Tiny, Fierce, and Regal
She was exquisite—a crown of soft black hair and eyes wide open. So alive, yet impossibly tiny. She was pure grace—fragile, radiant, angelic. And she was mine!
Cliff and I weren’t ready for a baby; perhaps we never would have been. Yet here she was—this unplanned, impossible little perron who had slipped past my defenses, defied all odds, and come to stay to live with us.
She turned her head and looked at me, her eyes wide and bright, seeing me as I was seeing her.
About seven months into the pregnancy, we were only beginning to accept this newcomer. We decided that we would each choose a name—Cliff if it was a boy, me if it was a girl. One evening, watching a Candice Bergen show on television, I was struck by the name. Soon after, I found the biblical reference to Candace of Ethiopia. The name carried promise, dignity, and the quiet authority of one who reigns.
Now here she was in my arms – six pound and three ounces – and she was a queen.
I brushed off the surge of emotion as blind parental love—belated, perhaps, but genuine. Then I noticed the nurses gathering near her bassinet, whispering to one another, “She’s the cutest baby ever.”
I was so proud of her that I wanted to dress her for the part. Her first public debut would be a stop at my parents’ house on the way home from the hospital, so I asked Cliff to buy her a dress—something special.
He returned to the hospital carrying a tiny pink lace dress—delicate, luminous, and perfect.
He returned to the hospital to pick us up with a tiny pink lace dress—delicate, luminous, perfect.
When we arrived at my parents’ house, I cradled our baby in my arms, wrapped in lace and wonder, brimming with pride.
But my mother took one look at the dress and gasped—not with admiration, but with alarm.
“Oh, Wilma,” she said, shaking her head, “babies need flannel, not lace and frills. She’s too tiny. She just needs something soft and warm."
It was my first true lesson in motherhood: comfort outweighs charm, and warmth matters more than beauty. I wanted to be a good mother—and my own mother, ever practical and tender in her way, stepped naturally into the role of teacher. I absorbed every word.
After the visit, as Cliff and I drove home through the mountains—from Greendale, near Chilliwack, to Harrison Hot Springs—I felt that everything had changed. I had always loved that drive, the sweep of the mountains and the quiet curve of the road, but this time it felt different. With my daughter nestled against me, the world seemed larger, deeper, more alive. Everything was more beautiful.
When we brought Candace home from the hospital and laid her gently in her pink bassinet, our pastor and his wife—who lived just across the yard from us—came over. Together, in that small, ordinary space, we dedicated our little baby girl to God.
Soon after, feeling both awed and unprepared, I asked Cliff to buy a book I had heard was essential for new parents: The Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care by Dr. Spock.
*****
Cliff and I had married two years earlier. We spent our first year of marriage working in Vancouver, then moved to Winnipeg so Cliff could attend Mennonite Brethren Bible College. He was pursuing his dream of studying theology and becoming a pastor, while I worked at Mutual Life Insurance—“putting hubby through,” as people used to say in those days.
That plan changed abruptly when I discovered I was pregnant.
Providentially, Cliff was assigned a summer interim practicum at a tiny chapel in Harrison Hot Springs, British Columbia—nestled along Agassiz Lake, a place famous for its warm, mineral-rich, healing waters. It was also close to my family, which mattered more than I could have known at the time.
Since I couldn’t work, Cliff took a seasonal job as a busboy at the elegant Harrison Hot Springs Hotel. The church provided us with a small, cabin-style cottage overlooking the beach. It was simple and cozy—and utterly perfect, like living inside a dream.
Even though we were tucked away in what was technically an isolated holiday resort, it felt as though we were living at the very heart of something alive and unfolding. The hippie movement, which had begun in the United States as a rejection of mainstream values—embracing peace, love, and freedom—had inspired an offshoot known as the “Jesus People.” A group of them had chosen Harrison Hot Springs as their summer home.
It wasn’t unusual to see young Jesus People wandering through the village with guitars slung over their shoulders, gathering in coffeehouses, singing songs of faith and freedom that spilled out onto the streets. Their voices filled the air like a rising tide, and their presence carried the unmistakable sense of awakening. Somehow, in ways we couldn’t quite name, we felt part of it—participants in something fresh, hopeful, and full of promise.
