Favorite Christmas Story

I first heard the story of Barrington Bunny a few years ago when members of Rosebud Theatre did a dramatic reading of it. It's a wonderful allegory of the true Christmas story that moved me to tears. Besides, the main character is a bunny and I am bonkers for bunnies. Enjoy the story and let me know what your favorite Christmas story is. May you be blessed this holiday season.

Barrington Bunny

by Martin Bell

     Once upon a time in a large forest there lived a very furry bunny. He had one lop ear, a tiny black nose, and unusually shiny eyes. His name was Barrington.

     Barrington was not really a very handsome bunny. He was brown and speckled and his ears didn’t stand up right. But he could hop, and he was, as I have said, very furry.

     In a way, winter is fun for bunnies. After all, it gives them an opportunity to hop in the snow and then turn around to see where they have hopped. So, in a way, winter was fun for Barrington.

     But in another way winter made Barrington sad. For, you see, winter marked the time when all of the animal families got together in their cozy homes to celebrate Christmas. He could hop, and he was very furry. But as far as Barrington knew, he was the only bunny in the forest.

     When Christmas Eve finally came, Barrington did not feel like going home all by himself. So he decided that he would hop for awhile in the clearing in the center of the forest.

     Hop. Hop. Hippity-hop. Barrington made tracks in the fresh snow.

     Hop. Hop. Hippity-hop. Then he cocked his head and looked back at the wonderful designs he had made.

     “Bunnies,” he thought to himself, “can hop. And they are very warm, too, because of how furry they are.”

     (But Barrington didn’t really know whether or not this was true of all bunnies, since he had never met another bunny.)

     When it got too dark to see the tracks he was making, Barrington made up his mind to go home.

     On his way, however, he passed a large oak tree. High in the branches there was a great deal of excited chattering going on. Barrington looked up. It was a squirrel family! What a marvelous time they seemed to be having.

     “Hello, up there,” called Barrington.

     “Hello, down there,” came the reply.

     “Having a Christmas party?” asked Barrington.

     “Oh, yes!” answered the squirrels. “It’s Christmas Eve. Everybody is having a Christmas party!”

     “May I come to your party?” said Barrington softly.

     “Are you a squirrel?”

     “No.”

     “What are you, then?”

     “A bunny.”

     “A bunny?”

     “Yes.”

     “Well, how can you come to the party if you’re a bunny? Bunnies can’t climb trees.”

     “That’s true,” said Barrington thoughtfully. “But I can hop and I’m very furry and warm.”

     “We’re sorry,” called the squirrels. “We don’t know anything about hopping and being furry, but we do know that in order to come to our house you have to be able to climb trees.”

     “Oh, well,” said Barrington. “Merry Christmas.”

     “Merry Christmas,” chattered the squirrels.

     And the unfortunate bunny hopped off toward his tiny house.

     It was beginning to snow when Barrington reached the river. Near the river bank was a wonderfully constructed house of sticks and mud. Inside there was singing.

     “It’s the beavers,” thought Barrington. “Maybe they will let me come to their party.”

     And so he knocked on their door.

     “Who’s out there?” called a voice.

     “Barrington Bunny,” he replied.

     There was a long pause and then a shiny beaver head broke the water.

     “Hello, Barrington,” said the beaver.

     “May I come to your Christmas party?” asked Barrington.

     The beaver thought for awhile and then he said, “I suppose so. Do you know how to swim?”

     “No,” said Barrington, “but I can hop and I am very furry and warm.”

     “Sorry,” said the beaver. “I don’t know anything about hopping and being furry, but I do know that in order to come to our house you have to be able to swim.”

     “Oh, well,” Barrington muttered, his eyes filling with tears. “I suppose that’s true – Merry Christmas.”

     “Merry Christmas,” called the beaver. And he disappeared beneath the surface of the water.

     Even being as furry as he was, Barrington was beginning to get cold. And the snow was falling so hard that his tiny, bunny eyes could scarcely see what was ahead of him.

     He was almost home, however, when he heard the excited squeaking of field mice beneath the ground.

     “It’s a party,” thought Barrington. And suddenly he blurted through his tears, “Hello, field mice. This is Barrington Bunny. May I come to your party?”

     But the wind was howling so loudly and Barrington was sobbing so much that no one heard him.

     And when there was no response at all, Barrington just sat down in the snow and began to cry with all his might.

     “Bunnies,” he thought, “aren’t any good to anyone. What good is it to be furry and be able to hop if you don’t have any family on Christmas Eve?”

     Barrington cried and cried. When he stopped crying he began to bite on his bunny’s foot, but he did not move from where he was sitting in the snow.

