I flew into Saskatoon on the wings of a cold winter front, wearing my ballet flats. Wrong footwear. I should have been wearing boots. But then again, since there is something sacred about Humboldt - perhaps next time I might not wear shoes at all.
       Right from the beginning there was something different about this speaking engagement. There was something even odd about the invitation.
I had met this lovely woman at a Living Books conference in Borden about a year and a half ago. We talked writing – we talked books – the relationship was cemented. Then I received an invitation from her almost exactly a year ago to speak at a Carlton Trail ProLife and AGM gala. I warned her that this was not my usual cause.  I am pro life – on all fronts – but not exactly against abortion. It’s complicated - I am not an activist....
               She insisted that my story was pro life and the talk that I had given in Borden was what would be needed.
              I was intrigued. Not so much with the topic but with the place. My mother grew up in Humboldt I just wanted to visit – perhaps to feel her again. In any case, I said yes.
              When I told others, I had been invited to speak at Humboldt – they shrugged. Where? Why? There was always a puzzlement about it – which I kind of shared.
              Everything changed on April 6, when a bus carrying the members of the Humboldt Bronco Team players crashed into a semi-trailer killing 16 and injuring 13 others.  It soon became an international story not only of the tragedy but about this Humboldt community – that responded so elegantly to such a tragic event.
              After this tragic accident, when I told anyone that I has a speaking engagement in Humboldt, I didn’t have to explain where, why or what. Their eyes would soften. “We will pray for you,” they would murmur or something like that. I felt instant empathy and love flowing to this tiny heartbreak city of about 6,000 people just east of Saskatoon.
              As it turned out, this wasn't an in and out kind of speaking engagement. I was chauffeured, billeted, hosted and toured through Humboldt. I met the students at the St. Therese Catholic Bible College (Bruno). Reminded me of my own Bible College days in Hepburn Saskatchewan. Same feel. 
               I noticed that there were wall crucifixes everywhere I went,  a wonderful Catholic  tradition.  
              The gala was held at the Royal Canadian Legion on Main Street. It was attended predominately by people of the Catholic faith who champion pro life the way Mennonites champion pacifism, I gathered. 
           After a lovely dinner, I addressed the audience.  I’m really not sure what I said – it always becomes somewhat of a blur. All I remember is that they were very attentive – and that they stood up after I had spoken to tell me that I had connected.
          The thrust of my message these days is that we all have a story. I believe that we are here not by chance but for a purpose and that we can’t interfere with someone’s story whether they be vulnerable babies or criminal. We might need to manage unacceptable behaviors -  but never the story. And then I go on and on about the magic and power of words.
              The next day, I had a chance to speak at the Humboldt Collegiate (Christian/Catholic Ethics) class in a building that is now famous because of the crash. It is all famous now – known – familiar. Beautiful students all connected somehow....
              At the very end, I had a sushi luncheon with one of the organizers – who told me the story behind the stories.
              Now - after two very meaningful days, meeting the most generous and courageous people,  I think everyone should go to Humboldt.
​              Don’t wear shoes – the place is somewhat holy.

“No one is ever holy without suffering.” -- Evelyn Waugh​

     Yesterday, I spoke to a gymnasium full of high school students.
    I remember those high school years - attending a private school -  meeting in the gym for chapel - the girls all wearing navy jumper uniforms with white blouses -  and the boys wearing anything they wanted  - mostly ragged jeans and t-shirts.
     I actually loved visiting speakers back then  - especially the ones with stories.
So I launched into my Candace stories. I found myself  recounting much of that first book I wrote, Have you seen Candace? which ended with a mystery. This time I could finish the story.
       And I told it all -- well not all of it. I didn't go into some of the details of her death. I spared them that. In fact I didn't talk much about the trials at all. I rather highlighted Candace's personality, her devotion to her friends and her devotion to her God which remain so vivid after all these years.
       Time is fluid. It was as if Candace was in the room - sitting amongst them - glowing. It was as if I was beside her - a much younger self  -  glowing.
       It seemed as if we were all glowing. The students glowed with youth and vitality.
     They were such an exceptionally well-behaved, bright-eyed and responsive group. It was as if we were sitting around a campfire telling stories - the more dramatic  the better. I became aware again how dramatic my story is - how full of ghosts and such. 
      However in the drama, I tried to be responsible and embed the age-old truths that whatever happens - and it will happen - can be turned into something good. I stressed the balance of love, justice and forgiveness.
        I also recounted some of the trauma.  I told them how we had to relearn to laugh, how I had to let go of my  self pity - and fight against remaining a victim.  I told them that even though Candace was murdered that she still lives. There is something known as Candace pixie dust. 
         But I forgot one important thing. I forgot to tell them to write.
          I am horrified.
         Standing in front of them telling all of my stories, I forgot the most important truth of all. I forgot about writing.
​         I could not have stood up there in front of them, 33 years later, vividly retelling all those stories of Candace if I hadn't so carefully and descriptively written them all down that first year when I was so raw. I remember crying as I wrote them - sobbing as if my heart would break - which it did - but I wrote it all down anyhow. And I'm so grateful I did.
         But I forgot to tell them--
       
