Blog Archives

First Breakfast Conversation

2/28/2023

It's all about the conversation.

After listening to the full story, I slipped out of the building and drove slowly back to my office - pondering.

I had one question. Does someone change from once being the “Most Wanted Criminal in Canada,” a dangerous, gun-carrying, violent bank robber – into a good, good father - as he was claiming?

If he hadn’t changed and if I didn’t say anything – I would be enabling a violent man to continue to influence young vulnerable teens. Not only that, what if the Restorative Leaders were interested in using our stories together? What if we were going to be their next dog and pony show - sharing the same platform as we had done today.. and not even knowing about it before hand.

By the time I got to my office, I was convinced I needed to confront the leaders of the Restorative Justice movement with my concerns. But before I did that I would need to know more. I was a journalist by trade....I would need to know the whole story.

I found Durocher’s contact information.

I picked up the telephone.

Would he meet me for breakfast?

I would pay.

He accepted my invitation - we set up a time the following week.

By the time the day rolled around, I was one hot mess of nerves when I walked into the restaurant that morning to meet him.

He was already sitting in the back, dark corner of the restaurant when I arrived – in exactly the place I would have chosen.

We were probably the two most unlikely people ever to meet and have a breakfast conversation. He was French, a Catholic born in Montreal, Quebec. I was British, a Mennonite born in Chilliwack, British Columbia. He was a bank robber, a well-known criminal, violent and ruthless. I was a parent of a murdered child, law-abiding, a bit of a pacifist, and conscientious. I had been sheltered – he was street smart. He had grown up breaking the law to survive. I was pious to the extreme. I hadn’t even smoked a cigarette behind a barn – much less stolen anything. He had robbed a bank – driven by greed. I was from a modest, frugal family that felt money was the “root of all evil.”

I slid into the booth opposite him.

We just looked at each other. His eyes were dark.

How does one open this kind of conversation? It didn’t seem appropriate to talk about the weather.

I plunged in. I began asking him questions about his arrest, his crimes, his time in prison ,,,,, I'll admit that it was more of an interrogation. He endured it well.

Mainly I asked about his decision to change. It was for his children, his wife....., he said.

He answered every question I asked...at least I thought he did....

I went back to the office to ponder some more.

The search for justice and security, the struggle for equality of opportunity, the quest for tolerance and harmony, the pursuit of human dignity - these are moral imperatives which we must work towards and think about on a daily basis. - Aga Khan IV

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Starting the Conversation!

2/27/2023

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It's all about the conversation.

I was immune to the trauma bond - or so I thought. We didn't know who had murdered our daughter so I wasn't bonded with anyone - or so I thought.

As first I had almost been envious of other parents of murdered children who knew who had killed their children. But then as I watched them, I began to see how all-absorbing this knowledge could be. There seemed to be an invisible bond – later identified as a trauma bond - between them and the murderer.

They were obsessed. Most of our support meetings were spent talking about the perpetrators and the ongoing conflict in the media, in the courtrooms and eventually with Corrections. It seemed as if the perpetrator was in control of their lives. One father described it as being tied to the murderer with a rope and being jerked around with every one of his movements.

Even though the case remained unsolved, I had come to my own conclusions. There were some suicides reported in our area of town so I had decided the murderer – a stranger to us had not been able to live with himself and suicided. We would never know what had happened: he was no longer a threat. I felt free of all of that. We were able to freely tell our story without including anyone else. We were able to freely “forgive” without any responsibility as to what that meant in the real world. There was a freedom in not knowing.

However, without really realizing it, I was being slowly drawn into the world of Restorative Justice, a growing movement of the time which was exploring this trauma bond. I was being positioned as the forgiving victim in dialogue with the repentant offender. It began as a hypothetical dialogue….

And then the dialogue became rea when I was asked to tell my story at a Restorative Justice day being held in a local high school. I was sharing the "story telling" day with an offender I had never met him. I told my story to a class room of students in the morning and was invited to hear "his" story that afternoon.