I even wore a granny dress—long, flowing, and free—and let my hair grow past my shoulders. Candace seemed to fit right in as well. They treated her like the queen she was. I often invited these Jesus People in for coffee and cake, simply to get to know them, to hear their stories, and to borrow a little of their contagious joy.
But summer slipped away far too quickly. Before we quite knew it, we were packing up and heading back to Winnipeg, returning to Cliff’s second year of studies—carrying with us the quiet imprint of a season that had shaped us more deeply than we yet understood.
Driving back across the prairies, I worried about how we would possibly manage life in a college dormitory with a baby. But when we arrived, we discovered that five other couples were returning with infants as well. The college graciously gathered all of us on the first floor of the residence, creating an unexpected gift.
It became an instant mothers’ community. Each day we tended to our small routines, then drifted into the hallway where our babies crawled from door to door. We traded stories, advice, worries, and laughter. In that narrow corridor, motherhood didn’t feel lonely—it felt shared, like a small, warm miracle we were all learning together.
And of course, to me, Candace outshone them all. She was always smiling and giggling, so healthy and strong. By five months, she was already standing —determined, delighted, and utterly fearless. We were so proud.
I remember one evening when Cliff and I slipped out to attend a church meeting, leaving Candace with the couple next door. When we returned later that night to pick her up, they opened the door wide-eyed and breathless.
“She took her first step!” they exclaimed. She was only six months old.
They spoke as though they had witnessed a tiny phenomenon—a miracle in miniature. And from that moment on, she never stopped. By seven months, she was walking confidently, as if she had always known exactly where she was going.
If we ever wanted attention, all we had to do was set her down in a mall on a Saturday afternoon. The sight was irresistible—this tiny baby walking. Shoppers would stop in their tracks to watch a bright-eyed, smiling little creature toddle about, her diapers practically bigger than she was. We could have charged admission. And of course, she adored every bit of it.
When my parents visited us during one of their cross-country tours, even my stoic father was undone.
“We have to take a picture of this,” he insisted.
But after snapping one photograph, he frowned, unsatisfied.
“Just seeing her in a picture won’t show how tiny she really is. We need a comparison.”
He paused, then brightened.
“Take a picture of my foot next to her.”
We did—and he was right. She stood just a little taller than his shoe.
No wonder this miniature, determined little person—striding into the world long before anyone expected she could—was a show-stopper wherever she went.
After Cliff graduated, we accepted a ministry position in Pauingassi, managing a trading post. It was a hard posting from the start. Cliff’s role as money manager of the community, was nearly impossible—he was threatened, harassed, pushed to the edge. I worried constantly for his safety.
Strangely, though, I never had to worry about Candace. At first, I hesitated when the local children came to the door asking to play with her, but they were fascinated by her—this small, bright newcomer. They loved her, and she loved them back with the same openness. Her natural charisma stood us in good stead. They were gentle, protective, utterly captivated and she was only three years old.
We didn’t last long. Eventually we retreated to my parents’ home in BC to recover, exhausted and burned out in every way.
It was there that we began to realize Cliff might need a different path. Perhaps he wasn’t meant to be a pastor or missionary after all. He turned toward his artistic side and applied to the Banff School of Fine Arts. We even moved to Banff for the summer. He was accepted—but then changed his mind once again.
So we packed up, yet again, and moved to Calgary. We rented a small house, and Cliff found work as a milkman while we gathered our thoughts and tried to imagine what our next venture might be.
I loved that old house—with its creaks and cracks and sense of possibility. But I worried about Candace. She missed the attention of her dark-haired playmates terribly.
One day, while I was busy unpacking, I suddenly heard a wild clatter—an eruption of noise so startling that I dropped what I was doing and ran to the front of the house.
There was Candace on the front step, an array of pots and pans from the kitchen arranged around her like a makeshift drum kit. She was pounding away with fearless enthusiasm, creating a dreadful racket that echoed down the street.
“Candace, what are you doing?” I gasped, horrified.
She turned toward me with a sly, knowing smile.
“Wait.”
So I did. I stepped back inside and watched her through the living-room window—half worried she’d attract the wrong kind of attention, half curious about what exactly I was waiting for. What did she know that I didn’t?So I did. I stepped back inside and watched her through the living room window, half worried she’d attract the wrong kind of attention, half curious what exactly I was waiting for. What did she know that I didn’t know?
