Charlie, Georgia, Odia and Larry
Growing Older, Growing Richer
It is awful getting older. And I've been so sick and getting sicker... Ugh.
It's been tough but I have made some beautiful decisions that have stood me in good stead.
One of them was - when things began to fall apart, I moved out of my Adamar apartment in Winnipeg and into the basement of Odia and Larry's home in Winkler. I know now that it was one of the best decisions I could have made.
It was supposed to be just a bedroom. Somehow, however, I have gradually taken over the entire basement—don't tell them. I have a lovely bathroom, a comfortable living room, a television, easy access to the rec room, office, library, and even a workout room with a treadmill.
But better than the space itself is what it provides: the opportunity to be with my lovely daughter Odia and get to know her in a new and special way.
Odia is my middle daughter—the one parents sometimes overlook simply because the oldest child often assumes a kind of positional leadership in the family. I suppose I thought I knew her well, and in many ways I did. She always seemed —a survivor, resourceful and capable. I trusted that strength and just let her be.
Meanwhile, our oldest daughter, Candace, was more like Cliff: an entertainer, spontaneous, sometimes a bit flighty. She seemed to need more attention. But then Candace was murdered at 13 years of age, and our family changed completely. That's when, Odia, 9 years old at the time, naturally filled the gap Candace had let behind. But frankly I was too absorbed by our family trauma to notice much.
Now I realize how neglectful I was. I didn't pay much attention to to Odia. I assumed she was a survivor and I was right - she survived all of our chaos - but she did so much more. She grew through it all.... Now sometimes I wonder where she came from - she is truly amazing.
For one thing, she is a gifted artist, much like her father. She has a remarkable social intelligence and even a touch of the entertainer in her. Her laugh can command a room. People are drawn to it. I, on the other hand, have always been more of a wallflower.
Very early on, she showed my mother's gift with food. We used to call Odia our Martha Stewart, and she has never lost that touch. While I spent much of my life trying to escape the kitchen—and developing highly efficient ways of avoiding it—Odia embraced it. Her cookies are to die for. In fact, all her baking is extraordinary, both in taste and presentation. She can still wow the many tea parties and social gathering she organizes at the church.
Somewhere along the way she also developed the same organizational genius that I always admired in my oldest sister. In her home, everything has a place, and everything somehow finds its way back there. This gift for organization and problem-solving now expresses itself in her remarkable understanding of technology. She understood artificial intelligence - and was using it long before most of us knew what it was..
Even more impressive, she organizes people with the same ease. Satisfaction seems to follow her wherever she goes. It is no surprise she has become Vice-President of People and Culture at Friesens in Altona.
Her home reflects who she is - as well. Everything is thoughtfully chosen. Everything speaks of care, beauty, and commitment. She has created an atmosphere that feels both welcoming and inspiring. She is remarkably organized, endlessly resourceful, and deeply wise.
I am fortunate beyond words that she pays such close attention to me. She takes me to medical appointments, keeps track of names, medications, questions, and instructions. She makes sure I receive the best care possible. Because of her, I have excellent medical support and access to whatever I need. A doctor's appointment and medical consultations that might once have felt overwhelming become a simple outing.
On top of all that she has a beautiful husband, Larry.
I would never be here if Larry had not been the first person to invite me into their home after Cliff died.
Watching Larry often reminds me of my father. He loves vehicles. His garage reminds me of my father's old gas service station, filled with tools and projects and possibilities. He cares for every vehicle with extraordinary attention. His truck is practically an art piece, complete with bright red air nozzles and polished details. Even my vehicle is always clean, maintained, and ready to go.
When Larry cooks, he enters another realm altogether. He becomes a master chef, delighting in every flavor, every seasoning, every possibility. I used to think restaurant food was always superior because it was prepared by professionals. Not anymore. When Larry takes over the kitchen, it feels as if we are living inside a cooking show.
In the mornings, when Larry sees me, he always pauses and asks, "How are you doing?" his chaplain's heart comes forward. He has an extraordinary ability to see people, listen deeply, and connect. His bedside manner comes naturally because he genuinely cares for those who are vulnerable. In those moments, he becomes a chaplain. He listens. He notices. He offers presence more than answers. It is a quiet ministry, but a powerful one.