     Suddenly, Barrington was aware that he was not alone. He looked up and strained his shiny eyes to see who was there.

     To his surprise he saw a great silver wolf. The wolf was large and strong and his eyes flashed fire. He was the most beautiful animal Barrington had ever seen.

     For a long time the silver wolf didn’t say anything at all. He just stood there and looked at Barrington with those terrible eyes.

     Then slowly and deliberately the wolf spoke. “Barrington,” he asked in a gentle voice, “why are you sitting in the snow?”

     “Because it’s Christmas Eve,” said Barrington, “and I don’t have any family, and bunnies aren’t any good to anyone.”

     “Bunnies are, too, good,” said the wolf. “Bunnies can hop and they are very warm.”

     “What good is that?” Barrington sniffed.

     “It is very good indeed,” the wolf went on, “because it is a gift that bunnies are given, a free gift with no strings attached. And every gift that is given to anyone is given for a reason. Someday you will see why it is good to hop and be warm and furry.”

     “But it’s Christmas,” moaned Barrington, “and I’m all alone. I don’t have any family at all.”

     “Of course you do,” replied the great silver wolf. “All of the animals in the forest are your family.”

     And then the wolf disappeared. He simply wasn’t there. Barrington had only blinked his eyes, and when he looked – the wolf was gone.

     “All of the animals in the forest are my family,” thought Barrington. “It’s good to be a bunny. Bunnies can hop. That’s a gift.” And then he said it again. “A gift. A free gift.”

     On into the night Barrington worked. First he found the best stick that he could. (And that was difficult because of the snow.)

     Then hop. Hop. Hippity-hop. To beaver’s house. He left the stick just outside the door. With a note on it that read: “Here is a good stick for your house. It is a gift. A free gift. No strings attached. Signed, a member of your family.”

     “It is a good thing that I can hop,” he thought, “because the snow is very deep.”

     Then Barrington dug and dug. Soon he had gathered together enough dead leaves and grass to make the squirrels’ nest warmer. Hop. Hop. Hippity-hop.

     He laid the grass and leaves just under the large oak tree and attached this message: “A gift. A free gift. From a member of your family.”

     It was late when Barrington finally started home. And what made things worse was that he knew a blizzard was beginning.

     Hop. Hop. Hippity-hop.

     Soon poor Barrington was lost. The wind howled furiously, and it was very, very cold. “It certainly is cold,” he said out loud. “It’s a good thing I’m so furry. But if I don’t find my way home pretty soon even I might freeze!”

     Squeak. Squeak….

     And then he saw it – a baby field mouse lost in the snow. And the little mouse was crying.

     “Hello, little mouse,” Barrington called. “Don’t cry. I’ll be right there.” Hippity-hop, and Barrington was beside the tiny mouse.

     “I’m lost,” sobbed the little fellow. “I’ll never find my way home, and I know I’m going to freeze.”

     “You won’t freeze,” said Barrington. “I’m a bunny and bunnies are very furry and warm. You stay right where you are and I’ll cover you up.”

     Barrington lay on top of the little mouse and hugged him tight. The tiny fellow felt himself surrounded by warm fur. He cried for awhile but soon, snug and warm, he fell asleep.

     Barrington had only two thoughts that long, cold night. First he thought, “It’s good to be a bunny. Bunnies are very furry and warm.” And then, when he felt the heart of the tiny mouse beneath him beating regularly, he thought, “All of the animals in the forest are my family.”

     Next morning, the field mice found their little boy, asleep in the snow, warm and snug beneath the furry carcass of a dead bunny. Their relief and excitement was so great that they didn’t even think to question where the bunny had come from.

     And as for the beavers and the squirrels, they still wonder which member of their family left the little gift for them that Christmas Eve.

     After the field mice had left, Barrington’s frozen body simply lay in the snow. There was no sound except for that of the howling wind. And no one anywhere in the forest noticed the great silver wolf who came to stand beside that brown, lop-eared carcass.

     But the wolf did come.

     And he stood there.
     Without moving or saying a word.

     All Christmas Day.

     Until it was night.

     And then he disappeared into the forest.

Tradition!

It was always me and Dad. He would sharpen his axe and we would drive miles to a spot only he knew about - the best fir trees in the Fraser Valley. Then we needed to climb. Everyone knew the most beautiful trees were hiding high up on the mountainside. Soon our frosty breath turned our eyelashes white. I touched the stubble on Dad's chin and brushed his eyelashes to watch the frost fall.

