason. 

Her zeal for life was not reserved just for her either. She was just as enthusiastic, if not moreso, about the things we (her children) attempted. There are very few things I can think of that I have done, that she didn’t strongly encourage me to start or continue with. She truly was her family’s biggest cheerleader, no matter what it was. In fact, there are many things I have done because she pushed me to be brave and try, that I otherwise wouldn’t have. 

I didn’t remember myself participating (or enjoying participating) in a lot of activities as a kid that naturally had people in the stands cheering one on, but I do remember traveling to Brandon for a couple track meets in high school. I was hardly the best on the track but Mom was there in the stands every time, cheering me on in the last 50 meters as if I was. 

I think this is what I will miss the most - knowing that she is not here with us to be our biggest fan and supporter. Even in the last few years when communicating was difficult and limited at the best of times, she was who I went to when I needed that push to keep going, when I had (or have) no idea what I’m doing. She was always there for me, ready to listen and often her response seemed to be ‘You can do it. I believe in you.’

She leaves us here, sad and yet rejoicing. And I do think in the times when I question how I’m going to do this life without her expressive eyes, her laugh and her slow blinks for yes or no, her advice to me would be ‘you just do it’. Mom never promised me that a solution would be easy or that it would be too hard for me to manage and I don’t think she would change her answer for me, for us, now. She just always directed me back to prayer, to ask God for the strength, and then to do it, with the faith that He would provide what I needed and more.

I think she’s still cheering us on, but the race is different now. This life of ours here on earth without her is our 50 meter stretch, and I do think she’s yelling even louder now, still saying ‘Go, Karli GO!’ And I know when we are done, when we cross that finish line and arrive in heaven as she has done before us, we are getting the biggest hug and she will smile that huge smile of hers and tell us ‘I’m so proud of you. You did so good.’

Momma, I love you so much. I can’t wait to run with you again and to race once we reach those last hydro poles. 

Sunday afternoon with the baby

It was all worth it

She sits, perched on the edge of a narrow bed, her arms clutching a pillow at her midsection. A stranger in a shapeless green uniform and disposable mask stands before her, stretches out his arms and clasps her shoulders. The silent action is a cue for her to lean into his hands, to steady and brace herself for what is to come. She briefly makes eye contact and her fear must be evident - even with just his eyes visible, she sees the small, empathetic smile he gives, as if to say there’s no reason to fear. 

Her mind begins to race as she feels her back is now exposed to the cold air; she grips the pillow tighter, she squeezes her eyes shut. Her eyes remain tightly closed in an attempt to keep the tears she feels building at bay - tears of excitement, and most certainly, also fear. Of the known and unknown, the remembered and forgotten.

She can hear activity around her increasing as more people enter the room. They introduce themselves but her adrenaline prevents her from retaining that information. She hears a man, sitting behind her, narrating the steps that will be taken before inserting a needle into her exposed back; before she loses sensation and movement in the lower half of her body, before she experiences further vulnerability in this cold, sterile room.

Laying down on the narrow bed, a disposable curtain now obstructs her view, her arms spread wide to either side, while cords connected to numerous monitors are adhered to her body, she feels the bed tip and tilt beneath her and the noise increases. She wonders if they notice how fast her heart is beating, how it increases as her helplessness grows and she lays there overwhelmed and alone.

Automatic doors hiss open and shut, disrupting her thoughts. She turns her face to see a familiar set of eyes looking down at her. He smiles at her and she conjures up every ounce of bravery she has for him, for what is yet to come, while at the same time fighting back the tears she refused to let fall earlier. He holds her hand and she squeezes it, as if that touch could transfer some of the fear she feels in her body to him. He sees the tears she tries to hide, squeezes her hand back and tells her it will be ok. She focuses on the feeling of her hand in his and the feeling of safety she experiences in his presence, instead of both the subtle and aggressive movement she feels and the sounds of metal instruments being used on the other side of the blue curtain. She squeezes her eyes shut once more, praying again for strength, protection and health - ‘Help me be brave, and keep us safe.’

There is pressure, and then there is not.

There was silence, and then the first cry was heard.

Her tears fall freely - they are about to meet their baby. Their unexpected gift.

Waiting

I began using PowerSheets (which is essentially a goal setting book) at the beginning of this year, and haven’t done much with them recently, but part of the process is to find your word for the year. When I began, I didn’t feel any one word resonate with me, to sum up my goals or theme of my year. So I didn’t claim a word, but I'm beginning to think a word claimed me.

The bits of encouragement I’ve discovered recently and over the past year - on the internet or in books and devotions I am reading or songs I’m listening to - are all centered around ‘waiting’. In fact, much of what I am trying to teach my children lately is about waiting and patience... but it’s something that I want to them to grasp without having to model it myself.

I had a conversation with a friend the other day (she recently shared a quote by Jamie Wright on Instagram that summed up our conversation perfectly) about how we all want to talk about things in past tense - that something was ‘fixed’ and we are better now. How we want to push people towards healing and want them to be ‘over it’ instead of being messy and in the middle of it. We do this to others and we do this to ourselves. The quote acknowledges that the writer is in the middle of the mess and doesn’t have (as she says) "a redemptive conclusion" for her readers. Waiting, in my opinion, is both messy and without a redemptive conclusion. Yet.

One of the things I’m learning about/in grief is that there is a lot of waiting. And I’m learning that in waiting, there is a lot of grief. Waiting on something you want SO BADLY is hard and there comes a point where I’ve found myself having to acknowledge that perhaps my preferred outcome may not happen - at all or in the way I'd like it. I continue to cling to hope, but I recognize the importance of mourning that loss in my life - that death of a dream or perceived future, that unmet expectation I naively thought was a guarantee. Perhaps that thing in my life is simply delayed. Or perhaps it’s not and I’m waiting for something that will not come. 

