Kentucky Bound!

I'm off to Neon, Kentucky with our church this week to help at the missions!

I'm sure I'll be back with many stories to share, many tears to shed and many thankful prayers to be said!

Blessings, Glynis

Why (Canadian Authored) Books Make Great Christmas Gifts

There's a few practical reasons why a book makes the perfect present.

1. It is easy to wrap

2. If you buy more than one, they stack nicely under the tree.

3. You don't have to buy batteries for a book

4. You don't have to plug a book in.

5. For under $25 you can travel around the world - or anywhere else you choose

Neil Gaiman, comic writer and novelist, when asked why books make great gifts said, " Books make great gifts because they have whole worlds inside them, and it's much cheaper to buy somebody a book than it is to buy them the whole world!"

That is so true. Walk into a bookstore - Christian or otherwise - and look around. Spell-binding journeys and exhilarating adventures abound. Prepare to be whisked off with reckless abandon to faraway lands and exotic locations. Journey back in time to the days of Jesus or travel to the future and experience life in a different galaxy, planet or realm. Tread on pathways where the noble and valiant stood sword to sword or step inside the palace and mingle with the courtiers and vie for the favour of the king.

A book can take a person to a place of hope, unveil the unknown and offer comfort and direction, love and support. What better way to escape the tyranny of the urgent than to tuck yourself in your favourite chair and nestle in with a novel? Sign me up!

Probably one of my favourite parts of the book store is the children's section. I love children's books. And I love reading to children. To me, there is nothing more rewarding than seeing a child rapt as I relay the perils of the porcupine or the emotional roller coaster of Wilbur and Charlotte. Books for children make great gifts that last. I had a poster on my wall once that said, "Reading is like a young pup - it grows with you." Give a child a book and you give them an opportunity to grow in wisdom and imagination.

And why buy Canadian, you ask? Why wouldn't you? There are so many talented Canadian Authors. It is always a good idea to discover and support our own! From far and wide, O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

Making Sense

When I was going through my chemotherapy I remember feeling so alone sometimes. Oh people were kind and sweet of tongue. Many of my friends and family found ways to cheer me and help out and for that I was so grateful and humbled. Accepting help was a biggie for this independent soul. So I learned much over the year.


But there were always moments of isolation and confusion. I suppose I was still trying to make sense of what was happening and why. I was not angry with God but my soul stirred with a million questions.



One of the best ways that I found solace, next to prayer, was when I went online and found my OC and other cancer friends. When I started blogging about my journey, it became apparent that I was not alone. Soon I had found sisters in Australia, US and in England as well as getting linked up with gals all over Canada. It's true about there being comfort in numbers. In my distraction I soon found myself grateful.


In the beginning when a body receives that hideous diagnosis of cancer, there is always that feeling of impending doom and life is cruel. But the more I spoke to others and the more I realized the fragility of life and how cancer shows no boundaries, the more thankful I became for every breath I took.


As I look back in my journal and read some of my sporadic poetry, I recall some of my emotion and then I look heavenward and give thanks for where I am today. My cancer may return, althought the powers that be tell me there is only a 20% chance. I never was much of a gambler, but I am leaning toward the 80% odds.


The following poem was written on June 30th, 2008, eleven days after my first chemotherapy treatment. In the prelude to the piece, I wrote about how I was waiting for my hair to fall out and how I had just joined an ovarian cancer support group online.


Embraceable me, reaching out
Sisters in the same canoe
Wishing we didn't have to meet
But - a necessary evil
Guilded in teal;
"A badge of honour," she said.
Wear it with dignity...
Holding chin in direct proportion to attitude
Defying the odds.

Hot Flashes and the Holy Spirit

When I first started going through chemo I wasn't sure if I was flushing or flashing. My surgery had very cruelly shoved me into early menopause so I was warned that my body would be in a state of flux.
Anyone who might be a little iffy with an accurate definition of flux - be it known that it includes various stages of mental instability, uncontrollable _________ (pick an emotion and fill in the blank) and horrible weight gain.

I was told that some of the carboplatin/taxol [bittersweet] poison that dripped into my body for six months had some interesting side effects, too - one of them being flushing.

My saint of a husband very wisely bought me a robotic like fan complete with a remote control and situated the blessed piece of whirling gadgetry next to my side of the bed. He dared not touch the remote but did get himself an extra quilt for his side.

Some days were agony. Most nights were. Between bedding being tossed and the fan running full blast throughout the wee hours of the morning, I started to feel grateful that all my hair had fallen out.

Two years later, here I am. My hair is back. Chemotherapy is over and the flushing has ceased. However, the hot flashes remain. Thanks be to the good Lord, that they are not as barbarically unbearable as they used to be and mostly they happen when the sun goes down. My fan is still strategically placed at my bedside, however, and in the two years we have owned it, there are no male fingerprints on my remote. It stays at the ready on my bedside table.

