Other Side of the Story
In response to my last blog, someone who knows me well wrote: “Now that is a very sad pity party. All of it is true, too—but there is another side to your story. What about the awards, the writing, the teaching, the opportunities you’ve been blessed with?”
I smiled. She was right.
Yes, I was born in 1948 — the year Israel became a nation, the so-called fig tree generation – growing up in the shadow of the end times. My father, deeply intrigued by the fig tree prophecy, assumed I shared his fascination and kept me informed of every new fulfillment. Though I wasn’t the favored child — that honor belonged to the long-awaited son born after me — I became the chosen one to accompany him on his spiritual quest. So together, we “watched and prayed,” tracing signs, debating meanings, and marveling at each new shift in the world’s story.
Those evenings remain luminous in my memory — our long, searching conversations about truth, prophecy, and the unfolding mystery of God. In those moments, I felt not overlooked, but seen — bound to my father by a quiet, sacred curiosity.
And yes, I was born during the great Fraser River flood — when six feet of manure soup covered the valley. My mother said the stench was unbearable, but my crying was worse. There’s nothing harder on weary nerves than a baby who won’t stop wailing — and I was understandably, resented. With time, my mother and sisters became a formidable force in the kitchen — bustling, efficient, and confident — while I was delegated to scrubbing bathrooms, sweeping garages, and taking out the garbage. They were Martha's. I was a Mary — quiet, observant, content to sit at the Master’s feet. What once felt like disgrace has become, in hindsight, a kind of freedom.
Then since I didn’t bond easily with my parents, as a child, I found my way — small and determined — across the pasture field to my grandmother’s house. I can still see myself waddling through the tall grass, my grandmother's face lighting up the moment I entered. She had been a mayor’s daughter in Russia — a woman of intellect and spirit — who, like me, never fit neatly into the Martha mold. Her home overflowed with books: stacked on tables, piled beside her bed, spilling into corners. She devoured words the way others devoured food. She became my first mentor, my refuge — I was always free to come and go as I pleased.
Not finding my place at home, I remember building forts and tiny houses all over our one-acre hobby farm with my red-headed neighbor — a boy who was also rejected from his family. Together we caught polliwogs in the ditches, built rafts that never floated, and laughed until our stomachs hurt. In that wild, unkempt world of play, I found place and friends outside that was just as rewarding plus I discovered imagination — and freedom.
At church, when I couldn’t find belonging in the choir loft or among the musically gifted singers, I found God in the stars. I whispered prayers into the night, read Scripture by flashlight, and learned that faith didn’t have to look perfect — it just had to live.
Meeting Cliff at Bible school was better than any formal education. We were two dreamers, two creative souls. We married, and with little planning and much grace, three beautiful, brilliant children — arrived unbidden gifts who filled our home with wonder. Their coming grounded me - forced me to grow responsible and resilient. I completed a challenging two-year journalism course, a skill that became my lifeline when Candace disappeared just six months after graduation. I might never have excelled at berry picking like my sisters, but all those summers were not wasted, the gave me the discipline and endurance to survive that course even though admissions thought I never would - having three children in tow.
Candace's murder was the darkest valley imaginable. There are no words for that kind of loss. It was the worst. And yet, even there, grace appeared — in the kindness of strangers, the resilience of community, and the unwavering gaze of a God who never looked away. The murderer stole her life — but not her light. Her story continues to live on - illuminating courage and calling forth love in unexpected places.
For me the worst was that I thought I had failed as a mother. I wanted to hide and just cry but the spotlight found me and followed me — unrelenting. The attention and expectations pulled me out of my grief and forced me to find the answers which we did in the word "forgiveness". i was forced to tell my story. What I once viewed as a burden became, over time, a strange and sacred privilege. I no longer see that light as glare, but as grace.
Now, in this new season of widowhood and Parkinson’s, I once again thought my life had ended. Parkinson’s felt like another valley — a narrowing of my world. But even this I've discovered has become an unexpected refuge. Living with my daughter, her husband, our granddaughter, and Charlie the dog has wrapped me again in laughter and love. I can blissfully ignore the kitchen while they prepare feasts worthy of heaven.
Yet a question lingered. What now?
I was no longer a therapist a speaker. My schedule, once overflowing, had emptied. What could possible fill the long quiet hours?
As a girl, I had borrowed Grace Livingston Hill’s Christian romance novels from the church library and dreamed of becoming a writer like her. Later, my secret hero was Danielle Steel. I remember reading that she had a cabin where she would retreat for days — just her, her words, and the worlds she created. I longed for that — not fame or fortune, but a quiet place where stories could bloom.
And now, I look around and realize — I did get my cabin. No mountainside retreat, perhaps, but a sanctuary nonetheless: a peaceful home, the hum of family nearby, and time precious, unhurried time - to write. I’m writing like never before. indulging in the freedom of an unfettered schedule and the joy of a rediscovered purpose.
So yes, my pity party is over
My life might have unfolded differently than I once imagined, and I may have walked through more valleys than most, - but as I look back now. I see a life threaded with grace - a life filled with unexpected joys, hard-won freedoms and opportunities beyond anything I could have dreamed.
