Sanguine Personality
With the help of the Star Lake Lodge board, we settled into Winnipeg very quickly. They even helped us purchase our first home—a modest side-by-side in the Elmwood area.
This time the school was four blocks away: a little far, but manageable. But our house neighboured three townhouses filled with young families. Within days, Candace had gathered an instant neighbourhood army of friends once again.
They walked to school together, a small procession of backpacks and chatter, and every afternoon she came home full of stories—evidence that her world was opening, step by step.
Cliff, meanwhile, quickly fell in love with his work—and truly, we all loved Star Lake Lodge. Even though Cliff’s chosen camping career didn’t bring in much money, we never felt as though we were lacking. His work gave us access to something far more valuable: summers. Summers at a lakeside camp brimming with activity, laughter, and community—and the steady, reassuring presence of God..
The Lodge turned out to be the perfect family retreat - tucked in the Whiteshell Provincial Park. The lake’s shoreline was dotted with private cottages, each one its own small world of fishing, swimming, hiking, and rest. The family camp was known for two things in particular: a perfect water-skiing route and a perfect swimming beach—warm, shallow and gently sloping into deeper water.
We had a small but vibrant children’s program – because even then Candace was a natural.
By this time, I was beginning to recognize an appreciate Candace’s a pure sanguine personality. I had seen it before, in my Aunt Susie – my father’s sister –almost a rarity in our rather strict Mennonite culture. When we visited with extended family, we as children were monitored. But when my Aunt Susie was part of any family gathering, Something shifted.
The adults would begin by visiting quietly with one another, voices measured, manners intact. But at some point—almost imperceptibly—the laughter would begin. It wouldn’t take long and someone would close the French doors to the living room, and the laugher began in earnest. But all we could hear wa Aunt Susie’s unmistakable laughter—bright, generous, and utterly contagious.
Was she entertaining them? Or was she simply giving them permission—permission to relax, to remember their own funny moments, to be unguarded and joyful? We never did find out. What we did know was that the usual rules had loosened. We were allowed to play freely, to run and invent and linger far past our normal bedtime.
Eventually, the evening would end. We would pile into the car and drive home in the quiet, the road humming beneath us. And our parents were smiling—soft smiles, unforced smiles—as though something in them had been lightened.
Then I saw that same magic again when they watched Candace. Parents smiled when they noticed her carrying that same infectious style as her Aunt Susie—the way she naturally gathered children around her, creating space for laughter, belonging, and joy, without even seeming to try.
*****
After watching her father circle the island again and again—sometimes skiing, sometimes driving the boat—Candace decided she wanted to ski too.
We encouraged her. It was the perfect place to learn; the retreat was well known for its water-skiing. Directly across from our beach sat a small island, just large enough to hold three modest cabins, about a city block away. The ski boat would circle the island again and again, creating a perfect, natural loop—safe, predictable, and ideal for beginners.
We were excited for her, and she had no trouble getting up. She never did. Candace had always been a natural at things that required balance and courage. The boat carried her smoothly around the island, and as she passed by us we cheered. She grinned back—bright and triumphant. Then the boat went around again. And again.
That’s when something stirred in me—a recognition, a memory resurfacing.
Years earlier, in North Battleford, my parents had bought Candace a bicycle. Cliff taught her to ride right in front of our house. We watched as he ran beside her, one hand steadying the bike, until suddenly she surged forward on her own. Around the block she went, and when she sailed past the house we cheered, amazed. Then she went around again. And again.
By the fourth lap, she wasn’t smiling anymore. She was simply riding—focused, determined, relentless. And then I realized: she didn’t know how to stop.
“Cliff! She doesn’t know how to stop!” I called out.
He sprinted after her, caught up to the bike, and finally helped her brake. They collapsed into laughter. Later, she admitted she would have kept going forever rather than confess that she didn’t know how to stop.
Now, watching her circle that island again and again on water skis, I saw the pattern repeating itself.
I caught Cliff’s eye and signalled that the boat needed to bring her in. She would never let go of the rope on her own. He understood instantly.