Larry is not only my son-in-law and the owner of the house. He is also the pastor of Winkler Cornerstone Vineyard Church, where I worship. His generous heart sets the tone for the entire congregation. His operatic singing voice fills the sanctuary, and his passion for healing prayer helps knit us together into a healing family.
Best of all, he never complains when I ask him to pick up medication, drive me to a hair appointment, or take me for coffee at the Outpost Grill or Mulligan's.
Then there is Georgia. Right now, we are all delighted to have a front-row seat as she becomes a young woman. I constantly remind myself that she is only eleven.
There is something miraculous about watching this transformation. One moment she is still playing with a squishy toy, and the next she is mixing ingredients for a cake without a recipe and producing something that leaves us speechless.
One moment she displays wisdom beyond her years, speaking with confidence and insight. The next she is giggling, expressing her fears, and running off to her room.
Her vocabulary astonishes me. Her observations often leave me speechless. It is breathtaking to hear such mature wisdom emerge from someone still so young. The other day she was able to describe the difference between fake optimism and informed hope. She is worth watching.
And then there is Charlie. Charlie, the family dog, is thirteen years old.
He follows me everywhere, deeply interested in my every movement. We share one important passion: chocolate. Unfortunately, Charlie has occasionally stolen mine, consumed it, and somehow survived.
His barking can be disruptive. Sometimes it is enough to drive a person crazy.
But then I think about the alternative. The alternative would be silence. Charlie refuses to allow that. He stirs things up. He creates commotion. He keeps life moving.
From my little suite downstairs, I hear the sounds of family life unfolding above me. Not the details of private conversations—those belong to others—but the music of ordinary living. I hear people coming and going. I watch the dog being cared for. I see the yard maintained. I observe the rhythms and responsibilities of everyday life.
As my own body becomes more fragile, I find myself surrounded by signs of life growing stronger.
Growing older may be difficult.
But growing older while surrounded by love is a profound blessing.
It is awful getting older. And I've been so sick and getting sicker... Ugh.
It's been tough but I have made some beautiful decisions that have stood me in good stead.
One of them was - when things began to fall apart, I moved out of my Adamar apartment in Winnipeg and into the basement of Odia and Larry's home in Winkler. I know now that it was one of the best decisions I could have made.
It was supposed to be just a bedroom. Somehow, however, I have gradually taken over the entire basement—don't tell them. I have a lovely bathroom, a comfortable living room, a television, easy access to the rec room, office, library, and even a workout room with a treadmill.
But better than the space itself is what it provides: the opportunity to be with my lovely daughter Odia and get to know her in a new and special way.
Odia is my middle daughter—the one parents sometimes overlook simply because the oldest child often assumes a kind of positional leadership in the family. I suppose I thought I knew her well, and in many ways I did. She always seemed —a survivor, resourceful and capable. I trusted that strength and just let her be.
Meanwhile, our oldest daughter, Candace, was more like Cliff: an entertainer, spontaneous, sometimes a bit flighty. She seemed to need more attention. But then Candace was murdered at 13 years of age, and our family changed completely. That's when, Odia, 9 years old at the time, naturally filled the gap Candace had let behind. But frankly I was too absorbed by our family trauma to notice much.
Now I realize how neglectful I was. I didn't pay much attention to to Odia. I assumed she was a survivor and I was right - she survived all of our chaos - but she did so much more. She grew through it all.... Now sometimes I wonder where she came from - she is truly amazing.
For one thing, she is a gifted artist, much like her father. She has a remarkable social intelligence and even a touch of the entertainer in her. Her laugh can command a room. People are drawn to it. I, on the other hand, have always been more of a wallflower.
Very early on, she showed my mother's gift with food. We used to call Odia our Martha Stewart, and she has never lost that touch. While I spent much of my life trying to escape the kitchen—and developing highly efficient ways of avoiding it—Odia embraced it. Her cookies are to die for. In fact, all her baking is extraordinary, both in taste and presentation. She can still wow the many tea parties and social gathering she organizes at the church.
