“Quick, out of the house,” my mother yelled to her three little girls. There was no argument from any of us, by the tone of her voice she meant business.

It was seven days of sea-sickness on the old Franconia, which I believe was dry-docked some time later.

With a lift of his glass of egg-nog, my husband wished us all a Merry Christmas. They were the last happy words I heard from him for over a week.

His two hands reach out and enclose mine in greeting. We have not seen each other in 40 years.

“You’ve got to be kidding. I’m too old for that kind of stuff,” my friend said in response to my suggestion that a fitness class might help us both with a weight problem.

“She has a rather long nose.” Thus was my first impression of the tiny, white-haired, 70-year-old lady that was to occupy the front bedroom for the following winter months.

I stood precariously balanced on the kitchen counter, trying to put the summer screen into the kitchen window. It has a mind of its own and tries my patience every spring. At last it fits. Carefully I step back onto the chair I have placed beside the counter. I miss it and start to fall.

“Pat, Elaine, Fernne.” So often I heard my mother call those names. She probably only wanted one of us but she automatically called all three.

When asked where the prettiest spot we ever camped was, I have to confess (as a Presbyterian elder) it was in a place where there was a “no camping” sign.

There is a good deal of talk nowadays about the “quality” of time spent with children. That word would have confused my mother.

The funeral was over. The relatives had gone and the freezer was stuffed with more food than I could ever eat. But mostly, it was time I had too much of … minutes, days, weeks, months of time.

I set the small grey kitten on the white hospital blanket and waited—waited for the magic to start.

“How old is the baby?” I smile at the new mother. I guess my grey hair is not intimidating; she replies with a smile, “Three days old!”

Wow! This is a different world.

“Well this is different,” I said to myself as with widened eyes I took in the large sanctuary. (My own church contains nine pews on each side.) I wondered if I should reconsider this adventure; then I found the rest of the congregation fast on my heels and I was propelled inside.

For six months after my husband died, I did not see the top of my dining room table. Funeral papers and federal, provincial and local government documents were stacked there along with all the sympathy cards … Much later I said to a friend, “If I’d known there was going to be so much paperwork, I wouldn’t have let him go.”

The years had dimmed our memories of travelling with our children. (We’d forgotten all the potty stops and car-sick kids.)

I pushed hard against the peeling, painted door. As it opened, my senses were filled with wonderful odours … leather, shoe polish, oiled wood floors. Such a heady perfume could take my breath away.

Like many Christians, I’v had difficulty trying to comprehend the Trinity. The enormity of God fills me with awe.

I watched as the tiny spider at its end, without fear, spun itself down until it rested on a nearby chair. It was really faith in action.

The mind is a curious thing and I was learning fascinating things about it. But the practical aspects of the job were a far greater learning experience.