When we were tired, we had reached the perfect spot. Then came the choosing. I always picked the tallest and bushiest trees, but Dad had to explain we would need to cut half of it down as our shack didn't have vaulted ceilings. I never wanted the Charlie Brown tree. Deliberation, bargaining, compromise, and finally success. Dad chopped down the tree and we both hauled it down the mountainside, the glorious scent of pine on my gloves, jacket, scarf and in my hair. My nights would be spent in pine-scented dreams of Christmas.

We opened presents on Christmas Eve after the children's Sunday School presentation. It was always a relief to be finished my part in the play. There were over a hundred children at our church and we would rush downstairs to grab our small brown paper bag filled with peanuts, a mandarin orange and some hard candies. One year I was blessed with two oranges and dozens of candies, much to the chagrin of my friends.

Christmas traditions changed as I got older. Once I married Peter, one of his traditions became my favorite. When we spent time with his family in the Red Deer/Bentley area, we would go to the Red Deer hospital on Christmas Day and stroll down the wards singing to all the patients who were too sick to be released over the holidays. Usually there were close to 20 of us, from children to older adults, caroling and bringing cheer to anyone who would listen.

This tradition became especially poignant for us when Peter's Dad was taken to the hospital on Christmas Eve in 1997. His health had been failing and we knew this might be his last Christmas with us. On Christmas Day we gathered by his hospital bed and sang carol after carol, while tears streamed down his wrinkled cheeks. It is a memory I cherish as he died four months later.

What Christmas traditions do you have? What was your favorite Christmas?

The Ghost of Christmas Past

It was a sunny, warm June day at the Bentley Farmer's Market in central Alberta. Among the fresh produce and homemade clothes were five tiny puppies in a cardboard box. Peter picked one of them up and immediately fell in love.

We were renting a house in Calgary and the landlord had stipulated NO PETS! But the lovesick look in Peter's eyes couldn't be easily dismissed. He talked about the puppies all afternoon. He brought one of his sisters to see the puppies. He begged. He pleaded. I said that he could phone our landlord and if he agreed, I would agree. This was full-proof. I knew our landlord would never allow this. It's not as if I didn't want the puppy, I love animals. But I was just not prepared to make a 12-year (or more) committment without even considering it. We had never even heard of a Basset Hound/American Eskimo cross before.

Peter phoned. Our landlord temporarily lost his mind.

There was a double rainbow in the sky that evening as we brought Pokey home. I didn't recognize it at the time but it was a clear sign of the blessing that was to come.

Pokey was scared of thunder and didn't like walking in the rain, but cold temperatures and snow? those she loved! She and her best friend Moxie, would run full-tilt through three-feet snow drifts, looking like dolphins as they jumped above the snow and disappeared under it again.

Pokey was smart and learned over 50 words and phrases. Sometimes I had whole conversations with her. She could read my moods and comforted me when I was distraught. She was a social butterfly and we soon got to know all the dogs (and their owners) in our neighbourhood. She enjoyed children and when we walked by the local daycare the kids would come out to pet her - 20 pairs of hands swarming around her like moths near a flame.

Pokey loved Christmas! My Mom sewed her a stocking which was filled with Milkbone treats and she received gifts from family and friends. Stuffed toys were essential and she had a long yellow banana that she carried around with her. Bones, balls and Rollover were some of her favorite presents and she needed little help from us to open them.

But she is getting close to 16 now. Our vet told us if she lived to be over 14, we should consider the rest of her life as "bonus time." So we are in the bonus years we didn't expect.

I don't want it to end.

It's hard to believe that I was so unprepared for a 12-year commitment and now can't bear the thought of life without Pokey.

She has a cyst on her chest and coughs a lot. She can't jump up on her chair very well and isn't even interested in eating Rollover anymore. She is almost deaf and I have to shout for her to hear me at all. Even then she mostly ignores me. This will likely be her last Christmas and her only present will be a turkey dinner.

She sleeps 23 hours a day and I often watch her body twitch, wondering what she dreams of. Every now and then she shows signs of the dog she was. Last night she tried to vault herself onto her chair but missed very badly. Her head and front paws made it but her torso slammed into the middle of the chair, the wind knocked out of her. She turned and gave me this basset-eyed look that said, "What just happened? Why can't I do this anymore?"

I ask those questions of myself a lot more often too. We're all getting older but Pokey is aging rapidly and soon it will be time to say goodbye to one of the best companions I ever had. I'm thankful I can prolong that moment for one more Christmas and treasure the cold winter walks and naps by the roaring fire we will have together. I can't bear to say goodbye just quite yet.