Within minutes children from up and down the block began drifting toward the noise, gathering around her in fascinated clusters. And Candace—bright, confident, delighted—made friends with them instantly.
By the end of the day, she came inside glowing with satisfaction. She had her friends.
Another moment – I’ll always remember was when I had just finished sewing for her—a bright, cheerful creation with a tiny midriff top, butterfly sleeves, and a short skirt with attached panties. I had stitched it together with more hope than skill, and somehow it had turned out beautifully. It fit her perfectly.
She floated through the house like a miniature dancer—twirling, posing, admiring herself in windows and oven door. Her delight was contagious. To celebrate her joy, we decided the two of us would go shopping together.
We climbed into our little blue Datsun and headed for the mall. Candace rolled down the window and rested her arm on the ledge exactly the way I did—her quiet imitation both touching and amusing. A soft prairie breeze lifted her long curls, and her big blue eyes shone with a happiness that felt almost weightless. We smiled at each other, sharing a small, private moment of mother-daughter pride.
She carried herself with such confidence that day—older than her four years, yet still small enough to catch the warm, amused glances of strangers. People smiled at her as we passed. She was simply radiant.
As we wandered the mall, the sound of western music drifted through the corridor. We followed it to a small grandstand where four singers in wide-brimmed hats were serenading the shoppers. Their harmonies were surprisingly lovely, and we found a place to stand near the side of the stage.
One of the singers glanced down and spotted Candace. They were in the middle of “If You Happen to See the Most Beautiful Girl in the World,” and as he saw her, a slow smile spread across his face. He shifted his stance slightly, singled her out, and sang the rest of the song as though it were meant for her alone.
Candace stood utterly still—captivated, her little body wrapped in wonder. Her eyes widened, shimmering with something like awe.
“They were singing to me - about me,” she whispered, as if revealing a sacred truth.
I nodded, my heart full. To me, she was the most beautiful girl in the world—beautiful not only in the way she looked, but in the way she glowed, the way she received joy so openly, so purely.
It was—one of those memories that never fades.
But then, I became pregnant again. I honestly couldn’t seem to get this “birth control” thing straight. Life had its own ideas for me, long before I had any ideas for it.
While I was pregnant, my parents came by, planning to help me with the new baby. But since I was late in delivering --very late—and they had already scheduled a family camping trip – they offered to take Candace along and bring her back when the baby arrived.
Odia was born a week later, my parents returned soon after to help me with the baby.
My mother pulled me aside with that gentle-but-knowing look only mothers possess. “Candace was wonderful… but we discovered she can be quite determined,” she said.
Apparently, something had stuck to Candace—gum, a burr – I’m not sure. We never did figure it out from my mother’s confusing descriptions. What we did learn was that Candace wouldn’t let anyone touch her to help her. She stood her ground with the resolve of a tiny queen defending her kingdom.
My mother could not believe how this sweet, gentle, accommodating little girl revealed an entirely different side of herself whenever she felt even a hint of physical discomfort. She could be immovable, resolute, almost fierce in her self-protection. Eventually—my mother said—Candace had taken care of the problem herself, whatever it was, all on her own.
This became part of her way of being. Candace always took care of her body. Pain was her sworn enemy. She guarded herself fiercely and refused help with a determination far beyond her years. So different than me. When I was a child, I remember collecting scratches and bruises; she never did. She was steady, coordinated, cautious—my careful child.
When we introduced baby Odia to Candace. I braced myself for some kind of sibling rivalry, Instead, Candace looked at her sister – a little squirming bundle—as if she had been waiting for her. A companion. A friend.
By the time Odia was a toddler, Candace had quietly taken over the job of raising her sister. She dressed Odia up—sometimes three times a day—and together they would parade out of their bedroom in fresh outfits, like two miniature debutantes.
Both of them loved the drama of it all: the buttons, the ribbons, the tiny shoes. Every time they emerged from their shared bedroom, I never knew what I would see.
Those were simple days, crowded with diapers and giggles and small surprises. Looking back, I can see how early Candace revealed her blend of gentleness and resolve. Even then, she knew exactly who she was—and she loved her sister fiercely, in her own steady, determined way.