The school gymnasium was filled with squirming high school adolescents – a collective audience of hormones – a challenge for any speaker even at the best of times. And this was the most challenging time of all – right after lunch.

They wiggled, they talked, and they threw things at each other – until he walked on to the stage.

He placed his hands on the podium, and immediately a hush fell over the gym. There was something about him. He embodied the indescribable power of someone who is exceptionally confident, composed, and ready to take on anything the world wants to throw at him. We all felt it – we all knew it.

“I am René Durocher,” he said in a thick French-Canadian accent. He paused and scanned the audience.

“When I was a young boy, a priest came to our house. He told my mother that I had great potential. He said that I would become a great person someday. He just wasn’t sure whether it would be a great prime minister – or a great criminal.”

No one was talking, throwing things, or punching anyone anymore. You could have heard a pin drop in that full gymnasium.

“I chose to become a criminal.”

He paused to let his words sink in. Then he added quietly, “And I became one of the best.”

No one moved after that – he had the students in the palm of his hand as he began to tell his story - of how he had become the "most wanted" man in Canada.

The hypothetical victim/offender dialogue - had become a reality. He had been presented by the organizers of the event as a rehabilitated offender. On stage I saw him become a dangerous repeat offender glorifying his crimes and having access to the most vulnerable of audiences.

All my victim alarms went off, I wanted to escape... but I too was mesmerized.

If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor. If an elephant has its foot on the tail of a mouse and you say that you are neutral, the mouse will not appreciate your neutrality. - Desmond Tutu

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Art of Scapegoating

2/24/2023

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In case you haven't noticed I am intrigued with "stories of origin." I teach a course in life writing and believe that in order to understand ourselves we need to dig into our past - and enjoy our beginnings.

I am fascinated that the Garden of Eden, the very first story of origin, holds all the elements of a basic trauma experience that we are just now beginning to understand.

In the Garden of Eden, after breaking the one rule God had set down, Adam and Eve defend their actions. Adam blames Eve and God in one breath, Eve blames the serpent.
Both do not want to lose their relationship with the Creator.

It was all there right in the beginning - the blame game.

Later in their pursuit of healing this primary relationship with God, the first family set up an altar and sacrificed animals. Later as a way of dealing with this knee jerk need to blame - the people designed a scapegoat and added it to their rituals.

Apparently, a scapegoat is one of a pair of kid goats that is released into the wilderness, taking with it all sins and impurities, while the other is sacrificed. To this day we still scapegoat - "one that bears the blame for others."

My mother was well versed in the art of scapegoating.

I remember one day, I was doing my homework on the dining room table when I heard a crash in the kitchen. Immediately after, I heard my mother shout out my name. "Wilma!" I jumped up and ran into the kitchen wondering what I had done, had I left a dish too close to the edge of the counter? I was starting to apologize - "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to," I defended myself automatically.

"Oh I know that," she answered laughing. "You didn't do anything, I just needed to blame someone," she said chuckling as she picked up the broken bowl she had just dropped.

It was her coping method. When she made a mistake, she would actually scapegoat anyone near by -- vent her frustration and then laugh. It was her way of breaking a tense moment.

Through her - we learn that we can play with the need to blame - even redirect it into a positive. We would always end up laughing with her.

But first of all, we need to be aware of the deadly impact of irresponsible blame.

My classmates could see I was not similar. So they made me their scapegoat. They hit me or locked me in the toilets. During the break, I would take refuge in the chapel, or I would arrange to stay alone in the classroom. - Yves Saint Laurent

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Tight Jeans

2/23/2023

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"It looks like the crime scene of a homeless person," they said.

After finding Candace's body, the police often came by the house to report their findings. Slowly the details came out, she had frozen to death, her hands and feet had been tied, there was a bruise on her cheek - no sign of a car being used.

I'll never forget how after one of these conversations as the two officers were about to leave, the one partner who hadn't said much - paused. He was slightly over-weight -- his eyes fastened on me, slightly accusatory, and said. "She was wearing very, very tight jeans."