         
   “Write while the heat is in you. … .” —Henry David Thoreau

​     This morning, I was given an hour to tell my 33-year long story –from beginning to end. The group had watched bits and pieces of my story through the media – now they wanted it all - the entire background to the story. Thirty-three years is a long story, but I did it. 
      In the last few weeks, I’ve spoken to four groups. The first presentation was writing as a healing exercise.  The next was how to write the “unacceptable story” – this is actually a six-week course. The third was on “prophetic writing" - how can we activate the spirit in our writing exercises? This last one was to a church group who meets in a renovated garage. 
    ( By the way, I love the idea of a renovated garage because we are in the middle of transforming our garage into a studio. It is taking forever with all kinds of unexpected twists and turns - like building permits. So it was just good to see how one can finish a project. Beautifully done!) 
      Anyway, at this last group, I knew that my assignment was to inspire forgiveness, survival, and prayer through the telling of my story which I have always loved to do.
      So I did that – for about 45 minutes – and then I just started preaching writing. 
     Yes - writing. Somehow I switched the whole story presentation to talk about my new passion - my new hobby horse - writing!
      And yes I started "preaching?"  I think that is the only word to describe it.   I wasn't encouraging and suggesting that people should write a book, I was preaching it. 
     I have become a hot-headed evangelist. I don’t seem to care what your gifts or interests are, I want you – and everyone else - to write.
       I am clutching the mike, pounding my fist on the podium and preaching fire and brimstone messages to everyone who is not doing their morning pages. 
        I came home expecting to have a free  afternoon  – I’ve been quite busy of late. I thought I finally had my space to write! I was so excited to get going.
          As I walked through the door, I realized I don’t want to write. I just want to watch TV. 
        I have many exciting writing projects that are just begging for my attention. Only one more word - even a few sentences - would have furthered my cause.
          Nope - I just want a cup of tea and squander my entire afternoon. 
        Apparently, not everyone has to write a book - every moment of the day. There are other wonderful - delicious -  ways to spend one's time. 
​            I can’t believe how hard it is for me to admit that.

“Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.”  ― Marthe Troly-Curtin

  I never thought I would be finding a new life at this age. I thought we would be walking into the sunset by now - planning exotic vacations, dozing in our rocking chair or pushing up daisies. However, here we are, scrambling to meet the next deadline in our new life.
     I have to admit. It took us a bit to recover from the verdict. For a while, It felt as if we were free falling into emptiness. There was the "nothingness of an unsatisfactory ending"  then there was  also the "nothingness of no forced agenda."
      Perhaps it was even more complicated than that.  It was almost as if we had stepped into an empty nest syndrome. 
         Empty nest syndrome? Yes, - no one was demanding our attention anymore. We were no longer parenting - it seemed.  Then we realized that even though Candace had died - murdered 33 years ago - her invisible presence had remained a constant in our lives. She had never left our home.
       During the investigation  - that lasted 22 years and the trial process of another 11 years - she had needed our support. She required our presence in the courtroom, our love, our words. But after the writing of the final book, our responsibility was over.  It was as if she was no longer dependent on us. She had moved out. 
          She is still our child. We will always love her, but she now comes to us when she needs us. 
         For a while, it felt empty. However, that emptiness filled up quickly with all kinds of leftover passions that I had put on a shelf when the children were born.  
         Imagine, I can indulge in something new at this age.
​         Amazing.
         Of course, I have second thoughts. Is this possible? Is this right?  Will this last?
         In any case - it is fun.
        However, I know I wouldn't be here - except for all of the support that I received during those dark - never- ending years. I lived on all of  those kind thoughts and words that were given to me back then.
         Now - I am still trying to return all that kindness that was given so generously.
         So I will share the joy - just as I shared the sadness. 

My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style. Maya Angelou