Cliff and I weren’t ready for a baby; perhaps we never would have been. Yet here she was—this unplanned, impossible little perron who had slipped past my defenses, defied all odds, and come to stay to live with us.
She turned her head and looked at me, her eyes wide and bright, seeing me as I was seeing her.
About seven months into the pregnancy, we were only beginning to accept this newcomer. We decided that we would each choose a name—Cliff if it was a boy, me if it was a girl. One evening, watching a Candice Bergen show on television, I was struck by the name. Soon after, I found the biblical reference to Candace of Ethiopia. The name carried promise, dignity, and the quiet authority of one who reigns.
Now here she was in my arms – six pound and three ounces – and she was a queen.
I brushed off the surge of emotion as blind parental love—belated, perhaps, but genuine. Then I noticed the nurses gathering near her bassinet, whispering to one another, “She’s the cutest baby ever.”
I was so proud of her that I wanted to dress her for the part. Her first public debut would be a stop at my parents’ house on the way home from the hospital, so I asked Cliff to buy her a dress—something special.
He returned to the hospital carrying a tiny pink lace dress—delicate, luminous, and perfect.
He returned to the hospital to pick us up with a tiny pink lace dress—delicate, luminous, perfect.
When we arrived at my parents’ house, I cradled our baby in my arms, wrapped in lace and wonder, brimming with pride.
But my mother took one look at the dress and gasped—not with admiration, but with alarm.
“Oh, Wilma,” she said, shaking her head, “babies need flannel, not lace and frills. She’s too tiny. She just needs something soft and warm."
It was my first true lesson in motherhood: comfort outweighs charm, and warmth matters more than beauty. I wanted to be a good mother—and my own mother, ever practical and tender in her way, stepped naturally into the role of teacher. I absorbed every word.
After the visit, as Cliff and I drove home through the mountains—from Greendale, near Chilliwack, to Harrison Hot Springs—I felt that everything had changed. I had always loved that drive, the sweep of the mountains and the quiet curve of the road, but this time it felt different. With my daughter nestled against me, the world seemed larger, deeper, more alive. Everything was more beautiful.
When we brought Candace home from the hospital and laid her gently in her pink bassinet, our pastor and his wife—who lived just across the yard from us—came over. Together, in that small, ordinary space, we dedicated our little baby girl to God.
Soon after, feeling both awed and unprepared, I asked Cliff to buy a book I had heard was essential for new parents: The Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care by Dr. Spock.
*****
Cliff and I had married two years earlier. We spent our first year of marriage working in Vancouver, then moved to Winnipeg so Cliff could attend Mennonite Brethren Bible College. He was pursuing his dream of studying theology and becoming a pastor, while I worked at Mutual Life Insurance—“putting hubby through,” as people used to say in those days.
That plan changed abruptly when I discovered I was pregnant.
Providentially, Cliff was assigned a summer interim practicum at a tiny chapel in Harrison Hot Springs, British Columbia—nestled along Agassiz Lake, a place famous for its warm, mineral-rich, healing waters. It was also close to my family, which mattered more than I could have known at the time.
Since I couldn’t work, Cliff took a seasonal job as a busboy at the elegant Harrison Hot Springs Hotel. The church provided us with a small, cabin-style cottage overlooking the beach. It was simple and cozy—and utterly perfect, like living inside a dream.
Even though we were tucked away in what was technically an isolated holiday resort, it felt as though we were living at the very heart of something alive and unfolding. The hippie movement, which had begun in the United States as a rejection of mainstream values—embracing peace, love, and freedom—had inspired an offshoot known as the “Jesus People.” A group of them had chosen Harrison Hot Springs as their summer home.
It wasn’t unusual to see young Jesus People wandering through the village with guitars slung over their shoulders, gathering in coffeehouses, singing songs of faith and freedom that spilled out onto the streets. Their voices filled the air like a rising tide, and their presence carried the unmistakable sense of awakening. Somehow, in ways we couldn’t quite name, we felt part of it—participants in something fresh, hopeful, and full of promise.