Cliff stepped onto the wharf and signalled to the driver. The boat slowed, rounded the bend, and eased gently toward shore. The motor softened, the pull slackened, and at last Candace released the rope, skimming gracefully onto the beach. She landed beautifully.
We broke into applause. Once again, she was the star.
Only later did I understand what I was seeing. Candace learned too quickly. Most people fall a few times while learning to ride a bike or ski; through falling, they learn how to stop. Candace hadn’t fallen. She had mastered the skill without learning the art of stopping—leaving her with no instinct for when or how to let go.
*****
We stayed in a cabin next to the lodge—two small bedrooms, one with bunk beds. Candace claimed the top, and aside from the occasional mouse, it was the perfect place to spend the summer.
Camp days were long. I remember coming in from the lodge in the evening, tired and sun-warmed. After the usual cleanup, Cliff and I returned to our cabin and found Odia and Candace sitting side by side on their bed, talking softly—glowing, their smiles just a little too wide and far too synchronized to be entirely innocent – or so I thought.
I confronted Candace. “What did you do?”
“Oh, Mom, we didn’t do anything wrong,” she said reassuringly. “We’re just excited. Odia wanted to know about God, so I led her to Jesus. Odia accepted Jesus into her heart.”
Odia sat quietly beside her, utterly content—radiant, really—a happiness deeper and more conscious than anything I had seen in her before.
I apologized at once for misreading the moment. Then Cliff and I celebrated with them. We prayed together that night, blessed the girls, tucked them into bed, and finally crawled into our own—surely the most comfortable bed in the world after a long, lake-washed day.
As we lay there, full and grateful, it struck me again how blessed we were to have them both. Candace excelled in relationships; Odia approached life like a puzzle to be understood. Together, they drew out the best in one another—heart and mind meeting in a way that felt both holy and entirely their own.
*****
Cliff’s flair for promotion and design soon drew attention to the extraordinary camp he was shaping. It wasn’t long before other camps across Manitoba took notice. He was offered a position in promotions at Camp Arnes, and it suited him perfectly. There, he finally found his rhythm: children’s program director in the summer, artist and promotions work in the winter. He was thriving.
Camp Arnes was situated on Lake Winnipeg—the closest thing Manitoba has to an ocean. For me, its vastness always stirred echoes of childhood, carrying memories of visits to Vancouver Island: wide horizons, moving water, and the deep comfort of being held by something immense.
It was a lake that had already challenged us.
When we first arrived in Winnipeg, a friend invited our family to join them on their sailing yacht moored in Gimli. We drove out with great anticipation, found the boat, climbed aboard, and set out across the lake. The water was a little choppy, but that only heightened the sense of adventure—the feeling of truly being at sea. Conversation flowed easily. Stories were shared. We listened as they explained the yacht’s history and its ways, moving steadily forward across the open water.
Before long, the shoreline thinned into a faint line on the horizon.
And then, suddenly, everything changed.
We were caught in the wildest storm I had ever experienced.
As one of the world’s largest lakes, Lake Winnipeg has a vast surface area and a shallow depth—conditions that allow wind to whip up towering waves with astonishing speed. What had been expansive and calm turned violent within minutes. Waves rose six feet or more, crashing hard enough that it felt as though the boat might be swallowed whole.
Instantly, my mind leapt to the storms of the Sea of Galilee. I felt the disciples’ terror in my bones. The four of us adults clung on for dear life, hearts pounding, as the boat pitched and groaned beneath us.
And then I looked down—to the small, sheltered lower deck of the yacht.
There were Candace and Odia, curled together.
Sound asleep.
Sleeping.
Peacefully.
Completely unaware of the chaos raging above them.
Didn’t Jesus sleep during the storm?
Didn’t Jonah sleep too?
One had the confidence of being deeply loved. The other had developed impressive avoidance techniques. Both, when you really think about it, were remarkable forms of resilience.
Cliff and I caught each other’s eyes and smiled. Our daughters were steady, held, and unafraid—even as the world above them raged.
They woke only after the storm had passed, when the waves had settled and we were able to sail safely back into the harbour at Gimli.
And then we could laugh again—the kind of laughter that comes after endurance, after holding on without knowing when the stopping will come. We had been carried through, not by control, but by trust. We had truly weathered a storm, and somehow, done so in the most elegant of ways.
