Philosophizing

Success is generally understood as being demonstrated by wealth, power, beauty, etc., but it seems to me that a truly successful person knows who they are first and foremost. They realize their giftings, their raison d’etre, and do all that is in their power to use such qualities for good. They do not settle for status quo and are often unsatisfied by that which is merely superficial. When they do strive to get ahead, they do not knock down others along the way, rather they build bridges wherever possible.

A truly successful person is prosperous of soul, of emotion, of character, of experience, of relationship, and of opportunity.

The John Conspiracy?

I’d always heard that John (or variations of the same) was the the most popular men’s name in the world.

This summer, I’ve learned that the rumours are true!

A friend married her fiance named John.

A baby was miscarried and named Jon.

A chef named John came to work in the kitchen at the pub.

I met three men named Jon, John, and John:

One asked me out.

One got my number.

And one I asked to go with me to the wedding of the first John I mentioned.

I’m starting to wonder if there’s some John-centered conspiracy I’m supposed to be part of.

Missin’ you, Mama

I think my mom would have been amused to find her former favourite mechanic schlepping plates and making lattes as co-owner of one of the local cafes.

She would have cried when she heard my song on the Noted CD.

She would be surprised to find that I now like the uniquely-patterned couch and armchair I inherited from her. Birds being one of my least favourite creatrues, I was never very appreciative of the brown, red, taupe, pink and beige pheasants that gallivant on said furniture. Now, however, since I built my living room and dining room around the pattern and colour scheme, I have grown to enjoy it. She’d feel right at home, I think!

This fall, Mom and I might have been students together: She had planned to go back to school for a second degree, hoping to find a way to professionally use her intelligence, wisdom, and hard-earned life experience.

Though her death forced me to get my own apartment and enabled me to buy my Trixie Toyota, if she were still with us she would have been excited to no longer have to share her car with me (or find coffee stains on the upholstery), and I imagine her coming over for coffee every now and then… something I always wished for.

I think she would have enjoyed the memorial we had for Mark. It seemed like she was there in spirit, anyway, and that the event was honouring her life as well as Mark’s. I wonder what she might have done differently, or what her ideas might have been. Still, I have no doubt that she would have been proud of us, proud of how we chose to celebrate Mark’s life.

I’m missin’ you today, Mama. I’m so glad Mark is with you now, but I wish I still had you, too….

In Memory: Mark Andrew Koopmans

(I wrote this to read at Mark’s memorial. I didn’t make it through without crying. I doubt many people did.)

I’ve always been fiercely protective of my siblings, and with Mark it was no exception. When Mark was very little, I would hover near Mark’s side every time someone outside our family was with him, to make sure they treated him right. I remember even holding a grudge for a while against an unsuspecting physiotherapist who made him cry. How dare she?!

Sometime over the years, however, Mark’s family grew far beyond me or us, to incorporate many of you here today, from nurses to casual respite workers to program directors, physiotherapists to full-time caregivers to doctors, and many more besides.

All of us will recall Mark’s ability to suddenly break out laughing for no apparent reason and to soon have everyone around him joining in. That infectious laugh broke the tension at many a silly dinner table argument. He was the only one among us that could laugh at our pettiness without getting smacked for it!

When Mark joined our family as the youngest of six kids, I was old enough to remember the excitement when he was born, then the fear as, two days later, it became obvious that something wasn’t quite right. Mark’s birth brought a lot of changes to our family, and I remember that it took me a few years before I could look at Mark and just see him, rather than the running and the jumping and the talking he wasn’t doing! But at some point, I learned to accept that Mark was simply different.

Mom wrote an article called “Back to School” when Mark was about 2 years old, describing part of the steep learning curve she found herself on as Mark’s mother. She writes:

“Two years ago I went back to school. However, I had no choice as to the course I would take. It was chosen for me. The registration was automatic; a package deal attached to the birth of a special needs child. There is no course outline, no syllabus. Sometimes I wonder what will be required of me before I reach graduation but I know my professor has His reasons for doing it this way.”

We all know she did more than graduate – she got her Master’s! She often employed what she called her “irate mother routine” to go from ignorant to expert. She procured every conceivable dollar and service she could for Mark’s care, in the end providing an inspirational example for other special-needs parents.

Together with a small army of caregivers, most of whom are here today, Mom made sure Mark’s every need was met, and he in turn blessed them for it with a smile or a laugh or a story as only Mark could tell one, often accompanied by the music of whichever toy was currently his favourite.