Somewhere along the way she also developed the same organizational genius that I always admired in my oldest sister. In her home, everything has a place, and everything somehow finds its way back there. This gift for organization and problem-solving now expresses itself in her remarkable understanding of technology. She understood artificial intelligence - and was using it long before most of us knew what it was..
Even more impressive, she organizes people with the same ease. Satisfaction seems to follow her wherever she goes. It is no surprise she has become Vice-President of People and Culture at Friesens in Altona.
Her home reflects who she is - as well. Everything is thoughtfully chosen. Everything speaks of care, beauty, and commitment. She has created an atmosphere that feels both welcoming and inspiring. She is remarkably organized, endlessly resourceful, and deeply wise.
I am fortunate beyond words that she pays such close attention to me. She takes me to medical appointments, keeps track of names, medications, questions, and instructions. She makes sure I receive the best care possible. Because of her, I have excellent medical support and access to whatever I need. A doctor's appointment and medical consultations that might once have felt overwhelming become a simple outing.
On top of all that she has a beautiful husband, Larry.
I would never be here if Larry had not been the first person to invite me into their home after Cliff died.
Watching Larry often reminds me of my father. He loves vehicles. His garage reminds me of my father's old gas service station, filled with tools and projects and possibilities. He cares for every vehicle with extraordinary attention. His truck is practically an art piece, complete with bright red air nozzles and polished details. Even my vehicle is always clean, maintained, and ready to go.
When Larry cooks, he enters another realm altogether. He becomes a master chef, delighting in every flavor, every seasoning, every possibility. I used to think restaurant food was always superior because it was prepared by professionals. Not anymore. When Larry takes over the kitchen, it feels as if we are living inside a cooking show.
In the mornings, when Larry sees me, he always pauses and asks, "How are you doing?" his chaplain's heart comes forward. He has an extraordinary ability to see people, listen deeply, and connect. His bedside manner comes naturally because he genuinely cares for those who are vulnerable. In those moments, he becomes a chaplain. He listens. He notices. He offers presence more than answers. It is a quiet ministry, but a powerful one.
Larry is not only my son-in-law and the owner of the house. He is also the pastor of Winkler Cornerstone Vineyard Church, where I worship. His generous heart sets the tone for the entire congregation. His operatic singing voice fills the sanctuary, and his passion for healing prayer helps knit us together into a healing family.
Best of all, he never complains when I ask him to pick up medication, drive me to a hair appointment, or take me for coffee at the Outpost Grill or Mulligan's.
Then there is Georgia. Right now, we are all delighted to have a front-row seat as she becomes a young woman. I constantly remind myself that she is only eleven.
There is something miraculous about watching this transformation. One moment she is still playing with a squishy toy, and the next she is mixing ingredients for a cake without a recipe and producing something that leaves us speechless.
One moment she displays wisdom beyond her years, speaking with confidence and insight. The next she is giggling, expressing her fears, and running off to her room.
Her vocabulary astonishes me. Her observations often leave me speechless. It is breathtaking to hear such mature wisdom emerge from someone still so young. The other day she was able to describe the difference between fake optimism and informed hope. She is worth watching.
And then there is Charlie. Charlie, the family dog, is thirteen years old.
He follows me everywhere, deeply interested in my every movement. We share one important passion: chocolate. Unfortunately, Charlie has occasionally stolen mine, consumed it, and somehow survived.
His barking can be disruptive. Sometimes it is enough to drive a person crazy.
But then I think about the alternative. The alternative would be silence. Charlie refuses to allow that. He stirs things up. He creates commotion. He keeps life moving.
From my little suite downstairs, I hear the sounds of family life unfolding above me. Not the details of private conversations—those belong to others—but the music of ordinary living. I hear people coming and going. I watch the dog being cared for. I see the yard maintained. I observe the rhythms and responsibilities of everyday life.
As my own body becomes more fragile, I find myself surrounded by signs of life growing stronger.
Growing older may be difficult.
But growing older while surrounded by love is a profound blessing.
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