It wasn’t supposed to happen like this—the panic, the flight, the last glimpses of our ancestral lands. Nor the trek through the woods at night with a few belongings, watching for enemy soldiers and other possibly unfriendly eyes, hiding, then walking again, walking, hiding, walking again, carrying the children, supporting the aged parents, our men fighting in a war they didn’t ask for, and praying, praying, hoping against despair, praying. Then riding the open flatbed rail car through the bombed-out landscape that was to become our new place, all the while swallowing the continually rising nausea over the knowledge that our homeland was no more—not for us. There could be no return. Once we had belonged; overnight we had become refugees. Once we had a past and a future; now we had a past . . . but what else? Once we had homes, livelihood, community. Overnight we had lost it all—and we were the lucky ones.
The above narration is a glimpse of what my people experienced at the end of World War II on their flight from Poland to war-ravaged Germany. For me, as the first Canadian-born in my family, I continue to ponder the meaning(s) of homeland, the plight of the refugee, and identity: in short, the importance of story. I suppose I’ve been gifted with “bifocal” vision whereby homeland means the origin country where my people had dwelt for generations as well as all the new homelands that my family and relatives had rerouted themselves to. I say “rerouted,” which slides off the tongue easily enough, as if they had used GPS coordinates. But the better word is “rerooted,” whereby you put your old roots down into new soil and, you hope, you pray, these roots, having been so abruptly pulled up, perhaps not too damaged, will find and be able to receive nourishment elsewhere, and so one day thrive again. For my own people, I can say the experiment succeeded. And in my native land that I love, Canada, I know that I am a pilgrim in a much larger story—a guest, in fact, on planet earth. 
This would explain why the Canadian poet Al Purdy’s poem “A Handful of Earth” resonates with me. He writes,
I wondered who owns this land
and knew that no one does
for we are tenants only. . . .
my place is here. . .
this place where I stand. . . .
only this handful of earth
for a time at least
I have no other place to go.
But as a conscious pilgrim, a tenant-guest, I wonder sometimes what it might feel like to belong to people who have lived in one location for centuries. If you are that person, I sometimes wish I were you. Yes, I typically marvel over people who have lived in one location in relative peace for generations, their ancestors before them, and now they with their extended family and friends. There must be something deeply satisfying, near magical, to be so rooted, so known. If you are that person, can you tell me if that is so? Satisfying, near magical? You hesitate to answer, perhaps? Did I hear you say, “No. It’s more complicated . . . more complicated by far—”? Of course, yes, I know that too: trauma history is not limited to experiences of war and flight. Might you agree then that we are all pilgrims? Guests on planet earth who can choose to live as faithful tenants on a handful of earth, or not? While we are so often divided, alas, we are nonetheless united, whether we like it or not, in pilgrimage on this beautiful and also aching, groaning, weeping planet. And so, if you like, let’s contemplate the story of another guest on planet earth.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this—the untimely child, or so some thought. “Now? Like this?” What were his parents thinking? His coming, even before his eyes saw the light, united some and divided others. Oh, the terrors of that time. The innocent babies slain while his parents fled with him to a strange land, a place of safety, until it was time to return to his native land, not exactly a place of safety, not for him. And always his own people are assaulted, murdered, often most brutally, again and again and again. Do the nations not know they are to receive the ultimate blessing through his people: the ultimate gift, the Saviour of the world? Or is this the very reason that his people continue to suffer so grievously, because of those who despise the ultimate gift?
“He was a king, you say? That’s a bit much, don’t you think, even for delusional parents like his. They were refugees, right? What? What?! He was the Creator Himself–? This, this, this nobody? This, uh, what? Carpenter? Refugee? Let’s just say it: loser. Maybe a gentle soul, but a loser nonetheless. Oh sure, you say ‘he was born to die.’ Who isn’t? So tell me another one. But oh, uh, you’re serious. . . .”
It was, yes, supposed to happen like this. His coming, his dying. Once we had made the evil choice and lost our home, the one that introduced death and all our woe, his coming united some and divided others. It was supposed to happen like this. Then as now, those who receive Him receive life, for He is Life. Those who reject him do so to their own judgment. This expected and at once unexpected child—the Christ—born to die so that we might live: this child, the Christ, once came as a guest on planet earth.