Over the span of his almost eighteen years of life, the uninitiated would commonly express sympathy to us upon hearing about Mark’s disability. I replied that it wasn’t something to be sorry about, that Mark was a bright spot for my family. Mark was just Mark!

Mom’s reply would have been a bit more specific. She would have said: Mark is a good and perfect gift from above.

It is our joy and privilege to know that they are now together above, rejoicing!

Some friends, after hearing about Mark’s death this week, said a very insightful thing to me that I think sums up what we’re feeling, and I’d like to close with this thought:

We’re so sad for us, ‘cause we’ll miss you, but we’re so happy for you, Mark!

Glamparella

Glamping. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of it. It’s all the rage among the fashion-forward, upwardly-mobile, and comfort-inclined, ie; Me.

For the ignorant:

Glamping: (n.) Glamorous Camping. (adj.) A form of camping in which the participants enjoy amenities usually associated with five-star accommodations.

Having decided that I should become a Glamper, I did a little preliminary research, and was not disappointed. I found that Glamping, despite it’s very “now” moniker, is actually a throw-back to those African safari camps of the early 1920’s.

Picture large white canvas tents with wide awnings, Persian carpets, king-size beds, dressing and wash rooms, antique furniture, china dishes, oil lanterns casting a warm glow everywhere, and perhaps a tame tiger cub on a fluffy mat in the corner.

Now add colour to the tent, electrical outlets to supply those “oil” lanterns (not to mention our espresso makers, margarita blenders, flat-irons, and iPod docks), and trade the tiger cub for a mini-bar, and you’ve got modern Glamping!

Some people are Glam-purists: they refuse to take any electronics with them, and instead plan to observe the beauty of nature from their comfortable oases. Others consider their Glamp-site to be a Four Seasons without walls and expect every possible convenience, including spa treatments, baby- and dog-sitting services, and gourmet chefs. I’d consider myself in the first group, with the addition of a FEW electronics, namely an espresso maker, a coffee-grinder, a cell-phone charger (I’d keep it on vibrate and in my tent), and my laptop on which to write and maybe watch movies.

It seems that the rich and famous have a natural head start on us regular folk, but I hope to find some fellow Glamparellas who are willing to pay a little more for equipment, haul a little more weight to the site, and scorn, just a tiny bit, the tradition of “hard-core” camping (read: canned food, instant coffee, damp bedding, flimsy mattresses that allow you to get familiar with every bump and crevice of the forest floor, etc.) in favour of comfort, good food, a bottle of wine or two, and hours spent with our feet up with a good book, in the open air and sunshine.

Tell me that doesn’t sound heavenly!

A Transparent Truth

The more observant of my readers may have noticed that all of my recent posts (notice I didn’t use the words frequent or regular), recent being over the last year or so, have been either about grief, ranting, or something superficial.

The reason? Fear, mostly. Fear of what others may think of me, of how those who have known me as The Good Little Missionary Girl might regard me if I delve back into the topic of faith, or get as truly “gritty” as I’d like to on this here website.

No longer. I am recently emboldened, by what I’m not sure, but here it is nonetheless. Please read on with an open mind, knowing that my only intention is transparency and getting back to the roots of this website. I know that people will have strong opinions about these issues. Please don’t take offense, rather take my honesty for what it is, or leave it. I cannot remain silent any longer.

It is no secret that I have long been disillusioned with church as I grew up knowing it, with the “Christian” institution that has become normal. In YWAM (Youth With A Mission, the organization that took me to Mexico and Hawaii, etc.), I was part of a community of believers that lived faith, day in and day out, in our work and play, sharing our possessions, helping each other when needed, and so much more. Going to organized church on Sundays became redundant to us, other than to show our Christian Mexican friends that we weren’t heathens. Shame.

When I returned to Canada, I was excited about a working relationship with the church that I called my home church, assuming the feeling was mutual. I had been on “the field” for several years and had what I thought was some valuable first-hand experience. It didn’t take long before I realized they had no idea what to do with me, and the apparent lack of trust in my gifts and abilities was so different from what I had become accustomed to that I very soon grew disillusioned. I knew the church wasn’t “well”, but it became more and more obvious to me that they had no idea.