Near-Death Experiences

It was just a few weeks before Christmas and I was 11 months old. To my parents dismay, I had started walking when I was 9 months. Bent on exploring (and tasting) everything in our dilapidated house, I was getting into a lot of trouble. Mom was having a hard time controlling me. There were certain things she wanted me to leave alone, which made them even more interesting for me.


Against my Mom's better judgment, and for the sake of my older brother, she decorated a Christmas tree. She thought she could keep me away from the spinning icicles and shiny glass ornaments by putting it up very high, on top of a box which was placed on our coffee table. She was sure that there was no way I could reach it.

The next day after lunch, Mom and I were alone. She was in the kitchen working when she heard me coughing, sputtering, and choking. She quickly turned around to see blood dripping out of my mouth and my face turning blue. I had managed to get to the Christmas tree and picked off one of the shiny, glass balls near the bottom. I had taken a big bite of the ball. And swallowed. Glass had cut the inside of my mouth and was stuck in my throat.

Mom, who is normally very cool in emergencies, was panic stricken. She tried to pull the pieces out but only made them cut deeper. She frantically phoned our family doctor but he was out and would not be able to get to our place for hours. No one was near enough to help her. There was no 911.

My breathing was getting worse and she shouted “NO!” She was not going to let me die. She prayed, picked me up and turned me over - face down on her lap. Then she ‘gently’ slapped my back while tears were streaming down her face. I threw up my lunch and three large pieces of glass. Mom was able to pull the rest out of my mouth.

The doctor came later that day and said it was amazing that Mom dislodged those pieces. I would have choked to death if I hadn’t thrown them up. My throat and mouth were pretty cut up, and I didn’t eat for awhile but it all healed. My brother was so very glad to have me around that first Christmas together!


My Mom told me this story many times. She wanted me to know how precious my life was to her (and the rest of my family) but this story also filled me with a sense of purpose. I was constantly reminded that I had survived, or rather, God had chosen to spare my life. I was alive for a reason. I wanted to make my life count.


I still feel that sense of purpose today. I try to invest my life into the lives of others. By giving myself away I find out who I truly am.

Okay, your turn - have you had a near-death experience? How has it changed your life?

Winter Wondering

I love winter. I have to, I'm Canadian! But I loved it more when I was a carefree child. The worries of getting around on ice-covered streets, being stuck in massive traffic jams and meeting deadlines were eons away. The only thing on my youthful agenda was exploration and discovery!

I loved the feeling of soaring over our ice-covered pond or whirling into a spin like Toller Cranston. Even though the pond had tufts of grass that would send me flying, it was better than our indoor rink. When it snowed I would lift my head to the heavens feeling the frozen flakes tingle as they melted on my face. Then I'd catch them on my tongue, cooling my steaming breath.

I loved to live dangerously. And my brother helped me out by creating a unique sled renowned in our neighbourhood. He had taken a ratty recliner seat and nailed it to some old skiis. He added some ropes for navigation and created a masterpiece that couldn't be missed. Man did that thing fly! Everyone wanted a chance to drive it but it was a bear to steer. I remember narrowly missing a tree while barrelling down the high slopes of the junior high near our house.

A new snowfall would bring heightened anticipation. Standing with my back towards virgin snow, I never felt fear as I fell backward, waving my arms and legs. Then, very carefully, I would get up so the angel would be perfect. I would back away slowly, covering my tracks, creating a miracle.

One day when I was in Grade 7, we had so much snow our teachers encouraged us to build the biggest forts we could. It was the guys against the girls, the forts towering above our heads. Our teachers joined in the battle at lunch and it became WWIII. There were snipers, spys and guys without fear who ran right into our hard-packed, bullet snowballs. Almost all of us had to go home to get out of our soaked clothes. Ski pants hadn't been invented yet...

Neither had ATM's, 24-hour shopping, online stores or video games. Heck, my parents had recently bought our first black and white TV. How could I even imagine that in the decades to come almost every school child would have their own lap tops or iPhone or whatever it will be in a few years time?

And no, I didn't have to walk 20 miles to school in a blizzard, uphill both ways - but my parents did!

It's almost impossible to get back the simplicity of those winters - Christmases where we made each other gifts. Where the highlight was spending time with our extended family, listening to their embellished stories and laughing until the turkey we just ate threatened to come back up.

I find it takes an enormous effort to bring back simplicity. What traditions do you have that echo the simplicity of winters and Christmases in your life?

What Is Stephen Harper Reading?

Well we know he reads the Guinness Book of World Records (Harper's favorite book as mentioned during his 2004 election campaign) and that he loves hockey, but beyond that...