Unthinkable: the Creator coming as a guest on the planet where we are only tenants, potential good stewards, or not. The unimaginable: yes, it was supposed to happen like this. Born to die; born to rise again—and as John Donne exclaimed, echoing St. Paul, because of the Supreme Guest, “Death, thou shalt die.” Yes, Messiah’s life for ours; His life, ours, forevermore. And so, we, lost to our original homeland, Eden, are guests on planet earth, tenants, gifted through Christ to journey on this pilgrimage to our true country, our Home, where all things shall be made new.
This Christmas season, I’m pondering the astounding idea of our Saviour first coming as a guest on planet earth. What wondrous mystery is this? That our Creator should be willing to come as a lowly visitor to his own planet, as a humble pilgrim born to suffer and to die a horrible death—all for love of us. Our Guest on planet earth, the Creator incognito, who came for me, came for you, so that we, mere pilgrims, might find our true forever Home.
Now, for however many days are allotted to us, on whatever handfuls of soil are given to us, may we steward them well. And one day, on that Great Day, when our earthly sojourn is over, may we hear our Saviour say, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.”
Wishing each and all of you a truly joyous Christmas! 
Thanks for reading, for listening.
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Watch for my spring blog in March: “And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears.”
Then he adds with a laugh, “My dears, you must not take yourselves so seriously. Why should school be easy for Charles Wallace?” Taken out of the context of the story, Blajeny’s response might seem uncaring, even cold, and possibly dangerous. But it’s clear in the story that this is not the case. The fact is that Blajeny cannot make Charles Wallace’s problem disappear. There is no magic wand. But Charles Wallace is learning to adapt and defend himself, and the once ineffective school principal Mr. Jenkins grows in moral character to the point where he looks forward to dealing with the problems in his schoolhouse. Unlike Meg’s small view of what this Teacher’s purpose is, Blajeny has arrived for the far greater reason of guiding his students into discovering the nature of their battle against evil, and therefore for strengthening their readiness to meet it.
Now that school or college and university has begun for many of us, I am left pondering Blajeny’s core challenge again: “Why should school be easy?” If I vote for “easy,” what am I looking for and, if I got it, would that be good? If I vote for “hard,” what should that be and why might that be better? Obviously, these questions can take us in several directions—the topic is that important. But for today I’d like to focus on Blajeny’s challenge: school should not be easy.
In his essay “Learning in War-time,” C. S. Lewis compares the educated person to the well-travelled one. He writes, “A man who has lived in many places is not likely to be deceived by the local errors of his native village: the scholar has lived in many times and is therefore in some degree immune from the great cataract of nonsense that pours from the press and the microphone of his own age.” Lewis, like others, was worried about the outcome of modern education based on moral relativism. Unlike the old idea of education founded on objective moral truth which is the basis for our freedom and intrinsic human worth, summed up nicely in the phrase “Veritas, Libertas, Humanitas”— Latin for “Truth, Liberty, Humanity”—a modern idea of education founded on moral relativism is the soil for enslavement and dehumanization. Lewis argues that moral relativism not only leads to inferior learning but opens the door to elite controllers who will work to reshape the masses to conform, and so enslave, to the agenda of their era. (See his book 
.) Does this sound like an overly harsh judgment on much of modern education? Maybe, or maybe not?
The everlasting country where the old are young again and where it is impossible to experience fatigue, fear, or sorrow. Where all is well again, where the best of each country lives, and where our stories will truly begin. With others, I long for this Great Beginning, the New Day. Meanwhile, with others, I cherish memories and glimpse new pictures of summer that warm my heart:
And on some magical late May or early June evening, when at the 49th parallel the setting sun in the northwest shines with elvish beauty through the leafy green just so, there the blue irises at the entrance to our herb garden reign supreme. Shining sentries, serene, in salute to every good thing.
They testify of family—past, present, and future—planted on the soil of good fatherhood (and motherhood). They signal Heavenly Joy, cheering us on. Danke, Papa, danke.
and caring for his family, friends, younger ones he mentored, and others all his days. In track and field, he loved the 100 meter dash best. But in life, I’d say he was the long distance runner. You could see that he had his eye on the goal, and in his heart what mattered most in this life and for all eternity. Dad embodied what it means to be faithful to God and good to man. I owe him (and my dear mother) much, much, much.
and because, first and foremost, we have Our Father, who art in Heaven. . . . Every image of good fatherhood is a reflection of The Heavenly Father’s heart. In the words that have been attributed to George MacDonald, that I can’t now locate, “This is and has been the Father’s work from the beginning–to bring us into the home of his heart.”