I became increasingly frustrated with what I started to call “The Superficial Bullshit” (TSB) that passed for “fellowship” (the Christian F-word). It was what occurred before and after every service in the lobby as people “greeted” each other with “God bless you” (what DO they mean by that?), during every service as people watched each other “worship” (”Look who’s just sitting like a lump during the song service”, “Look who’s praying at the front - wonder what they have to repent of”), and at cell groups and Bible studies (how much of your soul will you really bare when some people bring their children to what should be an intimate place of trustful sharing?), etc. It occurs to me that my observations could very well have been tainted by something changing within myself and not an accurate reflection of many who were participating in TSB, but I desperately longed for something grittier, something less outwardly polished, less publicly fluffy.

More and more, entering the church building made me angry. I realized they didn’t know me and it wasn’t a place I could safely “come clean” about my ideas of what a church should be: they weren’t going to change anytime soon. After only having my membership for a year and a half, I withdrew it with a letter to the board, which brought no reply back. I voluntarily stepped down from the one area I had been involved with because I thought I might be regarded as more of a subversive than a leader. Then, I stopped attending.

That was a year and a half ago, and I still feel as if I have been set free! I don’t miss it at all. I DO miss the faith community I had in YWAM, though. I miss the level of transparency we had with each other, the “real-ness” of relationships, how we weren’t afraid to be honest with each other, how we held each other accountable in many areas, and so much more.

Then, a little over a year ago, my mother died. She was a single mother who had raised my five siblings and I alone since 1994. She was a beacon of faith, a pillar of godly truth, with a degree in religious education from a Christian university college. We were very different people, with different personalities, but we both held faith very close to our hearts.

When she was sick, I couldn’t handle it. Being the oldest child of a single parent, I have always stepped up, been responsible, done more than I should have. But in this case, I couldn’t get far enough away. For the first time in my life, I didn’t want to be responsible. I sat in the living room while my siblings did the food and dishes for Christmas. Perhaps the implications of her being weak and dying were too much for me to process, I don’t know.

Then she died a little over a year ago. I wasn’t ready. I thought I had more time, thought that I could say good-bye, ask her forgiveness for being so distant, get some understanding as to why I felt I had to get away rather than stick around to be with her. But she was gone.

It shook my world, rattled my being to the core. She had been the centre of my existence, my own personal pillar of strength for so many years. Suddenly, the world was different. I had to grow up, get my own apartment, my own vehicle, my own insurance policy. I inherited a bit of money that I had to invest. I became co-executor of her estate, co-guardian of my youngest brother. With my siblings, I had to make decisions about her things, had to pack up her house and move out.

The worst, however, was facing her people. They meant well, but their sympathy didn’t help. Neither did the church, really. A few people did, but I was almost relieved that there was no formal “church” outreach to the practically orphaned children of one of their members, a leader in their midst. It didn’t look good on them, but it suited me just fine.

Now for the gritty: I don’t know where I stand with faith anymore. I’m not that same “good little missionary girl” you used to know. I’m not the “worship leader” person. As you can see, I’m not even comfortable with those terms being applied to me. I’m not sure what they’re supposed to mean, or what they meant to you. I definitely know that I don’t identify with them right now, and I’m willing to risk your criticism to say so.

Many questions have been raised in my mind about what I always just accepted as truth, or took for granted, as the case may be. There are questions and doubts, but I’m not motivated to look for answers for them. Perhaps it’s laziness, or the evil, evil “backsliding”, but to be brutally honest, I’m okay with it.

Fundamentally, there are things that I don’t imagine will ever change for me: God is God, the Bible is true, Heaven and hell are both realities, etc. It’s the details that are fuzzy to me right now, and I really think that’s alright.

A friend said to me during a rare and refreshing online chat recently, “I’ll bet Jesus likes you more now”. THAT’S the kind of Jesus I can believe in. Hopefully I’m on my way to learn more about the type of faith that gets angry with hypocrites and hangs out with prostitutes.

Meanwhile, don’t expect me to say “God bless you” or do anything we know as “churchy”. I just can’t.

To Gym or Not to Gym

I made a resolution to work out this year, in a manner of speaking. I told my doctor that doing cardio was a goal of mine, and I really hate lying to people in authority. It’s just rarely a good idea. One can get away with telling fibs to servers and cashiers and nosy aunts, but when one’s health is in question, honesty is definitely the best policy.

When a friend gave me a two-week membership to the local YMCA, I thought, “Aha! My break has come! In I go”. So I did. For two weeks.

And I loved it. I learned how to use all the machines, talked about going to work out with my friends, dreamed of attending morning classes, took my brother ones, looked for the combination lock from my high school locker to put on my gym locker, bought non-cheap new running shoes, etc.