...award-winning Canadian author, Yann Martel, has taken it upon himself to encourage the Prime Minister's reading habits. At a Wordfest event this fall, Martel shared his pet project with us - sending Stephen Harper a book every two weeks for the duration of his term as Prime Minister of Canada. Martel entertained us by reading a few of the letters that he has written the Prime Minister (one of which he sends with each book). They are witty, enganging and edged with sarcasm. You see, even though Martel has heard from many other authors and even Barak Obama about his endeavour to encourage our leader's reading habits, he has yet to receive a response from the Prime Minister himself.

And he's been doing this every two weeks for over three years.

But he isn't just writing for an audience of one. Not only can the book list and accompanying letters be found at http://www.whatisstephenharperreading.ca/, the first 55 letters have been published. It is very entertaining reading. Right now he is on book 95 and all of these will be published as well, if and when Stephen Harper is dethroned.

But is this really any business of Martel's at all? Well, "The answer is simple," he writes. "As long as someone has no power over me, I don't care what they read, or if they read at all. It's not for me to judge how people should live their lives. But once someone has power over me, then, yes, their reading does matter to me, because in what they choose to read will be found  what they think and what they will do."

The books he has sent or written about (some of which I pulled from my own shelves and have included in the photo at the top of this blog) include classics of course, but Martel's quirky character prevails. He has also sent poetry, children's books and even a book of Paul McCartney lyrics (after the Prime Minister sang "With a Little Help From My Friends" at the National Arts Centre in October 2009...
 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JOt2Qp0H9G8

In his letter that accompanied book 51 - Julius Caesar, Martel writes, "There is nothing sacred in or about Shakespeare, but one can lose and find oneself in his work the way one can lose and find oneself in the Bible...If one were on a desert island with only the Bible or the complete works of Shakespeare, one would do all right. If one had both, one would do well."

Well indeed!

Further to Martel's unique take on books is the fact he has been sending Harper used books. "I have done this not to save money, but to make a point," Martel writes, "which is that a used book, unlike a used car, hasn't lost any of its initial value...I like the idea of holding a book that someone else has held, of eyes running over lines that have already seen the light of other eyes. That, in one image, is the community of readers, is the community of literature."

So, my community of readers, if you could recommend a book for Prime Minister Stephen Harper to read, what would it be?

Chaos & Quiet

I thrive in the midst of chaos. Well, for short periods of time anyway. The excitement and energy that big cities, massive concerts or even a group of toddlers bring is invigorating, for awhile.

My defining experience of chaos was when Peter and I were travelling in Santiago, Chili a few years ago just before Christmas. It's a city of 5 million people and in the two days we were there, I felt like we met a lot of them. There were young boys standing in the middle of traffic at every light, selling cold drinks, Christmas trinkets, or juggling for coins. Whenever we stopped people were knocking on our car window asking for money - one woman cradled her baby in her arms as she went begging from car to car. Packs of dogs ran wild in the streets begging for food or attention. While we were on the road other drivers beside us would yell for directions or shout other things (all in Spanish and we only knew a few words of the language). One afternoon when I was resting Peter was "arrested" and taken away to be interrogated, (in Spanish of course). It took over a hour for him to figure out he was walking in an area where the signs (in Spanish) clearly indicated he shouldn't be trespassing. Thankfully everything was forgiven and laughed about without serious consequences. Santiago is a city I would love to visit again, but I never want to live there.

After an experience like that, I crave quiet. The place where I really come alive, where I envision my dreams, aspirations and goals, is in silence - moments of stillness. When I was a young girl, I would spend hours watching snow fall. The soft, white, silent blanket would cover everything - showing no favoritism towards the rich homes and cars over the poor. I love the fact that snow has no bias, prejudice or discrimination. This cloak of invisibility gives no heed to our need to "get somewhere," effectively shutting down roads, highways and businesses. There is a feeling of freedom for me when this happens. I love it when our busy world is effectively slowed to a halt.

When I was 16, my Mom and I were housebound for three days. The snow came up to our roof and we had to shovel a tunnel just to get out our front door. My Dad was able to walk to work but with most of the shops, schools and roads closed, my Mom spent hours telling me stories of her youth while we designed and creating masterpieces out of macrame (okay, so it was the 70s).

Moments like these made me realize that if I chose to live life in chaos, I would never know myself. The difficult circumstances that make up life and death happen to you in the midst of chaos. You choose how you will react to them when you are still.