This time the school was four blocks away: a little far, but manageable. But our house neighboured three townhouses filled with young families. Within days, Candace had gathered an instant neighbourhood army of friends once again.
They walked to school together, a small procession of backpacks and chatter, and every afternoon she came home full of stories—evidence that her world was opening, step by step.
Cliff, meanwhile, quickly fell in love with his work—and truly, we all loved Star Lake Lodge. Even though Cliff’s chosen camping career didn’t bring in much money, we never felt as though we were lacking. His work gave us access to something far more valuable: summers. Summers at a lakeside camp brimming with activity, laughter, and community—and the steady, reassuring presence of God..
The Lodge turned out to be the perfect family retreat - tucked in the Whiteshell Provincial Park. The lake’s shoreline was dotted with private cottages, each one its own small world of fishing, swimming, hiking, and rest. The family camp was known for two things in particular: a perfect water-skiing route and a perfect swimming beach—warm, shallow and gently sloping into deeper water.
We had a small but vibrant children’s program – because even then Candace was a natural.
By this time, I was beginning to recognize an appreciate Candace’s a pure sanguine personality. I had seen it before, in my Aunt Susie – my father’s sister –almost a rarity in our rather strict Mennonite culture. When we visited with extended family, we as children were monitored. But when my Aunt Susie was part of any family gathering, Something shifted.
The adults would begin by visiting quietly with one another, voices measured, manners intact. But at some point—almost imperceptibly—the laughter would begin. It wouldn’t take long and someone would close the French doors to the living room, and the laugher began in earnest. But all we could hear wa Aunt Susie’s unmistakable laughter—bright, generous, and utterly contagious.
Was she entertaining them? Or was she simply giving them permission—permission to relax, to remember their own funny moments, to be unguarded and joyful? We never did find out. What we did know was that the usual rules had loosened. We were allowed to play freely, to run and invent and linger far past our normal bedtime.
Eventually, the evening would end. We would pile into the car and drive home in the quiet, the road humming beneath us. And our parents were smiling—soft smiles, unforced smiles—as though something in them had been lightened.
Then I saw that same magic again when they watched Candace. Parents smiled when they noticed her carrying that same infectious style as her Aunt Susie—the way she naturally gathered children around her, creating space for laughter, belonging, and joy, without even seeming to try.
*****
After watching her father circle the island again and again—sometimes skiing, sometimes driving the boat—Candace decided she wanted to ski too.
We encouraged her. It was the perfect place to learn; the retreat was well known for its water-skiing. Directly across from our beach sat a small island, just large enough to hold three modest cabins, about a city block away. The ski boat would circle the island again and again, creating a perfect, natural loop—safe, predictable, and ideal for beginners.
We were excited for her, and she had no trouble getting up. She never did. Candace had always been a natural at things that required balance and courage. The boat carried her smoothly around the island, and as she passed by us we cheered. She grinned back—bright and triumphant. Then the boat went around again. And again.
That’s when something stirred in me—a recognition, a memory resurfacing.
Years earlier, in North Battleford, my parents had bought Candace a bicycle. Cliff taught her to ride right in front of our house. We watched as he ran beside her, one hand steadying the bike, until suddenly she surged forward on her own. Around the block she went, and when she sailed past the house we cheered, amazed. Then she went around again. And again.
By the fourth lap, she wasn’t smiling anymore. She was simply riding—focused, determined, relentless. And then I realized: she didn’t know how to stop.
“Cliff! She doesn’t know how to stop!” I called out.
He sprinted after her, caught up to the bike, and finally helped her brake. They collapsed into laughter. Later, she admitted she would have kept going forever rather than confess that she didn’t know how to stop.
Now, watching her circle that island again and again on water skis, I saw the pattern repeating itself.
I caught Cliff’s eye and signalled that the boat needed to bring her in. She would never let go of the rope on her own. He understood instantly.
Cliff stepped onto the wharf and signalled to the driver. The boat slowed, rounded the bend, and eased gently toward shore. The motor softened, the pull slackened, and at last Candace released the rope, skimming gracefully onto the beach. She landed beautifully.
