Author: pegnear

“Are you there God? It’s me, Margaret. ”

Thank you Judy Blume, for those words…and for that book.

That Margaret  was 11 going on 12 when this best seller hit the bookstores in 1970. This Margaret, best known as Peggy, was 18, but oh, how I loved that book. I related to it. I identified with the Margaret in the book.

Huh? I know, I know. I hear you…what does an eighteen year old have in common with an eleven year old…other than a name?

I too, was what they call a “late bloomer’….I had crooked teeth, was a shapeless stick until my early twenties, mousy brown hair that was as straight as a pin.

I grew up in a home where my mother was Baptist, and my father, an excommunicated Catholic who had converted to Baptist to please my mother. I like to joke and say I am the product of a mixed marriage.

My paternal grandmother  raised her children Catholic, the religion of her husband, my grandfather, yet she attended a Pentecostal church.

All ‘hell broke loose’ when, after my Grandfather’s death, she had him buried in the Wesleyan – Methodist cemetery. Her children were aghast. In a conversation  with my elderly neighbour, a childhood friend of my grandmother,  she was stunned that I would even dare suggest that my grandmother had become Catholic, let alone married one!

I also remember seeing my maternal great grandmother’s shock when I one day innocently mentioned that I was thinking of attending Catechism classes that were held on the neighbouring island on Saturday afternoons. I thought it might help me better understand my father’s background. ‘Catholics are going to hell’, she said. ‘They don’t believe in the true God and they worship idols.’ WHAT???

Oh yes, I was indeed the product of a mixed religious background! Denying, and even lying about, your religion and bigotry  ran deep in the Christian roots of my family tree.

My father used the analogy that God was the hub of a great wheel, and ALL religions were the spokes….each trying to make their way to God…just taking different routes. And so, with that in  mind, and with my father’s blessing, and encouragement, I delved headfirst into a search for my own religious identity at the ripe old age of 14.

By the time I was 42, I  had read everything I could about a few religions, (given there are some 4300+ in the world, I’d still be reading) including about 15 sectors of Christianity; Islam; Hinduism; Buddism (which in it’s purest isn’t considered a religion); Judaism,;Baha’i Faith; Wicca; Mormonism, and yes…Satanism.

To understand my journey and search,  let me first take you back to my childhood and the early influences on my young, impressionable mind.

The small island fishing village where I grew up in didn’t offer much in the way of “different”. There were no people of colour, only a handful of men that I knew that spoke anything but English…they all spoke a version of French, but conversed in english; and certainly no other religions than Christianity….and Protestant at that.  We had two  churches on the island: The Baptist and The Church of Christ. That was it.

As a child I was expected to attend Sunday School and church every Sunday. My mother sometimes went with my sisters and I, but more often than not, particularly as we got older, we went alone, or I’d go with my grandmother. My father would attend the Christmas concert and occasionally the roll call service once a year. It was a time of “Do as I say, not as I do” parenting.

In addition, for years, I attended Bible study classes, which would be the foundation of some wonderful conversations with my father, who rather than tell me what he thought a passage or a lesson meant, would encourage me to think it through and tell him what I thought (what a concept: an adult who cared what a child/teen actually thought!)…and then we’d discuss his thoughts on it and how it related to, or differed from,  my own.

I also attended several church groups for teens over the years and CGIT…Christian Girls in Training. Concerts, picnics, socials….so much of my young life revolved around the church, or as  some would say, ‘in service to the Lord.’

But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

As a child, Sunday School was the place where I first began learning about God and Jesus and the Bible. We did say nightly prayers and “grace” before meals, but that was the extent of religion in our home. Well, except that we were expressly forbidden to play cards, do laundry, or play music on Sundays….all the work of the devil I expect…..although I often wondered if the devil had a hand in those things on Sunday, what did he do the rest of the week?

To my young self, the God of my childhood was not love. The God of my childhood was vengeful, frightening, terrifying .

The God of my childhood was full of retribution and anger. Hellfire,brimstone and damnation at His hand would be your fate if you were not a believer.

Even hymns held visual terror for me…His terrible swift sword conjured images of beheadings and death; are you washed in the blood, in the soul cleansing blood of the lamb? a dead man’s blood or a slaughtered baby animal? Why would those mental images bring comfort, peace and feelings of love to a child? I had no concept of metaphors in those years. All I had were nightmares.

As a child, I did not sense the grace of God. I feared the wrath of God.

Even the hymns without those terrifying images in them, seemed to me, sad, not joyful. As a young teen I joined the choir in our church which meant another commitment of time for practices. I remember wondering why so many of the songs we sang we ‘draggy’, mournful and filled with sorrow and question.