Canadian author, Yann Martel, writes, "To read a book, one must be still...Religion, too, makes use of stillness, notably with prayer and meditation. Gazing upon a lake in autumn or a quiet winter scene - that too lulls us into contemplative stillness. Life, it seems, favours moments of stillness to appear on the edges of our perception and whisper to us, "Here I am. What do you think?" Then we become busy and the stillness vanishes, but we hardly notice because we fall so easily for the delusion of busyness, whereby what keeps us busy must be important and the busier we are with it, the more important it must be. And so we work, work, work, rush, rush, rush. On occasion we say to ourselves, "Gosh, life is racing by." But that's not it at all, it's the contrary: life is still. It is we who are racing by."

Do you thrive on chaos or do you need moments of silence? Where do you find stillness in your life?

The Gifts My Father Gave Me

My Dad died 21 years ago.

I miss him.

There's something special about a father/daughter relationship at it's best, and ours was that. Even though Dad was 51-years-old when I was born, he never seemed older than my friends fathers.

When I was pre-school age, he would come during the work day and pick me up in his monster truck, lifting me high into the seat. I felt like we were driving closer to the sky than the earth. He always had time for a game of badminton in our back yard but his favorite passtime was to roughhouse with me. I soon learned to use my gender to my advantage. There were times I would cry out as if I was hurt (think of the World Cup soccer players grasping their shins when they were barely touched). My Mom would invariably call out,"Not so rough, Henry, she's a girl you know." Then I'd grin and really attack him while he would try to find a gentle way of keeping me at bay.

As I reflect on his life and our relationship, here are some of the most important gifts he gave me:

• a sense of humor. Dad was always pulling practical jokes or telling jokes at work and home. One April Fools Day when I was young, he woke me up and told me to come see the baby deer in our front yard. I raced to the window looking frantically for the fawn. Although Dad was chuckling I didn't see the humor in this as my disappointment was huge. He often told jokes in low German and though I never understood them, they made my Mom laugh.

• confidence. When I got my learner's license and my Mom refused to drive with me, Dad took over. He would take me out every Sunday afternoon near the Abbotsford airport where there were criss-crossing roads with virtually no traffic (this was quite a few years ago :). He taught me to parallel park by pounding in two wooden poles the proper distance apart. If I knocked one of them down, I did it again...and again... Once I got my license (on the first try) he made me change all the car tires and showed me how to check the oil and transmission fluid. He gave me the confidence I needed to handle car problems and flat tires when there was no one to help me.

• love of animals. This was our special secret. Mom didn't want pets. The only reason we had a number of cats (all living entirely outdoors) was because of the mice on our property. Dad was my animal ally. If he caught a mouse and it wasn't dead, he gave it to me to nurse back to health. Once it was better I had to take it into our neighbour's woods and release it there. When I rescued a wild rabbit that had been mauled by dogs, he took shifts with me feeding and caring for it. Dad and I often found baby birds stranded out of their nests and he would show me how to put them back. He was the one who talked Mom into allowing us to have a dog. Unfortunately "Tiny," our golden lab puppy, only stayed tiny for a few weeks. With a penchant for chasing airplanes, and with us being right on the flight path for the Abbotsford Airshow, Tiny was soon moved to a farm.

• spiritual integrity. Dad and his whole family had to flee Russia because of spiritual persecution. Dad was only 16 years old at the time. Though he told me few stories about that time, he showed me that his faith was real. We had family devotions every day and often the stories Dad read moved him emotionally. He was not ashamed to cry, even though I was sometimes ashamed that he did it. But as I grew older, I saw how deep his relationship with God was. I became to appreciate his ability to show his feelings when so many men bottled theirs in. He helped give me the freedom to express my own emotions and live a spiritual life that is meaningful and deep.

• expressing love. I was Daddy's 'little girl' and he told me he loved me often, even when I grew taller than him. Fathers usually have a harder time expressing their love for their sons than their daughters and I think that was true with me and my older brother. Maybe because I was much more demonstrative of my love, Dad found it easier to respond in kind. In my mid-20s, when I got really sick, he didn't know how to help me. One evening he sat on my bed and told me how he had loved me when I was born and how that love had grown. It was the best thing he could have done. When I moved to Calgary, I knew he missed me very much. Whenever I flew home I would spend as much time as I could just being with him, a companionship where words were seldom used. When his kidneys failed and he knew he was dying, he asked me all sorts of questions about my car, my boyfriend (soon to be husband) and my finances...like he was just making sure I would be okay. The last words he said to my Mom (and my brother and me) were, "I love you."  Because of him, I never miss an opportunity to say those words to someone else.

I wish my Dad were still alive, but I'm so thankful for all the things he taught me. What did you learn from your Father? What gifts did he give you?

Tennis Anyone?