Oddly, today, I was sitting in church contemplating my life and rejoicing in all that was good. As I did so, I felt a surge. I was a little confused. Then it hit. Usually reserved for the nocturnal moments, the hot flash began to flow through my body. It somehow did not seem fair. Here I was praying, rejoicing, giving thanks and appreciating God and what He has done in my life.

As beads of sweat formed on my hairy noggin' it hit me. I wasn't having a hot flash. I was being washed; cleansed and moved. The Holy Spirit was getting my attention. That was it. At least that's what I'm saying from now on.

So here's my story (and I'm sticking to it.) I've decided that instead of dreading and whining and complaining about spontaneous hot waves wreaking havoc on my unsuspecting body, I’m going to use them as a reminder. No more will I waste a hot flash. I pledge to remember that I have a Comforter, a Source of hope, and a Reason to be happy.

In the future, as I experience my hot moments, I will (try my best) to see these as a (gulp) gift from God. Hey…some people need a wake up call with a two by four. If a hot flash works for me…(but I’m not giving up my remote.)

Dales Tales

Once upon a time there was a determined young lass. Dale is her name. Promoting a zest for life and a desire to help her fellow man (woman) is her focus. I'm not sure how long Miss Dale has been doing these breast cancer luncheons in Drayton - I'm thinking 4 years. but they are certainly a big success. Theresa Scholten, another doggedly determined soul, is Dale's right hand man (woman) and she handles the registration table single handedly. And a fine job she does! I would be going cuckoo trying to keep everything straight.
Although I had ovarian cancer, not breast cancer, the gals asked me to be in the 'survivor' picture, too. I was honoured to do so. I'm the one sitting on Dale's knee! Theresa is 2nd from the right. There's 11 of us here, counting blessings and enjoying the moment. Linda is missing. Linda is a trooper. She made it to the luncheon but had to head out a little early. It was a good day, had by all. Special thanks to Dale for the super job she did as an MC. The food was great. The fellowship was fine. And the money raised for cancer research gives hope to many.

Ode to a Rose

(PHOTO: Rosemary with her grandbabies - one missing!)

Rosemary, my older sister, has been a gem. She moved closer to me about a month ago and it has been a blessing magnified that she arrived on the scene just in time. With building a new home, chaos has subtly inserted itself into my life. Routine has disappeared off the radar and I am lost in the clutter and the drywall dust (that's what we get for moving into a nest before all the twigs and the mud are in place!)

Rosemary donned her cape at precisely the right moment and she was able to step in and help me with a plethora of things including sharing and caring for our 84 year old poppa bear!

So to Rosemary I offer these multicoloured roses for these reasons:

1. Pink roses mean thank you. Thank you, Rosemary for helping us lug heavy crates of books upstairs; for carrying umpteen boxes and loading them in an amazing compact way; for uprooting, transporting and replanting precious perennials and little trees, and for doing a million other hands on tasks before, during and after our move.

2. Orange Roses represent your enthusiasm to jump in and do whatever - whenever - yes, even my laundry for three weeks before we got our trusty machines tumbling and tossing again.

3. Red Roses symbolize your sincere, unconditional love and respect for family. I was thrilled you could be there for Dad when I was on the verge of insanity. Thanks for whipping up meals and keeping Dad happy and busy. The fish pond you made is amazing. Dad is loving the backyard sanctuary you have created. I wish I had half your talent and ability. Yup...you might have been called an 'intellectual butterfly' when you were younger but your flitting and creativity has brought beauty to Dad's backyard.

4. Red & White Roses together signify unity. Thanks for being a partner, a pal and for making the decision to move closer. After all these years, it's good to spend time with you and realize heart stuff! United we stand; divided we trip and fall in the mud.

5. Yellow Roses indicate joy, gladness, friendship and "I Care." Thanks for being one of the first to ask how my appointment went at the cancer clinic last week and for rejoicing with me. I am so thankful and relieved that you, also, had the CA125 done a while ago and then you heard the word 'normal' somewhere in the medical chatter. Keep being aware!

I'm glad you are my friend.

Love one another with brotherly affection [as members of one family], giving precedence and showing honor to one another.

Romans 12:10

Que Sera, Sera!

(Photo: Where's Waldo and company?)

We made it. God was good. The rain held off until shortly after noon and that was just about the time we were headed in the general direction of home!

Last Sunday Amanda, her kiddos and I took part in the Winner's Walk of Hope (Ovarian Cancer Canada) in Barrie, Ontario.

(Photo: There they are!)

It was a good time for it to happen, for this past Thursday I had an appointment at the London Cancer Clinic and I wanted to go there armed with a trunkload of hope.

Fresh from the walk, and with my shiny survivor pin in place, after an hour and a half wait, I entered the little examination room. After a brief chat with my primary nurse, I set my clothing and dignity aside, donned my usual lovely hospital gown and waited for the oncologist to arrive.