You can order your copy of 
If you have more than one hometown, or maybe even had to flee yours, what stands out for you? What special things has your hometown blessed you with (even the unpleasant or very hard things) that have shaped you?
A lot of people move here but some of us get to be born here (sorry, yeah, that’s the ingrained Vancouver pride, or snobbery—take your pick—we never seem to get over it). The mountains, the ocean, the forests—well, it’s a supremely beautiful setting. Even the coastal rain is worth it, we say (most times)—liquid sunshine, right? After a long journey from the Old World in the wake of war trauma, this lovely city-by-the-sea is where my family planted their flag.
Thanks for reading, for listening!
Or is all grief horrid, unholy, the pain we cannot welcome? Then again, is holy grief the only kind of grief, the right kind—the other kind of grief is . . . is what? Can someone tell me what unholy grief would be? I have my moments when the thought that any kind of grief could be thought unholy startles me, even strikes me as wrong.
As the well-worn cover of my copy of C. S. Lewis’s The Problem of Pain testifies to, besides the Psalms, the Book of Job, Lamentations, and other books in the Bible, this is one of my go-to books when it comes to grief. I go to The Problem of Pain because its author gives no pat answers, no quick consolatory phrases, nothing that minimizes one’s experience. And I go to this book because the author openly declares his own inadequacy for addressing the subject. (When empathy seems lacking, “good advice” feels empty, even rude, doesn’t it?) In his Preface Lewis speaks of the irony of him having written a book on this subject. The disconnect between what he believed about pain and what he felt about pain was such that he wished that he could have published the book anonymously. To which his editor responded that he could explain to readers that he “did not live up to [his] own principles!” While Lewis was willing to speak to the intellectual problem of pain for about 140 pages, he didn’t for a moment feel qualified to teach the necessary “fortitude and patience” when facing pain—and this is what makes him such an authentic fellow pilgrim to have at your side. I applaud his words here: “. . . nor have I anything to offer my readers except my conviction that when pain is to be borne, a little courage helps more than much knowledge, a little human sympathy more than much courage, and the least tincture of the love of God more than all.”
My own grief over the passing of our colleague Chris resulted in the essay, “A Holy Grief: The Pilgrim’s Path to Consolation.” The essay begins like this: 
Extreme angst, even despair, looms before each one. But Lucy responds to fear with prayer, and little by little, while the darkness is just as thick as ever, she begins to feel a bit better. Then the light grows, the albatross in a voice that sounds like Aslan’s whispers, “Courage, dear heart,” and after a while they are once again in full sunlight. Once again it is clear that Heaven is the one true help. Fear, even debilitating fear, is real, but does not have the final say when we exercise the faintest glimmer of hope—or, as in this case, someone else exercises it on everyone’s behalf. To stick with the boating metaphor,
I’d like to draw your attention to a marvellous reflection featuring our 
and green stems make bold promises to become daffodils and tulips in the coming weeks. But the days are often grey, and a surprise snowfall, rare, is almost, dare I say it, fun? Be careful what you wish for! I will say this: it’s certainly brighter.
that invite greater numbers of eagles to soar on the updraft and flocks of smaller birds to huddle together as they ride the waves in community. Glide, ride–this is how to take in stormier weather. Perhaps the shorebirds can teach me a thing or two about beauty in the waiting.
Absolutely: “Even youths grow tired and weary. . . .” And beware: with this season of fatigue they say the rates of depression and anxiety peak. Then, in these last couple of years especially, how often have you heard people say, “Everyone is so tired, so tired.” How often have you noticed a kind of exhaustion, physical and otherwise, in yourself and others? So, yeah, spring fatigue is a thing—and then some with cumulating fatigue.