I know most of you think tennis is as much fun as watching grass grow. Well, I happen to LOVE watching grass grow. What's even more fun is seeing grass being ground into dirt and clay under the rapid footwork of Rafael Nadal.

Yes, he's my tennis hero, not just because of his long hair or bulging biceps (although those help, of course). Rafa's positive attitude in each and every match, even when he is losing, is amazing. His willingness to work harder than most of the top ranked men, so he can chase down every ball is compelling. But it's how this fiesty Spainiard has dealt with the chronic tendinitis that's plagued his career that has really gained my admiration. This is a potentially career ending injury he has battled for years, and he is only 24.

In 2009, Rafa won very few tournaments due to painful tendinitis in his kness. He thought his career might be over. But he worked hard at finding a treatment that enables him to perform at the highest level.

This year was astounding for Rafa. Even his greatest rival, Roger Federer, can not claim a better year.

Nadal won all three major clay court tournaments leading up to Roland Garros, the clay court Grand Slam in Paris. The two weeks of tennis there found Rafa on the brink of elimination a number of times. His strength, determination and positive attitude kept him on the court. When he beat Robin Soderling in the final, he dissolved into deep sobs - a display of emotion he had never shown before. He explained how important it was to win this tournament after thinking he may never be able to compete again.

A few weeks later he went on to dominate Wimbledon, the grass court Grand Slam in London. Winning both tournaments back to back is something few players, other than Bjorn Borg, have ever achieved. Rafa has done it twice.

In September the U.S. Open loomed. This final Grand Slam of the year was extremely important for Rafa. To win it, would mean a career Grand Slam. Only six other men have ever won all four Slams in their lifetime as the surfaces are so completely different. In the last 48 years just Andre Agassi and Roger Federer have managed this feat.

Nadal only dropped one set on his way to becoming the youngest person ever (in the Open era) to claim the career Grand Slam crown.

Yes, Rafa Nadal inspires me!

Watching him play makes me believe in myself. When I see his biceps and fitness level, I start pumping iron. When I see him fight back from injury, I continue to wage war against a chronic, physical illness. When he says he never gives up on any single point in the game, I try to bring my best attitude to everyday challenges.

So who inspires you? Where do you get your motivation to be a better person? I'd love to hear your story of the 'hero's in your life!

What did you name your car?

Okay, I know you've done it. You've given your car a name. Ever wonder WHY exactly we do this? My theory is, it's the 'Adam-complex.' (Freud missed this one completely.) It seems that ever since God asked Adam to name all the animals we've been naming everything in sight.

When I first met my future husband, Peter, he was driving something he called The Higgen-bomb. Affectionately named after the guy that sold it to him, Peter bought this wreck for $1 but then found .35 cents in the vehicle as he was cleaning it up. What a bargain! At the time, I hardly knew Peter, but agreed to write a story for this young editor and his fledgling newspaper, City Light News. It would be my premiere piece of published journalism. But first, I needed to survive the drive to the interview.

The Higgen-bomb was a standard Ford Maverick that didn't have any brakes...Have you noticed how people often get a vehicle that mirrors their own personality? I soon found out Peter was an active communicator. He enjoys expressing his viewpoint and looks frequently at his passenger(s) to gauge their response. In fact, on this first drive together he spent more time looking at me than at the road. He was chatting, shifting, waving his hands in the air to make a point, using the emergency brake at every stop and glancing at me constantly. Within five minutes of us 'hitting' the road, I knew we were going to die...

Peter had bought the Higgen-bomb after he found out his van was guzzling way too much gas. He only owned this van for a few short months before it's lifespan seemed about to end. The van was wheezing its last breaths, limping along the roads. Three different mechanics told him it was engine trouble. So Peter drove to Cochrane where a friend provided him with an engine and was going to install it for free. But first they decided to check out the possibility that it was only a disconnected valve. Sure enough, it was fixed in minutes and resurrected from the dead. Quickly christened 'Lazarus' Peter soon thought it more appropriate to rename it Lazarust!

In the 20 years Peter and I have been married, we've only owned three vehicles, but all have had special terms of endearment. Peter bought the Sprint the week we started going out. He's always remarked what a good week that was. It was our 'happy car.' (No, not because of that.) It got it's name after we were married and Peter had a minor altercation with an SUV that left the hood of the Sprint slightly bent. We decided that rather than fix it we would just bungee cord the hood down. Unfortunately, when we were driving on the highway, the increased air current would lift the hood up. When the winter sun was setting, and a long shadow of the car could be seen on the side of the road, the raised hood made it look like it was smiling.