I even wore a granny dress—long, flowing, and free—and let my hair grow past my shoulders. Candace seemed to fit right in as well. They treated her like the queen she was. I often invited these Jesus People in for coffee and cake, simply to get to know them, to hear their stories, and to borrow a little of their contagious joy.
But summer slipped away far too quickly. Before we quite knew it, we were packing up and heading back to Winnipeg, returning to Cliff’s second year of studies—carrying with us the quiet imprint of a season that had shaped us more deeply than we yet understood.
Driving back across the prairies, I worried about how we would possibly manage life in a college dormitory with a baby. But when we arrived, we discovered that five other couples were returning with infants as well. The college graciously gathered all of us on the first floor of the residence, creating an unexpected gift.
It became an instant mothers’ community. Each day we tended to our small routines, then drifted into the hallway where our babies crawled from door to door. We traded stories, advice, worries, and laughter. In that narrow corridor, motherhood didn’t feel lonely—it felt shared, like a small, warm miracle we were all learning together.
And of course, to me, Candace outshone them all. She was always smiling and giggling, so healthy and strong. By five months, she was already standing —determined, delighted, and utterly fearless. We were so proud.
I remember one evening when Cliff and I slipped out to attend a church meeting, leaving Candace with the couple next door. When we returned later that night to pick her up, they opened the door wide-eyed and breathless.
“She took her first step!” they exclaimed. She was only six months old.
They spoke as though they had witnessed a tiny phenomenon—a miracle in miniature. And from that moment on, she never stopped. By seven months, she was walking confidently, as if she had always known exactly where she was going.
If we ever wanted attention, all we had to do was set her down in a mall on a Saturday afternoon. The sight was irresistible—this tiny baby walking. Shoppers would stop in their tracks to watch a bright-eyed, smiling little creature toddle about, her diapers practically bigger than she was. We could have charged admission. And of course, she adored every bit of it.
When my parents visited us during one of their cross-country tours, even my stoic father was undone.
“We have to take a picture of this,” he insisted.
But after snapping one photograph, he frowned, unsatisfied.
“Just seeing her in a picture won’t show how tiny she really is. We need a comparison.”
He paused, then brightened.
“Take a picture of my foot next to her.”
We did—and he was right. She stood just a little taller than his shoe.
No wonder this miniature, determined little person—striding into the world long before anyone expected she could—was a show-stopper wherever she went.
After Cliff graduated, we accepted a ministry position in Pauingassi, managing a trading post. It was a hard posting from the start. Cliff’s role as money manager of the community, was nearly impossible—he was threatened, harassed, pushed to the edge. I worried constantly for his safety.
Strangely, though, I never had to worry about Candace. At first, I hesitated when the local children came to the door asking to play with her, but they were fascinated by her—this small, bright newcomer. They loved her, and she loved them back with the same openness. Her natural charisma stood us in good stead. They were gentle, protective, utterly captivated and she was only three years old.
We didn’t last long. Eventually we retreated to my parents’ home in BC to recover, exhausted and burned out in every way.
It was there that we began to realize Cliff might need a different path. Perhaps he wasn’t meant to be a pastor or missionary after all. He turned toward his artistic side and applied to the Banff School of Fine Arts. We even moved to Banff for the summer. He was accepted—but then changed his mind once again.
So we packed up, yet again, and moved to Calgary. We rented a small house, and Cliff found work as a milkman while we gathered our thoughts and tried to imagine what our next venture might be.
I loved that old house—with its creaks and cracks and sense of possibility. But I worried about Candace. She missed the attention of her dark-haired playmates terribly.
One day, while I was busy unpacking, I suddenly heard a wild clatter—an eruption of noise so startling that I dropped what I was doing and ran to the front of the house.
There was Candace on the front step, an array of pots and pans from the kitchen arranged around her like a makeshift drum kit. She was pounding away with fearless enthusiasm, creating a dreadful racket that echoed down the street.
“Candace, what are you doing?” I gasped, horrified.
She turned toward me with a sly, knowing smile.
“Wait.”
So I did. I stepped back inside and watched her through the living-room window—half worried she’d attract the wrong kind of attention, half curious about what exactly I was waiting for. What did she know that I didn’t?So I did. I stepped back inside and watched her through the living room window, half worried she’d attract the wrong kind of attention, half curious what exactly I was waiting for. What did she know that I didn’t know?