In our world where dark forces flex their muscles, where natural disasters shake the planet, having something of this “passion of patience” seems to be the best response. So maybe let’s consider enduring seasonal fatigue with this kind of patience that is not exactly lethargy (or not lethargy at all, regardless of our tiredness) but is carried by a distinctive energy—not enormous energy, not yet anyway, but a quiet willingness to expect energy to revive us. Then we can venture to face fatigue in a quiet hope. Instead of succumbing to depression and anxiety, we might journey along in the expectation of hope that is yet to be fulfilled. And with such a quiet hope in the not-yet-but-still-to-be comes the faint stirrings of surprising joy.
me. And, last but not least, let’s allow ourselves to rest, to pace ourselves. We have it on the best authority: take one day at a time (Matthew 6:34).
Early February has me eyeing my heart-shaped cake pans and wondering if a fluffy white angel food cake baked with coloured sprinkles and, naturally, adorned with pink icing, will crown the evening. And what about heart-shaped cookies again? My sweet tooth still delights in cinnamon hearts.
I explore the wealth that fairy tales offer for our life’s journey, and also consider the ways in which we might misread them. It’s written for anyone who loves fairy tales but also has questions and concerns over them. Are they good? Or are they bad? Do we even need them? And just what is “happily ever after”? In this book I follow the story of a grandmother writing to her granddaughter Annie for the first twenty-five years of her life in which they explore these treasured stories. Rather than giving readers false expectations of life, how do these stories leave us richer and more able to navigate the challenges, sorrows, and joys of life with wisdom, courage, and love? 
This Valentine’s Day—and indeed, this month of February, being heart month—my hope for myself and my readers is that we can ponder the ways in which we can celebrate love. Maybe consider how our lives might become like a love letter to others. Think more about the different human loves—affection, friendship, romantic love—and like C. S. Lewis in The Four Loves, ponder that in our brokenness each of the human loves must become transformed by the fourth love, God’s love, charity, in order to become ever more true. It’s a journey.
January: A new number on the calendar, another opportunity for those New Year’s resolutions. But sometimes the December festivities leave us a tad tired (and that’s a polite way of putting it). Maybe the Christmas tree is still up. If Christmas was a good season, it really is a sweet reminder, too precious to take down quickly. (I don’t understand those Christmas tree burnings that are scheduled even before Epiphany, January 6, the coming of the magi, when in some traditions Christmas is celebrated. February, is it, the right time to consider taking down the tree?) The tree needles still look pretty good, right? Even though we’re after solstice, the lights and decorations console during these dark days. Perhaps keeping the tree up a little longer acts as a bit of a safeguard against the midwinter blues that could be just around the corner—maybe. Couldn’t hurt.
But in this state, where we presumably do not lie to ourselves about our unpleasant feelings, neither do we get closer to love. Nothing is solved, not yet. Nor are we being terribly truthful, because resentment has the power to become a broken record, replaying over and over, crowding out the fact that our hurt feelings are only one piece of a very big story, a story that could have the most excellent outcome if we would only let Grace have its way with us.
Only then can we rid ourselves of those toxic thoughts, the clinging resentments. Do it seventy times seven, as Jesus said (Matthew 18:22), meaning without number, every time we need to. Yes, we will need to, again and again. But then maybe we are helped in knowing how seriously we need forgiveness ourselves?
If you haven’t heard this before, or would just like to hear it again, here’s the link: 
How counter-intuitive to resentment: the humility needed to forgive is in fact “the mightiest sword.” Humility: as T.S. Eliot writes in Four Quartets, “The only wisdom we can hope to acquire / Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless” (“East Coker,” ll. 97-98).
Don’t dwell on the past sorrows because God is doing a new thing, making a way where there formerly was no way, a way that leads to life (Isaiah 43:18-21).
I come from people who made paper stars for Christmas. They made them in their native Poland, and when their pilgrimage took them to Canada’s West Coast where I was born, they were still making them. And here my parents taught my siblings and me to make them.
Their beauty, simple yet elusive, is a testimony to faith and love, to courage in uncertainty, and to lasting goodness. They are a small reminder of the homeland I never knew but have since happily visited, and to the meaning of homeland as we are pilgrims at various stations. They speak to me still of the meaning of Advent and Christmas when we would be making these paper stars.
A marvel, this shining magnificence made by loving hands and a joyous heart. How its humble quadrangular form held the beginnings of splendour spoke volumes: a sign of family, of homeland in the heart across the globe, and of the meaning of the Christmas miracle wherever we find ourselves to be. Christ has come, and He is coming back. There is no loneliness that He cannot fill, no sorrow that He cannot redeem.
Monika Hilder 