Tight jeans! Was he insinuating that she was partially to blame for being too alluring? Men are unable to resist tight jeans - so it was her fault? Was I slightly to blame for even allowing her to wear tight jeans? The implication was there.

I think my eyes might have turned into fiery darts because the man escaped very quickly into the dark night.

It's easiest to blame the victim - the messenger - or someone who clearly has no role in the wrong doing.

Why are we so unreasonable?

Blaming others makes us feel immune and safe. We conveniently believe that people deserve what happens to them. If we are slightly involved, blaming others helps us deny any responsibility or guilt. Blaming others feeds our need for control. Blaming others is an acceptable form of excluding other and helps us to distance ourselves from those we want removed. Blaming can be a form of social comparison that is status-seeking.

Studies show that rather then blame the true culprit, we will blame people that are vulnerable to us, close to us and who irritate us in some way.

I did my own irresponsible blaming.

It was one of the first meetings of the Child Find board when they introduced the name of a police officer who had applied for a position on the board. I was vehemently against him joining - over the top.

Driving home that night, I wondered at my unreasonable vehemence and I realized I was blaming the police. They hadn't set up a red alert the night Candace disappeared. If they had only... if only... if only. Slowly I had to admit to myself that I consciously needed to forgive all those wonderful policeman who had truly acted in good faith -- did what they knew the best - and turned out to be our heroes!

I still think it's a testimony of Cliff's love that he never blamed me for not picking up Candace from school the way I had promised to -- that fateful day.

Years later when I asked him how come he hadn't given in to the easiest blame... "I knew if I did it would totally destroy you." And he was right - coming from him it would have.

It would also have destroyed our marriage.

You can't blame gravity for falling in love. - Albert Einstein

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Mirror Neurons

2/22/2023

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When Candace disappeared we felt very alone - more alone than we had ever been in our lives. Our precious daughter had been stolen, our safe world had shattered, we were under attack, everyone was suspect.

We called the most powerful man we knew for help.

Candace disappeared Friday evening, by Saturday this powerful man had organized the first ground search; Sunday had been designated a day of prayer and all churches had been alerted. And to top it all off he had also arranged for an article in the Sunday Sun newspaper.

Once the article appeared in the newspaper, the public started to respond. The telephone was ringing, people were showing up and wanting to help- we were no longer alone. That was the biggest gift anyone could have brought us at that moment.

We humans are social beings. We need each other. Our hearts need to connect with others.

Studies have shown that we share mirror neurons that allow us to match each other’s emotions unconsciously and immediately. We leak emotions to each other. When we’re in sympathy or agreement with one another—when we’re on the same side - we actually anticipate and reflect each other’s movements.

And when we have a happy healthy relationships with each other, we feel confident, safe, hopeful, and happy.

Loneliness is my least favorite thing about life. The thing that I'm most worried about is just being alone without anybody to care for or someone who will care for me. - Anne Hathaway

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Ballooning Blame

2/21/2023

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The heart's strength is that it knows how to love and hate; its weakness is that it lacks discernment. When the heart is threatened with rejection or loss, it is prone to blame blindly - anything convenient, close by and safe.

The morning after Candace's body was found, we were tasked with making funeral arrangement. We were raw. Blame was crouching waiting for a target.

Cliff was targeted first. As we were choosing the casket, the director told us that we had an option to buy a cement box to protect the casket. That was when we discovered that Cliff had blamed himself for not being able to protect Candace and wanted to protect her body. We said yes to the cement box - even though we couldn't afford it.

Then driving home, we started to quarrel over the program for the funeral. It was over ridiculous details but as the temperatures rose and the words became stronger and more vehement, we both realized that we were fighting because our hearts were aching and we just wanted to fight. There was no one else around so we were blaming each. We caught ourselves and said really? A brochure about a program? Who gives a hoot. And then once we identified the blame game we could agree very easily about the program.

The following day, we had agreed to talk to the press who had been waiting for a statement from us - through them we wanted to thank Winnipeg for their support in looking for Candace. The journalists listened politely and then ambushed us with the question, "What are you going to do about the murderer?"