Almost a year ago, I submitted an essay to a blog I follow that I titled “Growing Grief”. I had spent some time in my garden that summer, and more time ignoring it if I’m honest, which prompted reflection on the similarities between the plants and areas of my life thriving or suffering. At the time, friendships had ebbed more than flowed, babies had been born to others (or were still in utero but announcements had been made), and I felt overwhelmed in so many areas of my life. Touching everything on top of that, was my grief – for all that I will not have with my mom and for my own perceived failures as a woman, a mom, and a creative.

I marvelled at the plants that grew in spite of my lack of care that summer, at the plants that grew as a result of tilling the plants from the previous year into the soil. There were areas that I had put effort into that didn’t produce a thing. And there were weeds - in abundance there were weeds and other invasive (but not necessarily ‘bad’) plants that I couldn’t keep from overtaking my plot of dirt. In my essay, I reflected on how unqualified I felt when compared to the lineage of crop and garden growers I come from. I lamented that despite growing up as a farmer’s daughter and now being married to a farmer, I wasn’t very good at growing. At the time, growth and growing were the focus of that written work. Now, however, I see wait as the over-arching theme, throughout the essay and my life since I wrote those words.

The basic premise in farming (or gardening) is to put a seed in the ground and wait for days, weeks, months or years before it turns into something that is either beautiful or provides nourishment to our bodies. Sometimes it amounts to something and sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes, weather hinders or prevents growth and sometimes it facilitates a bountiful harvest. Through it all – through what we can control and what we cannot in the growing process – we must wait and we must be patient.

There is a song by Hillsong Worship called ‘Seasons’ that I’ve had on repeat for long stretches of time. As I listen, I’ve had tears stream down my cheeks or I’ve sung along passionately. I’ve found myself being able to do nothing but sit still as I’ve absorbed the words and, alternatively, I can’t help but move to the music at times. Without fail, every time the song reaches the bridge, I feel these words profoundly:

“You’re the God of seasons
I’m just in the winter
If all I know of harvest
Is that it’s worth my patience
Then if you’re not done working
God I’m not done waiting”

The thing about planting something from a seed is that the seed must die before anything can grow. And then you wait. And wait some more. Until you see those first tiny green bits protruding from the dirt. Until you see the growth.

Sometimes, waiting hurts and feels a little like experiencing a death. Sometimes the dreams we hang on to have to die and change shape. In fact, as someone whose life is saturated with growers, I know that any growth we see in our garden beds, our fields and our lives is because something died and changed and it took time for that process to happen. What is produced always takes on a different shape than what we sowed, in hope and with moisture from the sky or our tears. And it always requires waiting for the harvest.

Grieve. Wait. Grow.

These are the lessons, the words that I’m learning to live.

East Coast Adventure

My younger brother (the middle child of our family) recently married the sweetest girl you can find, in her home province of New Brunswick. I, of course, was thrilled to have an excuse to go explore some of eastern Canada.

With my camera in my backpack and what I hoped was not excessively packed luggage, we set off with unrealistic expectations for our time there while 'vacationing' with small children. We saw a few tourist-y things and I photographed less than I thought - almost only at Peggy's Cove as I tried to keep up with my son and my youngest brother - but I can say that it is a beautiful part of the world that contains some of the friendliest people. 

Below are a few photos that prove we visited Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island and New Brunswick.

SIX years // a letter to my son

Six years ago, I sat in a hospital bed with monitors and IV's attached to me, while we waited... There might have been TLC's 'Cake Boss' on repeat and I'm sure I had been texting your granny with the few updates we had to give. 

Six years ago, I didn't know that in a few hours, our doctor was going to be called in because your little body was being stressed with every contraction I had. And then shortly after that, I would be prepped for surgery. 

Six years ago, I was wheeled into a white sterile room and it felt like a dream. I remember feeling every contraction and fighting each one, knowing that every time my body tried to do what God had orchestrated it to do perfectly on its own, you were being hurt. I remember crying a lot - bouncing back and forth between fear of major surgery and knowing I would do anything for you, to make sure you are safe.

Six years ago, you were born. It's all very 'blurry', your birth. There are so many details I can't remember, because I was scared. But I remember being so VERY happy when I met you. When I saw those skinny little baby limbs and heard that cry. You were ours and you were healthy and you were perfect.

I had to wait to see you again, after they took to you be checked out. Your dad brought you down to where I was recovering and I remember my hands almost twitching I wanted to hold you so badly. I didn't get to touch you in the OR - I saw your little face, but I didn't get to touch you, to feel your skin and know you were not just a dream. It was almost too much to take, waiting for you to be in my arms.

Six years ago, I became a mom to a little boy with red hair, who didn't like to sleep unless he was swinging (at a speed which seemed almost violently fast) and had his soother in. Six years ago, I couldn't have fathomed how many times I'd want to pull my hair out at your stubbornness or probably lost years off of my life when you climbed farm equipment I thought you were too young to do. My boy, you have brought great joy to our lives. In a year that brought a scary diagnosis of an unknown disease, it also brought us you. 

Six years ago, I first began to love you. I haven't - WE haven't - stopped loving you. My sweet, sweet boy... I pray so many things for you, for who you will grow to be and who you will remain.   Mostly I pray that you will always know that we love you, that we would do anything for you. And that you will know a love deeper still, a perfect love that we try to model to you but fail so often at. Hudson, there's so much we hope for, for you... but nothing more than that you find your hope for all things securely in Jesus. Keep singing about the love of Jesus, my boy. Hold on to that love tightly.

Mama loves you better than the whole world. Happy birthday bud.