After the Sprint came the Spirit. With plush seats, cruise control and air-conditioning, we had landed in the lap of luxury. I would wash this car frequently as I didn't want to have an 'unclean Spirit' around. And whenever we went for a drive, we would go wherever the Spirit would lead us...

The Saturn was next, (getting the "S" trend?) and it has been out of this world! We bought this car on December 31st at 4 pm, 2002 (talk to Peter about this) and have had virtually no extra costs so we plan to drive it into the ground, or to the stars, whichever comes first.

Ask almost anyone what they have named their car or truck and you'll get an interesting story. So will you tell me yours?

CHANGE

It happens. Whether you want it to or not. Change is something you can control or it can be a runaway train, taking you on a frightening ride with no guarantees as to how it will end.

Right now, I just want to look at the change we have control over. Specifically changing ourselves and our character. As I'm working on my novel, this is one of the essential aspects of the main characters. Do they choose change as a result of the circumstances around them? Are they so set in their way they will never change?

When I was in Grade 7, I decided to re-invent myself. Have you ever done this? Looked at who you were and decided you could be better - way better? Well, I had been in the same clique of girls from Grade 1. We did everything together and were bound by a mutual love of academics and athletics. But I was a follower. Two of the girls made ALL the decisions for the group and I was tired of it. So one recess, while we were outside "taking orders" for our activities that day, I stood up and outlined a plan for what I decided I would do during recess and lunch. Everyone was silent. The two girls looked at each other, a bit jaw-droppingly stunned. Then they shrugged, turned to me and one said, "That sounds great. Let's do that instead." And THEY followed ME.

That moment changed the course of my life. I realized that if you have enough self-confidence to risk rejection and are willing to go it alone if need be, people will follow you. But more than that, I began to like the person I was becoming. I decided to change many of my characteristics that year and it was one of the best years of my life. Going from 12 to 13 for a girl can be pretty traumatic. For me, it was transformational. I started to like just being with myself. I set personal goals, to try to understand the essence of truth, knowledge, love... I took a keen interest in others and started my life-long passion of trying to find out what makes people tick (my God-complex :). I was no longer afraid to say "No!" to my peers when I didn't want to do something, no matter how influential the group was. This saved me from alot of trouble later on.

Have you ever deliberately decided to change yourself? Or to change your focus in life? What has been the most dramatic change that you have had control over?

Choices.

We make hundreds of them every day. Most, like choosing what to wear or what we want for breakfast, go entirely unnoticed. More deliberate, time-consuming choices, like starting a blog, can open new doors and create a whole new world of contacts and relationships (I hope).

Then there are the BIG ONES. The choices that will change the trajectory of our life. What to do when we grow up (if we grow up). Where to live. Who to marry. Do we want children? Will we settle for a dog?... Here we have control, mostly. We can choose our friends. But the family we are born into, the color of our skin, the country and economic strata - those choices are made for us.

I am one of the lucky ones. I was born into a loving family in western Canada. When I was young, we were poor, but we always had food, clothes, a roof over our heads and an amazing world around us to explore. When I was eight or nine years old I recognized this blessing and began being thankful for all I had. So many other children have not been as lucky.

Last night Romeo Dallaire was in Calgary. His latest book, "They Fight Like Soldiers, They Die Like Children" looks at the plight of children abducted and used as child soldiers. Born in Rwanda, Sierra Leone, Sudan, the Congo and many other war-torn countries, these children know abject poverty, rampant disease and pervasive violence. They had no choice about any of this. They cannot leave.

“Child soldiers,” Dallaire writes, “are a commander's dream come true: the perfect low-technology, cheap and expendable weapon system that can perpetuate itself ad infinitum.” It's easy for them to be lured away by armed soldiers who promise to feed and clothe them. Dallaire wants to eradicate the estimated 250,000 children involved in armed conflict around the world. He is actively recruiting Canadian teens to join his Campaign Zero Force (http://www.zeroforce.org/). He hopes to recruit 2.5 million teenagers to 'talk' to the youth in developing countries through Skype, Facebook, text messaging or even in person. "I want them to be disturbed enough about this to do something," Dallaire said. He sees the next generation of students who have been blessed by living in this country become advocates on behalf of those who "are at risk of being abducted, raped, drugged, abused and used as child soldiers."
So can we take the blessing we have recieved and make a tangible difference in someone else's life?

Mildred Taylor says, "We have no choice of what color we're born or who our parents are or whether we're rich or poor. What we do have is some choice over what we make of our lives once we're here."

What choices have you made that have changed your life for the better? The worse? If you could live life over again, would you change some of the choices you've made?

PS - Special thanks to Heidi for your persistence. Yes, a blog! Finally.