This is where our red hot blame should have come out full force - they were waiting.

But because we had already spent a life time very consciously fighting the "blame game" in our marriage, we had already confronted the presence of fear on our bed and decided we would 'let it go' - and because we had already chosen the overarching word of 'forgiveness' in our faith, we instinctively applied it to this new great unknown. We didn't know who had murdered our daughter. All we knew was that we weren't going to play the blame game before we even knew.

With one word we deflated that big red hot balloon of blame, we said we would forgive.

“An important decision I made was to resist playing the Blame Game. The day I realized that I am in charge of how I will approach problems in my life, that things will turn out better or worse because of me and nobody else, that was the day I knew I would be a happier and healthier person. And that was the day I knew I could truly build a life that matters.” - ― Steve Goodier

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White Water Tears

2/20/2023

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The heart is the seat of love and oversees our relationships and emotions. It shouldn't surprise us then that the heart is the center of forgiveness. This is where the true battles are fought - won and lost - mostly lost.

When the heart is shattered it bleeds red hot anger and rivers of white water tears.

After the funeral, we heard that Michael W. Smith, the singer of Candace's favorite song, was scheduled to appear at the concert hall. He called late one night saying that he had heard our story and wanted to give her friend, Heidi, and our family complimentary tickets to the concert. He also made arrangements for us to go backstage later to meet him. Odia, of course, thought this was pure heaven, but I dreaded it. More than that, I was afraid.

A concert by Michael W. Smith would only push me over the edge. How could I possibly bear hearing her song live when I couldn't even listen to a scratchy, faded, recorded version without falling apart?

There was only one way. First thing the morning of the concert, I put on the tape and forced myself to listen to "Friends Are Friends Forever." The song had an ability to resurrect Candace's presence, and I could feel her come swaying into the room in time to the music with that bright smile that I had seen on her face every time she listened to her song.

I played it again, and again, and again, trying to substitute her memories with mine, hoping that by making it mine, her memory wouldn't be as painful. But I couldn't.

It was her song. She had loved it so much, had played it so often that it was impossible for any of us to adopt it as our own. The pain in that song would reach out and wrench my heart out of its cavity and squeeze it, wringing out the tears until I was a puddle on the floor.

I tried to treat it as background music as I dusted the house. But every time the chorus started, the dust would blur and I'd start sobbing - not the pretty public acceptable tears but the mascara smudging, make-up ruining, ugly tears .

Finally, Cliff came home, took one look at me, and marched into the living room and turned it off. "What do you think you are doing?"

"I'm listening to it until I won't cry anymore."

He shook his head in total disbelief. "Don't you know that song will always make us cry?”

Actually, it was a wonderful concert. And when Michael W. Smith sang "Friends Are Friends Forever," I cried— and so did everyone else. But it was dark, there were no cameras on us, and it was good to cry – it was even a comfort to cry.

I learned that that it is better to grieve in concert than to grieve alone. The heart will not be denied.

There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love. -Washington Irving

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Trauma X 5

2/18/2023

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Here, I'm going to dream a bit. What would an ideal Forgiveness/Healing Centre look like remembering that a trauma body would need to experience an invitation to forgive through all its five senses.

The place would need to have a welcoming smell. Real estate agents say that the smell that sells the most houses is the smell of freshly baked buns. For that I think we would need a cozy cafeteria with a menu of buns – perhaps cinnamon buns.

This could be combined with the sense of taste by offering tasty gourmet, healthy nourishing foods. Then to top it all off in the middle, there would be a fountain of chocolate with strawberries perhaps – the ultimate symbol of love. We might need a fragrance room for those who have aroma trauma triggers.

Then the place would need sounds to satisfy the sense of hearing. For the trauma body there would be nothing better than a voice of another human being. For this I think we might need listeners trained in the art of evocative listening available in little booths placed strategically on that first floor for anyone traumatized to access - probably a little like those confessional booths the churches used to have. These listeners would softly give words of encouragement as they skillfully reflect the emotions and experiences of the battered victim and thereby releasing the soul.