And yet, even with so much of my life revolving around the church, I had doubts. As many of my friends were being baptized, I had a knot in my stomach even thinking about it.

As minister after minister came and went from that church on the hill, many tried to pressure me into baptism. Again, I went to my father and told him I wasn’t ready…it just didn’t feel right….the teachings of the church sounded hollow to me…so much didn’t ring true. My Dad told me to follow my heart. “Find your own truth” he said.  I was 14. The dichotomy of my life and my thoughts had begun.

So began my journey of questioning, of doubt, of understanding, of denial, of acceptance and ultimately of peace in finding my own path; my own truth; my own faith.

The power of a sunrise can be life changing. It can set the tone for my whole day.

I live in an area where we only get sunrises and sunsets part of the year…the Land of the Midnight Sun, and I try each day to make sure I watch one or the other and give thanks…just to be alive, but also for the beauty of each one.

My husband laughs and says,”… oh look…just like yesterday’s!”  He doesn’t see the subtle differences each dawn or dusk brings. It doesn’t mean to him what it means to me.

I think the only person that has ever truly related to what I see…and feel… with the power of a sunrise is my eldest grandson Daniel.

When my son and his family lived in Melbourne (AU), my husband and I were visiting and had met our then year old granddaughter Claire for the very first time.

In the morning,  Daniel, then three, would wake up each morning and lie in bed and sing. It was a wonderful way to wake up as our bedroom was next to his. Then, each morning I’d hear his little voice saying “Excuse me Gramma”….it would start in a whisper, and get progressive louder in a pleasant sing song way, never a yell. It made me smile because that was our bonding time. Daniel was a morning person like me.

One morning, the “Excuse me Gramma” call began earlier than usual…and in earnest. I sat up immediately, looked at the clock and jumped out of bed. It was just after 5:15am….Yikes! I didn’t want him to wake anyone else…and something might be wrong…the tone of his small voice told me this was urgent.

Quickly I opened the adjoining door and slipped quietly into his room.

There he was, kneeling on the bed, his little head hidden under the black out blind on the window. I knelt beside him and said “Daniel it’s very early…what’s wrong?”

“Gramma, quick look!” he said pointing to the far corner of the house that was just barely within sight.

“What sweetheart? I don’t see anything.” I said.

“There Gramma, in the sky….it’s almost gone. Can you see it?” “It was beautiful. There was purple and pink and blue. See? There. Where that yellow bit is.” he said, amazement and disappointment both coming through in his voice. “It’s gone” he said softly and turned to look at me.

I will never, ever forget the look on that child’s face. It was filled with wonder and awe, as though he had seen something truly magnificent…something so wonderful as to defy description.

I hugged him tight. “You missed it Gramma.” He said in a small sad voice. “It was beautiful” he whispered. “I don’t know what it was.”

Oh my heart! I thought it would burst at that very moment! “I didn’t see it Daniel but I think I know what it was” I said. “It was a sunrise.”

” What’s a sunrise?”, he asked.

“It’s a promise Daniel” I said, looking into the face of this wonderful, curious, brilliant child.

“The same as you go to bed when it gets dark, so does the sun, and in the morning, the same as you wake up, so does the sun. Just like when you rise from your bed, the sun rises too. Those colours that you saw in the sky is the sun stretching it’s arms and smiling at the world after a good night’s sleep”.

“Does everyone get to see the sunrise?” he asked.

“No Daniel, not everyone is as lucky as you. Some people go their whole lives and never see a sunrise. You are a very fortunate little boy.”

That day, I told his parents and his grandfather what had happened….everyone thought it cute, but to me it was more than that. I asked his parents for permission to keep him up an hour or so past his bedtime that night. There was something I wanted to share with him.

Just when he was about to get ready for bed that evening, I told him to wait. He and I were going for a walk. He was excited and asked why, but I just told him I wanted to show him something special. About 20 minutes after his normal bedtime, I took his hand and we started walking away from his house toward the west. After about four blocks, I stopped at a bench and hoisted him onto my back.

Look at that Daniel I said a few minutes later as we cleared the cluttered skyline filled with houses …it was dusk. The sun was beginning it’s descent and didn’t disappoint.

“Daniel,” I said….”this is a sunset. This is what I wanted you to see”. We weren’t disappointed. The colours were spectacular.

As we walked home, hand in hand, in the early darkness of the evening, I thought to myself…I hope you remember this day Daniel, for I shall never forget it.

 

There is something fundamentally wrong in this country. We used to be, not that long ago, a nation that believed in ourselves, in our future, in the promise of the next generation. What we are becoming…or some would argue, have become,  frightens me, angers me, and saddens me greatly. This Canada has degenerated into a country of indifference and to my ears the silence is deafening.