He did. It was worth the wait. He did his usual twenty questions and exam and then informed me that things look hopeful. I am pushing my two year mark now and said

, smart oncologist indicated that in his experience that there is now only a 15% chance that the

cancer could return. I never was one to put my money on lottery tickets or door prizes or bingo, or the like, for the odds of winning anything for yours truly were always slim. I am hoping that the odds of fitting into that 15% margin are just as slim.

When I was little, my sisters used to call me Doris Day and teased me that my theme song was 'Que Sera, Sera.' Loosely translated, that means, 'Whatever will be, will be..."

Now that I have grown up and have faced a trial or two, I am seeing the God-wisdom in that song.

"...whatever will be, will be; the future's not ours to see, que sera, sera!"

Some things I seemingly have control of in my life. But the big things I leave up to God. I am thrilled, thankful and humbled that He has blessed me with a good prognosis, an incredible family and a peace that passeth all understanding. This is a new week. A new chance to see His hand at work and a fresh start to realizing my blessings.

(Photo: Crossing the Finish Line at the 2010 Winners Walk of Hope)

We had so many people supporting us in so many ways as we made our trek around the lakeshore in Barrie September 12th, 2010, at the Winners Walk of Hope. Thank you to all who sponsored us financially, prayerfully and with unconditional love. We were blessed.

Winners Walk of Hope 2010

Two years ago, as I faced six months of rigorous chemotherapy for ovarian cancer, I truly thought that God was readying me for a new heavenly home. It wasn’t that I was without hope back then. It was just that I suddenly realized that the only One who was in control was God. I trusted Him.

Once I recovered from realizing that my thorn in the flesh was to be cancer, I turned the reigns over to God. I really tried to be positive, but I thought that maybe, just maybe, my time was up and I was moving on. Many a night I poured my emotions into my handwritten journal. Tears welled and I struggled with lesson after lesson from God.

Twenty four months later, here I am. They call it remission. I have to hang in there for another three years and then they will call me a survivor and maybe even cured. In a couple of weeks I head back to the London Cancer Clinic to find out what the docs think. I'm thinking positive.

God has a plan. I may not understand that plan, but safe to say, I don’t realize the big picture, either. This is where faith steps in and I choose to follow.

I am moving on. I will one day look forward to a heavenly home, but meanwhile, God has blessed me mightily as Gilles and I are in the throes of building our new earthly home in downtown Drayton.
It’s funny how life happens. Some days are diamonds. Some days are coal.

Right now my life is full. The diamonds shimmer and shine in my life and for that I am grateful.

On September 12th, Amanda, Trenton, Jocelyn and I are once again making our annual trek to Barrie to participate in the Winners Walk of Hope put on by Ovarian Cancer Canada. This is our special weekend away and we will join ranks with other ovarian cancer survivors and supporters. It is a bittersweet time as we do our part to fundraise and to help raise awareness so that ovarian cancer can be detected early and lives can be saved.

Ovarian Cancer is sometimes called the disease that whispers. We are going to do our best to help turn up the volume and help our sisters, mothers, daughters, granddaughters, grandmothers, aunts, nieces, cousins, friends and for all those amazing women we are yet to meet and even those we will never see face to face! We journey on with love and hope in our hearts.

(Photo: Our fearless leaders and encouragers at the Barrie Winners Walk of Hope!)

Too Bee or Not to Bee

It was an innocent hand offered. My 84 year old father had managed to get to the back of his property and there he stood, cane in one hand steadying himself and the saw in the other cutting away at the fence post, trying to create a space for another birdhouse.

As any bossy daughter would do, I gave him the talk about being careful and not hurting himself It didn't make a lick of difference that Dad had single handedly installed the other six or seven birdhouses.

I assured Poppa Bear that I could easily slide the saw back and forth and knock the top of the fence post, making it an ideal location for the little wooden birdhouse. He agreed and relinquished his toothed tool. I started cutting away at the post.

Suddenly, as if on cue, a swarm of buzzing bees hightailed it out of one of the birdhouses already in place, and went into attack mode. I was the target. My arms flailed and the saw went flying. Luckily Dad had started to move away when I took over the task. The saw missed him. A few angry buzzers alighted and headed his way, but his safari hat afforded him the protection he needed. I wasn't quite as lucky. The nasty little critters would show me no mercy. How dare I interrupt their homestead and shake up the neighbourhood with that incessant sawing? I was surrounded. As what seemed like fifty angry bees, buzzing maniacally around my face, I swatted and screamed and must have looked like a psychotic karate dropout. Those determined stingers got me on the neck, under my arm and on my lip. Then they were gone. Just like that. I stood there wondering how long it would be before I might go into anaphylatic shock. Stupid things, like did my chemotherapy lower my resistance and now am I doomed to die from a mere bee sting or two? entered my noggin. How long would it take for me to keel over anyway?

Minutes passed. Nothing happened, other than localized throbbing. I dashed inside and doused my wounds with vinegar. Nasty bees.

A short while later, fat lip and all, I went outside to face my attackers and to figure out what to do with the half-sawn fance post.

There was Dad, cane in hand, blowing the dust off his saw. I really should have minded my own business...