The place would need something for the weary eyes - the sense of sight. I can think of nothing better than an indoor garden something like the Leo Mol Sculpture Gardens here in Winnipeg. But instead of colorful flowers it would be decorated with the soothing colors of white flowers – again research says that the reptilian brain of the trauma body needs the color of white to find peace. There would of course be art pieces hidden in the greenery – and why not Cliff’s sculptures that tell visceral stories as they model resilience in a real way.

For the need for physical expression and touch there would need to be a spa that offers massages, perhaps a whirl pool hot tub. But mainly, there would be a fitness center with trainers and coaches who aren't only trained to help achieve physical goals, but also trained to be listeners and encouragers in the art of evocative empathy.

But knowing the nature of trauma – this entire floor might be just too much "goodness" for those who are raw in their trauma. For these there would need to be break out rooms, perhaps a boxing room with blaring loud angry music for the angry, a library type room for those who need to escape into a good movie, and easy chairs for those who need to sit in silence and pout. For the frenzied soul – there might need to be a disco room where they can dance out their energy. There would need to be a timer on these rooms.

For those who have no means of supporting themselves because of the crippling losses there would need to be some transitional/career counselling and perhaps other financial resources available to tide them over.

And last but not least – there would need to be an opportunity to symbolically turn something dreadful into something beautiful. For this there would be a studio dedicated to the painting of white-on-white art. It could also serve as a wonderful exercise in self-forgiveness, by first writing out the anger and then painting over the words with white. The possibilities are endless. I would have needed the White-on-White room!

Oh yes -- to ensure a sense of safety - there would need to be a pervasive presence of pastor-type bouncers. Guards in soft colored uniforms would mingle with smiles on their faces while holding everyone accountable. No physical violence would be tolerated. The body needs to feel safe and free of any obvious threat.

Remember this would only be the first floor – the body quadrant. There are three more to go.

Did I offer peace today? Did I bring a smile to someone's face? Did I say words of healing? Did I let go of my anger and resentment? Did I forgive? Did I love? These are the real questions. I must trust that the little bit of love that I sow now will bear many fruits, here in this world and the life to come. - Henri Nouwen

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Glass Mountain

2/17/2023

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It was difficult to deal with people who had experienced murder, but it was almost more difficult to deal with their friends. “How do we help them forgive and move on?” they would ask.

It was hard enough to be working on my own life, it was another thing to feel the pressure to help others

At one point I was so frustrated, I turned to my grandmother and asked her – “How did you forgive?” She would know. I remembered some very poignant moments listening to my grandmother describe the loss of her younger sister who had disappeared early during Russian revolution. My grandmother had lost so much… and yet she believed and lived forgiveness. I wanted to reach out to her even though she had died some time ago.

Miraculously – I heard an answer. “Forgiveness is like climbing a mountain,” she said, and then in my imagination she took me to the base of a mountain. Having grown up in the Fraser Valley, it was easy for me to imagine all of this. It felt real. Then we climbed up the mountain – to the top of it – where there was a new view of life, a new perspective.

It did help – and it would be wonderful to offer something like this to everyone because it is well documented that there are huge benefits emotionally, mentally, physically and spiritually for anyone who forgives.

Yet the research also shows that only 25% of the population has the capacity to forgive. This correlates with the negativity bias that has about the same ratio of 80% negativity to 20 % positive. It obviously does not come naturally. However, I believe everyone has the capacity - they might just need help.

What if everyone could climb a mountain with the support of a grandmother?

But I’m here in Winnipeg, and I love Winnipeg, but here are no mountains in Winnipeg.

I glance out side, I see the sun reflecting off of the Canadian Museum for Human Rights. I remember climbing to the top of the Museum - experiencing that glass finger pointing upward, a dramatic symbol of hope.

It’s a elegant mountain encased in glass.

Perfect. If I had 100 billion dollars, I’d borrow me some of the design ideas from the Museum and build me a Healing Forgiveness Centre close to the Winnipeg airport on the way to Stony Mountain.