Then I encountered a wall I haven’t been able to breach: $44 + GST/month, plus the $80 activation fee. GULP.

Sure, when you think of it in terms of your long-term health, or how it costs $10/visit if you’re not a member, or how you have absolutely no motivation to do anything physical by yourself and have no TV with which to employ Wii Fit, that amount of money makes sense.

But then the scale flips and you remember your rent, cell phone bill, home phone bill, hydro, gas, insurance, groceries, investments, and other financial responsibilities, and suddenly it’s a big deal again. Yikes.

Yet, if you’re willing to humble yourself  and take in your proof of income and copies of your bills to a “confidential appointment” (and NOT wear Guess jeans with your sexy Frye boots and a sweet little jacket and oversized shades), there’s a chance they’ll give you the low-income rate of about $25/month.

On the other hand, do you really qualify as “unable, not unwilling, to pay full regular fees”?

You see my dilemma?

Wanna come running with me? 11:30 pm, my place? Oh, and bring your own weights, and some for me to use. And a TV so we can do a workout video. I’ll provide the water. And maybe a healthy snack.

Life in the H.C., Part 4: Dangerous Drivers, aka: Cocky Buggers

Dear Huron County Driver,

I’d like to say you know who you are, but I am not at all sure you do. Here’s a clue: if you see no problem following the car in front of you so closely that you can dig earwax out of the driver’s ear, I might be talking to you. Or if you think those bumper stickers that begin with the phrase, “If you can read this…” are part of some sort of literacy outreach program, I might be talking to you.

Even with my amazing new snow tires, it seems only prudent to me, seeing as how I value my life, to exercise caution when driving on snowy roads. When I say “exercise caution”, I am mostly referring to slowing down below the speed limit (If you’re saying “What?! Who DOES that?!” I am definitely talking to YOU!) and occasionally taking my foot off the gas pedal or, heaven forbid, even braking every now and again!

I understand there are some people who didn’t get the chance (or simply didn’t bother) to take Driver’s Ed, and they might try to use this as their excuse for believing that driving 3 feet behind the car ahead of them is okay, but I’m here to tell them it’s SO not! Did they really want to be collateral damage if I hit an invisible snow drift?

It boggles my mind how some people drive in winter, and, honestly, it scares me. I don’t care who you are or what driving super-powers you may have, I believe I have a right to peace of mind on the roads. If you’re driving behind me, I expect you to respect that. When I flash my brake lights a few times at you, please take the hint: “Back off! I’m uncomfortable with you being all up in my grill!” If you don’t get it the first time, my attitude toward you will NOT improve, and, in the privacy of my own vehicle, I’ll be saying mean things about you, and my impatient brake-light flashes will mean, “Hey jerk! You may not value your life but I do mine! Back the h— off!!”

Yours in fear of her life and limb til the snow departs,

Sarah Koopmans

First Deathiversary

Dear Mom,

I can hardly believe it’s been an entire year since I saw you last! True, so much has happened over the last 365 days, but they have sped by in a blur, it seems.

Shortly after your funeral, we went through everything in your house (a daunting task), decided what to keep, what to toss, what to give away, and eventually, within a few weeks, cleaned it all out. Saying good-bye to the last place I saw you alive was tough, especially since I did it alone one snowy afternoon.

I finally got my chance to nest, though finding myself so alone in the prospect made it a bittersweet experience. I am grateful to have inherited much of your household, including furniture, linens, plants, dishes, and even cleaning supplies - thanks!

Thanks to being the co-executor of your estate, I’ve learned a lot more about finances and “the system”. I’ve also assumed your role as Mark’s spokesperson, and I feel fully capable of doing “The Irate Sister” routine if I need to. He will hopefully finally have a home sometime this year, thanks to your tireless work, and the help of some other gems I don’t have to mention.

I’ve done lots of singing, with the help of the Noted! project and Cactus Jam, and now I have prospects with a new band, Fourth Avenue. Singing is definitely one of the things I was meant to do, as I’m sure you knew.

I’m also now the Dining Room Manager at the pub and the owner jokes (?) about selling it to me someday. Hmm.

Another thing that causes me to shake my head is the fact that I’ve been in the HC now for two and a half years! Me! Remember when I said I didn’t think I’d live in Canada ever again? Here I am eating my words. And as much as I think I’d enjoy living in a city where people are more style- and culture-conscious and it’s cool to be 27 and single, I am also enjoying getting to know my home county in a different way, and I’m not hoping to leave anytime soon.