Within minutes children from up and down the block began drifting toward the noise, gathering around her in fascinated clusters. And Candace—bright, confident, delighted—made friends with them instantly.
By the end of the day, she came inside glowing with satisfaction. She had her friends.
Another moment – I’ll always remember was when I had just finished sewing for her—a bright, cheerful creation with a tiny midriff top, butterfly sleeves, and a short skirt with attached panties. I had stitched it together with more hope than skill, and somehow it had turned out beautifully. It fit her perfectly.
She floated through the house like a miniature dancer—twirling, posing, admiring herself in windows and oven door. Her delight was contagious. To celebrate her joy, we decided the two of us would go shopping together.
We climbed into our little blue Datsun and headed for the mall. Candace rolled down the window and rested her arm on the ledge exactly the way I did—her quiet imitation both touching and amusing. A soft prairie breeze lifted her long curls, and her big blue eyes shone with a happiness that felt almost weightless. We smiled at each other, sharing a small, private moment of mother-daughter pride.
She carried herself with such confidence that day—older than her four years, yet still small enough to catch the warm, amused glances of strangers. People smiled at her as we passed. She was simply radiant.
As we wandered the mall, the sound of western music drifted through the corridor. We followed it to a small grandstand where four singers in wide-brimmed hats were serenading the shoppers. Their harmonies were surprisingly lovely, and we found a place to stand near the side of the stage.
One of the singers glanced down and spotted Candace. They were in the middle of “If You Happen to See the Most Beautiful Girl in the World,” and as he saw her, a slow smile spread across his face. He shifted his stance slightly, singled her out, and sang the rest of the song as though it were meant for her alone.
Candace stood utterly still—captivated, her little body wrapped in wonder. Her eyes widened, shimmering with something like awe.
“They were singing to me - about me,” she whispered, as if revealing a sacred truth.
I nodded, my heart full. To me, she was the most beautiful girl in the world—beautiful not only in the way she looked, but in the way she glowed, the way she received joy so openly, so purely.
It was—one of those memories that never fades.
But then, I became pregnant again. I honestly couldn’t seem to get this “birth control” thing straight. Life had its own ideas for me, long before I had any ideas for it.
While I was pregnant, my parents came by, planning to help me with the new baby. But since I was late in delivering --very late—and they had already scheduled a family camping trip – they offered to take Candace along and bring her back when the baby arrived.
Odia was born a week later, my parents returned soon after to help me with the baby.
My mother pulled me aside with that gentle-but-knowing look only mothers possess. “Candace was wonderful… but we discovered she can be quite determined,” she said.
Apparently, something had stuck to Candace—gum, a burr – I’m not sure. We never did figure it out from my mother’s confusing descriptions. What we did learn was that Candace wouldn’t let anyone touch her to help her. She stood her ground with the resolve of a tiny queen defending her kingdom.
My mother could not believe how this sweet, gentle, accommodating little girl revealed an entirely different side of herself whenever she felt even a hint of physical discomfort. She could be immovable, resolute, almost fierce in her self-protection. Eventually—my mother said—Candace had taken care of the problem herself, whatever it was, all on her own.
This became part of her way of being. Candace always took care of her body. Pain was her sworn enemy. She guarded herself fiercely and refused help with a determination far beyond her years. So different than me. When I was a child, I remember collecting scratches and bruises; she never did. She was steady, coordinated, cautious—my careful child.
When we introduced baby Odia to Candace. I braced myself for some kind of sibling rivalry, Instead, Candace looked at her sister – a little squirming bundle—as if she had been waiting for her. A companion. A friend.
By the time Odia was a toddler, Candace had quietly taken over the job of raising her sister. She dressed Odia up—sometimes three times a day—and together they would parade out of their bedroom in fresh outfits, like two miniature debutantes.
Both of them loved the drama of it all: the buttons, the ribbons, the tiny shoes. Every time they emerged from their shared bedroom, I never knew what I would see.
Those were simple days, crowded with diapers and giggles and small surprises. Looking back, I can see how early Candace revealed her blend of gentleness and resolve. Even then, she knew exactly who she was—and she loved her sister fiercely, in her own steady, determined way.
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