The first floor would be devoted to helping the body forgive, the second would be for the heart, the third for the mind and the top would be the spirit – close to the sky.

But the first floor would be the hardest to design. It would need to envelop each traumatized body walking through the front doors with a sense of safety, and then very sensitively communicate love through the five senses of the body.

What would that look like? Let me dream.

It is easy to go down into Hell; night and day, the gates of dark Death stand wide; but to climb back again, to retrace one's steps to the upper air - there's the rub, the task. - Virgil

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Fingerprints

2/16/2023

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I was washing walls. I had started the day feeling uneasy - worried. One way to deal with fear is to take control. I wanted perfection.

I stared at the hundreds and hundreds of little fingerprints. Did the kids touch the walls all the time? Were they blind? Did they find it impossible to walk down a hall or down the stairs without feeling where they were going?

As I worked my way down the stairwell, I glanced at my watch. It was getting closer and closer to four o'clock. I realized again why this day was so hard. It was the anniversary of the day Candace disappeared.

Four o'clock? Suddenly time seemed to stand still. Why was this moment so terrifying? Suddenly, I knew! This was not only the anniversary of the day that Candace disappeared; it was also the anniversary of my decision not to pick her up. I washed more frantically. It made me feel better.

I was almost done when I came across the fingerprints on the wall above the bottom step, and I wondered how they had gotten there. Cliff and I never touched that section of wall, and Odia and Syras were too small. Only Candace, like every teen I knew, would hang onto the doorjamb and swing herself out over the main floor. I looked closer. They were her size. They were Candace's fingerprints!

Fingerprints are evidence of guilt - not Candace's - mine!

What kind of mother would allow her daughter to walk home in the cold at such a vulnerable time? Why hadn't I foreseen what was going to happen? There had been a number of other times when I had sensed that my children were in danger - and stepped in. A mother should know!

The fingerprints seemed to grow larger.

How do you deal with this kind of guilt? It wasn't only guilt from that one decision; it was guilt from everything we had done or hadn't done. Every moment, every mistake, every omission loomed up in the shadowy fingerprints.

I had no defense. The accusing voices of guilt were totally irrational, but guilt is irrational. It is a feeling and rarely responds to normal rational thinking. No matter how hard I tried to reason with it, I was guilty.

I finally said it. "I failed."

I really think I stunned them. The voices were silenced. And it felt good to say those words.

"I am guilty." I said it over and over. I'm not perfect, I declared to the world. I'm not a good mother - bring it on!

Could I forgive myself? I was stumped. I didn't think I could. I would have to live with my guilt. I felt the weight of it, the deadness. Even the sharp pain of Candace's memory was better than this dullness, this lifeless emotion of overwhelming despair of unresolved guilt.

I looked up at the fingerprints. They were magnified through my tears. I would leave them. I wouldn't wipe them off. It would be part of the price.

I was getting up to leave when a soft voice said, "Surely, if you have tried to forgive the murderer, the police, and everyone else, you should benefit from some of that forgiveness." Crumbs?

In some weird way, perhaps the whole concept of forgiveness wasn't just meant for everyone else, perhaps some was meant for me.

I stood up. The fingerprints that had been tattooed onto the wall needed to be removed. I wondered if it would be possible to remove them. I dampened my cloth and washed them away. There was a clean white wall underneath. The whole house suddenly seemed sparkling clean.

It's not about being the perfect mother - it was about letting me go to fail again.

And I have failed my children again and again and again. Amazingly they've all turned out spectacularly - even Candace!

Don't let the perfect be the enemy of the good. Lower the bar. Actually spending ten minutes clearing off one shelf is better than fantasizing about spending a weekend cleaning out the basement. - Gretchen Rubin

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First Breakfast Conversation

Starting the Conversation!

Art of Scapegoating

Tight Jeans

Mirror Neurons

Ballooning Blame

White Water Tears

Trauma X 5

Glass Mountain

Fingerprints

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