Holidays are weird without you, Mom, though I have to say I enjoy having the option of using my own kitchen, my own house, to entertain my family. This Christmas, I couldn’t bear the thought that we might not have new books, so I used money that has been returned to you from taxes, etc. to buy new books for everyone. I was sure you wouldn’t mind.

Most recently, I did something you likely wouldn’t approve of, and, ironically, I did it in your memory! I got a tattoo on my left forearm:

I wanted to be able to see it every day, to see your initials, to remember your wisdom. I love that it’s got my handwriting and yours - it’s a precious possession, and I wear it with pride.

I have to end this letter, Mama, because three of my siblings, a very pregnant sister-in-law, and three neices and I are meeting for dinner tonight to remember you. We’re hoping to find at least a little bit of open water, whether on the lake or the river, to toss some fresh flowers in your memory, just as we did on the day of your funeral.

First, though, I want to share two poems I’ve been thinking a lot about today. First, in sadness for the days gone by and in recognition of the many times tears have sprung upon me suddenly:

Tears, Idle Tears

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

(Lord Alfred Tennyson)

And secondly, what I feel is my theme for this coming year, hope:

Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune–without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

(Emily Dickinson)

I love you forever, Mommy.

Sarah

How Freakin’ Fabulous Am I? (rhetorical question)

There are a few things I’d like to say:

1. I suck for having procrastinated from writing for ever so long. You may not care, but I know the truth: I officially suck for not taking the time to record all of the freakin’ fabulous thoughts I’ve had over the last several months. Some of the blame can be laid on the following inconsequential pastimes: work, two bands plus other music projects, and being there for my family.

2. While I initially anticipated the arrival of winter with fear and trepidation, now that it has been asserting its climatic domination of my area for weeks, I’ve mostly gotten used to it. I had some noteworthy help from a few contributors: the Fionas (my amazing knee-high, sexy black leather boots), elbow-length black leather gloves, snow tires, and CAA, with an honourable mention to hemp hearts and espresso.

3. At the risk of sounding blasphemous, I have a new bible that has very little to do with spirituality but everything to do with great taste. As happens with many great things, I stumbled upon this book in a local store that I hadn’t set foot in for a long while, and I can’t get enough of it. My new bible is written by What Not To Wear’s Clinton Kelly, and it’s called: Freakin’ Fabulous: How to Dress, Speak, Behave, Eat, Drink, Entertain, Decorate, and Generally be Better Than Everyone Else.

Clinton’s approach is very humourous, but truly, truly fabulous. These pages are chock-full of common-sensical advice, from how to match patterns to how-to recipes for great appetizers to good manners. I love it, and possibly not platonically! I’ve been accused of being too proper, caring too much about grammar, and being picky about lighting, and now I find myself vindicated by Mr. Kelly. Alleluia!

I simply can’t leave it at that, I’m sorry. This book will likely stay on my coffee table for decades to come, and all of you who care will be able to leaf through it and glean its wisdom for yourself. Honestly, where else can you find all of this basic good advice in one very fun, well-published, entertaining format?

This is the book that I’ve been waiting to discover for all of my adult life. Or, at least since I discovered how fabulous one can be and my true potential for achieving it.

A great paragraph:

When throwing a party, you must sanitize and guest-proof your bathroom. If the bathroom that will be used by your guests is not absolutely spotless, you will quickly get a reputation as a dirty birdy. And then, nobody will eat the food you’ve made because they’re afraid of catching hepatitis.

Just sayin’: great writing, right?

Here’s another tidbit:

If chopping onions makes you cry, hold a few unlit matches in your mouth. The sulfur is supposed to absorb some of the onion fumes. You can also hold a slice of white bread in your mouth. Either way, you’ll look like an idiot. Also, try throwing the onion in the freezer for a bit before you chop it. The colder the onion, the less fumes. Personally, I don’t mind a good cry. In fact, if I cry while chopping the onions, I’ll run to the bathroom mirror and recite one of my favorite lines from Poltergeist: “Don’t you touch my babies!!!” It’s the part where the kids are being sucked into the bedroom closet for the second time and JoBeth Wiliams is at HER WIT’S END! It’s very dramatic. (Hi, JoBeth, if you’re reading this!!!)

I mean, come on! Mixing great advice with self-deprecating humour and pop-culture references? What could be better in a self-help book?

4. I have to go now. I have some more reading to do before I’ll be ready to host any freakin’ fabulous Christmas parties. Ta Ta.