We broke into applause. Once again, she was the star.
Only later did I understand what I was seeing. Candace learned too quickly. Most people fall a few times while learning to ride a bike or ski; through falling, they learn how to stop. Candace hadn’t fallen. She had mastered the skill without learning the art of stopping—leaving her with no instinct for when or how to let go.
*****
We stayed in a cabin next to the lodge—two small bedrooms, one with bunk beds. Candace claimed the top, and aside from the occasional mouse, it was the perfect place to spend the summer.
Camp days were long. I remember coming in from the lodge in the evening, tired and sun-warmed. After the usual cleanup, Cliff and I returned to our cabin and found Odia and Candace sitting side by side on their bed, talking softly—glowing, their smiles just a little too wide and far too synchronized to be entirely innocent – or so I thought.
I confronted Candace. “What did you do?”
“Oh, Mom, we didn’t do anything wrong,” she said reassuringly. “We’re just excited. Odia wanted to know about God, so I led her to Jesus. Odia accepted Jesus into her heart.”
Odia sat quietly beside her, utterly content—radiant, really—a happiness deeper and more conscious than anything I had seen in her before.
I apologized at once for misreading the moment. Then Cliff and I celebrated with them. We prayed together that night, blessed the girls, tucked them into bed, and finally crawled into our own—surely the most comfortable bed in the world after a long, lake-washed day.
As we lay there, full and grateful, it struck me again how blessed we were to have them both. Candace excelled in relationships; Odia approached life like a puzzle to be understood. Together, they drew out the best in one another—heart and mind meeting in a way that felt both holy and entirely their own.
*****
Cliff’s flair for promotion and design soon drew attention to the extraordinary camp he was shaping. It wasn’t long before other camps across Manitoba took notice. He was offered a position in promotions at Camp Arnes, and it suited him perfectly. There, he finally found his rhythm: children’s program director in the summer, artist and promotions work in the winter. He was thriving.
Camp Arnes was situated on Lake Winnipeg—the closest thing Manitoba has to an ocean. For me, its vastness always stirred echoes of childhood, carrying memories of visits to Vancouver Island: wide horizons, moving water, and the deep comfort of being held by something immense.
It was a lake that had already challenged us.
When we first arrived in Winnipeg, a friend invited our family to join them on their sailing yacht moored in Gimli. We drove out with great anticipation, found the boat, climbed aboard, and set out across the lake. The water was a little choppy, but that only heightened the sense of adventure—the feeling of truly being at sea. Conversation flowed easily. Stories were shared. We listened as they explained the yacht’s history and its ways, moving steadily forward across the open water.
Before long, the shoreline thinned into a faint line on the horizon.
And then, suddenly, everything changed.
We were caught in the wildest storm I had ever experienced.
As one of the world’s largest lakes, Lake Winnipeg has a vast surface area and a shallow depth—conditions that allow wind to whip up towering waves with astonishing speed. What had been expansive and calm turned violent within minutes. Waves rose six feet or more, crashing hard enough that it felt as though the boat might be swallowed whole.
Instantly, my mind leapt to the storms of the Sea of Galilee. I felt the disciples’ terror in my bones. The four of us adults clung on for dear life, hearts pounding, as the boat pitched and groaned beneath us.
And then I looked down—to the small, sheltered lower deck of the yacht.
There were Candace and Odia, curled together.
Sound asleep.
Sleeping.
Peacefully.
Completely unaware of the chaos raging above them.
Didn’t Jesus sleep during the storm?
Didn’t Jonah sleep too?
One had the confidence of being deeply loved. The other had developed impressive avoidance techniques. Both, when you really think about it, were remarkable forms of resilience.
Cliff and I caught each other’s eyes and smiled. Our daughters were steady, held, and unafraid—even as the world above them raged.
They woke only after the storm had passed, when the waves had settled and we were able to sail safely back into the harbour at Gimli.
And then we could laugh again—the kind of laughter that comes after endurance, after holding on without knowing when the stopping will come. We had been carried through, not by control, but by trust. We had truly weathered a storm, and somehow, done so in the most elegant of ways.
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