What began slowly as a gentle wave lapping on the shore of our consciousness, has become a tsunami of apathy.

Government sticking it to the same people that put them there; our food less and less like food, and more and more like something a compound chemist might concoct.

Paying half of what you make to taxes, then seeing programs, services and infrastructure fall away, apart or removed, and wondering what the hell your hard earned money is being spent on?

Questioning if we really get anything for our property tax dollars?

Asking why our health care is falling apart when it used to be the envy of the world. Pills for everything you have, think you have, or may get one day, pushed on you because the doctors are so overworked, that a fifteen minute appointment can’t begin to provide any information and follow-up that might actually benefit you, or the overburdened system by prevention.

Shaking our heads at the price of an education, whether a plumber, a doctor or an engineer.

Sticker shock at the cost of things, including feeding our families and keeping a roof over our heads.

Embarrassment because our children won’t be able to play minor hockey this year because it has become a sport only the affluent can afford.

Our national parks, once treasured, are now being opened up to mining developments.

Our waterways, environmentally and navigationally protected by legislation since John A MacDonald, and enhanced under Brian Mulroney, have now been opened up for development, unless named in Schedule 2 of Bill C-45, recently brought into effect by the Harper government.

There are only 62 rivers and 92 lakes in the whole country on that schedule that are deemed exempt. This means more than 99.9% of all rivers and 99.7% of all of Canada’s lakes will be unprotected.Where I live, in the Northwest Territories, only three bodies of water are mentioned: The Great Slave Lake, Great Bear Lake, and the MacKenzie River. Even heritage rivers such as the Margaree in Nova Scotia, the Thelon in Nunavut, and the South Nahanni here in the Northwest Territories are now open season for developers.

THIS is Canada? It sure as hell doesn’t look like it from where I sit.

Who do I blame for the destruction, bit by bit, of all I hold dear about my country? Stephen Harper? Certainly! Jean Chretien? Absolutely! And the list goes on, and on. But more than the politicians, I hold responsible the people of Canada.

In the last federal election, voter turnout was just over 61%. Pathetic. In fact, since the decade between 1958 and 1968, when voter turnout was at nearly 80%, each year, with the single exception of a small increase in 2010 of 2-3%,  there has seen a steady decline in voter participation in federal elections.

There is a disease in this country called APATHY.  It is the biggest destroyer of dreams, ambition, empathy and fairness.

Men and women DIED for us to have the right to a democratic society where we are able to vote without fear of retribution, intimidation, and yes, even death. Would that the rest of the world be so fortunate to have that luxury!

I get so pissed off with young people who can’t be bothered to get off of their asses to vote. They have never known what sacrifices were made on their behalf so that they could vote.

I get angrier still at people of my own generation, the baby boomers who know what it took to keep this country free, and yet still can’t be bothered to vote. They come up with every damned excuse in the book. “No one worth voting for”. “They’re all the same” “My vote won’t make a difference”. God damn it! That sorry ass attitude is destroying this country. Not only is it your right to cast your ballot, it is your damn duty for the price paid!

Have we forgotten that women in this country have only held the right to vote since 1918? And what of women in Quebec who didn’t receive full suffrage until 1940? And Aboriginal women in 1960? We cannot afford to have such short memories.

Many countries have mandatory, or compulsory voting. It’s not necessarily a bad thing and as many proponents will argue, democracy is too important for voting to be optional. The case against apathy.

Dissenters will argue that compulsory voting is  a contradiction in terms. There are economic arguments on both sides: compulsory voting saves money in campaigns, because parties otherwise splurge vast amounts on “getting out the vote”. On the other hand, enforcing the law clogs up courts and keeps bureaucrats busy, at substantial cost. They will also argue that mandatory self determination can result in favouritism or support of more left leaning parties. History has shown this not to be necessary true.

Proponents will tell you that compulsory voting is the guarantee of democracy…not it’s opposite.

There are certainly ways we can make casting your ballot easier in Canada. Do elections really need to be held on weekdays? Why aren’t we doing more to work toward secure online and telephone voting? Mail in ballots?  Could it be that the party in power senses that making voting more accessible may be detrimental to their success?

Whatever side you take on this issue, we all have to play a roll in ensuring that democracy in Canada is not replaced by apathy…or worse. We cannot afford to sit back and wait for our neighbour to change things.

We will only change things by engaging. It is not politicians that will destroy this country. It is the apathy of our citizens. And while I may not agree with who you cast your ballot for, I will forever defend your right to choose. It is that very right that apathy may one day take away, for an X not cast, is indeed an X for the party you least want in power.