It's time to celebrate.
“I will love the light for it shows me the way,
yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars.”— Elizabeth Edwards
I smiled. She was right.
Yes, I was born in 1948 — the year Israel became a nation, the so-called fig tree generation – growing up in the shadow of the end times. My father, deeply intrigued by the fig tree prophecy, assumed I shared his fascination and kept me informed of every new fulfillment. Though I wasn’t the favored child — that honor belonged to the long-awaited son born after me — I became the chosen one to accompany him on his spiritual quest. So together, we “watched and prayed,” tracing signs, debating meanings, and marveling at each new shift in the world’s story.
Those evenings remain luminous in my memory — our long, searching conversations about truth, prophecy, and the unfolding mystery of God. In those moments, I felt not overlooked, but seen — bound to my father by a quiet, sacred curiosity.
And yes, I was born during the great Fraser River flood — when six feet of manure soup covered the valley. My mother said the stench was unbearable, but my crying was worse. There’s nothing harder on weary nerves than a baby who won’t stop wailing — and I was understandably, resented. With time, my mother and sisters became a formidable force in the kitchen — bustling, efficient, and confident — while I was delegated to scrubbing bathrooms, sweeping garages, and taking out the garbage. They were Martha's. I was a Mary — quiet, observant, content to sit at the Master’s feet. What once felt like disgrace has become, in hindsight, a kind of freedom.
Then since I didn’t bond easily with my parents, as a child, I found my way — small and determined — across the pasture field to my grandmother’s house. I can still see myself waddling through the tall grass, my grandmother's face lighting up the moment I entered. She had been a mayor’s daughter in Russia — a woman of intellect and spirit — who, like me, never fit neatly into the Martha mold. Her home overflowed with books: stacked on tables, piled beside her bed, spilling into corners. She devoured words the way others devoured food. She became my first mentor, my refuge — I was always free to come and go as I pleased.
Not finding my place at home, I remember building forts and tiny houses all over our one-acre hobby farm with my red-headed neighbor — a boy who was also rejected from his family. Together we caught polliwogs in the ditches, built rafts that never floated, and laughed until our stomachs hurt. In that wild, unkempt world of play, I found place and friends outside that was just as rewarding plus I discovered imagination — and freedom.
At church, when I couldn’t find belonging in the choir loft or among the musically gifted singers, I found God in the stars. I whispered prayers into the night, read Scripture by flashlight, and learned that faith didn’t have to look perfect — it just had to live.
Meeting Cliff at Bible school was better than any formal education. We were two dreamers, two creative souls. We married, and with little planning and much grace, three beautiful, brilliant children — arrived unbidden gifts who filled our home with wonder. Their coming grounded me - forced me to grow responsible and resilient. I completed a challenging two-year journalism course, a skill that became my lifeline when Candace disappeared just six months after graduation. I might never have excelled at berry picking like my sisters, but all those summers were not wasted, the gave me the discipline and endurance to survive that course even though admissions thought I never would - having three children in tow.
Candace's murder was the darkest valley imaginable. There are no words for that kind of loss. It was the worst. And yet, even there, grace appeared — in the kindness of strangers, the resilience of community, and the unwavering gaze of a God who never looked away. The murderer stole her life — but not her light. Her story continues to live on - illuminating courage and calling forth love in unexpected places.
For me the worst was that I thought I had failed as a mother. I wanted to hide and just cry but the spotlight found me and followed me — unrelenting. The attention and expectations pulled me out of my grief and forced me to find the answers which we did in the word "forgiveness". i was forced to tell my story. What I once viewed as a burden became, over time, a strange and sacred privilege. I no longer see that light as glare, but as grace.
Now, in this new season of widowhood and Parkinson’s, I once again thought my life had ended. Parkinson’s felt like another valley — a narrowing of my world. But even this I've discovered has become an unexpected refuge. Living with my daughter, her husband, our granddaughter, and Charlie the dog has wrapped me again in laughter and love. I can blissfully ignore the kitchen while they prepare feasts worthy of heaven.
Yet a question lingered. What now?
I was no longer a therapist a speaker. My schedule, once overflowing, had emptied. What could possible fill the long quiet hours?
As a girl, I had borrowed Grace Livingston Hill’s Christian romance novels from the church library and dreamed of becoming a writer like her. Later, my secret hero was Danielle Steel. I remember reading that she had a cabin where she would retreat for days — just her, her words, and the worlds she created. I longed for that — not fame or fortune, but a quiet place where stories could bloom.
And now, I look around and realize — I did get my cabin. No mountainside retreat, perhaps, but a sanctuary nonetheless: a peaceful home, the hum of family nearby, and time precious, unhurried time - to write. I’m writing like never before. indulging in the freedom of an unfettered schedule and the joy of a rediscovered purpose.
So yes, my pity party is over
My life might have unfolded differently than I once imagined, and I may have walked through more valleys than most, - but as I look back now. I see a life threaded with grace - a life filled with unexpected joys, hard-won freedoms and opportunities beyond anything I could have dreamed.
It's time to celebrate.
“I will love the light for it shows me the way,
yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars.”— Elizabeth Edwards
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