We have many stones to cross.  Some are bigger than others…SHOCK, DENIAL and ANGER to start.  Then comes GUILT, DESPAIR and LONELINESS.  It’s a hard road to travel but it must be done.  It’s the only way to reach the other side.

Come, slip your hand in mine.  What?  Oh yes, it’s strong.  I’ve held so many hands like yours.  Yes, mine was at one time small and weak like yours.  Once, you see, I had to take someone’s hand in order to take the first step.  Oops!  You’ve stumbled.  Go ahead and cry.  Don’t be ashamed, I understand.  Let’s wait here a while and get your breath.  When you’re stronger we’ll go on, one step at a time.  There’s no need to hurry.

Say, it’s nice to hear you laugh.  Yes, I agree the memories you shared are good.  Look we’re half way there now; I can see the other side.  It looks so warm and sunny.  Oh, have you noticed?  We’re nearing the last stone and you’re standing alone.  And look, your hands, you’ve let go of mine and we’ve reached the other side.

But wait.  Look back.  Someone is standing there.  They are alone and want to cross the stepping stones.  I better go; they need my help.  What?  Are you sure?  Why yes; I’ll wait.  You know the way – you’ve been there.  Yes, I agree – it’s your turn my friend – to help someone else across the stepping stones.”

by Barbara Williams

Thank you to every single person who held my hand across the stepping stones.

Love, Shawna

That’s why it made me SO HAPPY to see that someone donated $3,500 to the Ugandan Water Project this week!  That means 75 families will soon be enjoying clean drinking water in their village.   What an impact!

This initiative reminds me to take a moment and appreciate the variety of resources I have, and to remember that sharing my resources, whether a lot or a little, can make a big difference to others.

Thank you Ugandan Water Project for sharing this exciting story, and being one of my top happy thoughts for the day, and thank you to the donor of this generous donation who is about to make 75 families in Uganda very happy!

“Give water, give life.”

I long to see the good in others, and myself.  It’s there, but something else lurks in the dark too.

Sin is like pollution; it affects everything in its atmosphere.  An innocent baby is affected by every choice made in a world they don’t own.  They have no control over their environment, but they live with the consequences of countless choices made by all the generations that came before them.    Each of us have inherited the world as it is.  Each of us is granted the opportunity, the responsibility, to choose what world we will leave for the next babes-of-innocent that enter this atmosphere.  We can either make it better, or make it worse.

Whether we are mean, kind, busy, aware, hateful, grateful, present or pouring out our lives in sacrificial love, the world we make is the world we live in, and it’s the world we leave behind.  How illogical is it to pollute that world?  To create an atmosphere that breeds sickness?  How sensible, considerate, selfish and selfless is it to redeem this one, one act, one choice, one moment at a time?

In the movie Spiderman, moments before Peter Parker’s grandfather dies he says to him, “With great power, comes great responsibility.”  Later on, as Parker walks away from M.J., the love of his life, he echos his grandfather’s wisdom, only this time through lived experience.  “Whatever life holds in store for me, I will never forget these words.  ‘With great power, comes great responsibility.’  This is my gift.  My curse.  Who am I?  I’m Spiderman.”

Who am I?  I am who I choose to be.  I create my own super hero or villain.  The world I live in, and the world I leave behind, depends on the world I choose to shape today.  Every choice, every action, makes a difference.  These alterations will shape the world of my future, and the world of innocent babes.

Will pollution always exist?  Will sin run rampant?  Will greed, selfish ambition and hate continue to run a muck in the streets?  Probably.  Will that stop me from trying to change this world?  Will the bad out weigh the good?  Only where I let it.

“My spidey-sense is tingling.”  Spiderman observes.  Like Spiderman, I must be off.  Where bad abounds, good must be done, and THE GOOD WILL OVERCOME!

Since going back to work, my departure is no longer met with such limited opposition.  After being away from my daughter for over eight hours a day, if I want to workout for an hour on our time, she has no qualms about voicing her abundant disapproval.  Can I blame her?  Not really.  Parent/child time is important, and so is exercise.  How do I carve out time for myself when, as a single mom, I’m either working full time, or being held captive by my daughter’s captivating demeanor and persuasive puppy dog sad-eyes?

The work/life, time-to-myself/quality-time-with-my-daughter/still-holding-down-a-job-to-pay-bills-and-live, balance, are all incredibly tricky responsibilities to juggle.  I have a responsibility to myself, to look after myself and stay healthy.  I have a responsibility to be an example of many things to my daughter.  I have a responsibility to put food on the table and keep a roof over our heads. I have a responsibility.  I have many responsibilities.

Reading Dr. Suess’ “Oh the places you’ll go!” I am reminded that life and relationships are “…a great balancing act.”

“You’ll get mixed up, of course, as you already know.  You’ll get mixed up with many strange birds as you go.  So be sure when you step, Step with care and great tact, and remember that Life’s a Great Balancing Act.  Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.  And never mix up your right foot with your left.”

I won’t claim to be well-coordinated at this point in time, but I’m trying to sort my feet out; trying to walk on the balancing beam without falling to the side of “it’s all about me” or the other side where “it’s all about others.”  There is a line, in between, and with some creativity, I believe I can moderate it.

My next workout will have to fit into my lunch hour break, at least once a week.  It’s not what I was doing before, but it’s something, and I’ll take it.  Plus, the workouts in the past have equipped me to implement certain weight-lifting, aerobic routines at home.

Next, I hear there is a family fitness class on Sunday afternoons, 1:30pm at the Stork Family YMCA.  Exercise for my daughter and I?  Yes!  I’m so glad someone thought of a program that combines exercise and family time.  For me, that’s one of the only ways my workout will work out these days.

Family fitness, here we come!

Three years later, this same week, my only sister-in-law died in her sleep.  She was 29.  It startled and disturbed me, and I feared the worst for my husband who was already heading into a mental episode.

This week, this year, I started out on a high.  I was so happy, consumed by my deeply engrained altruism projects.  I literally said to someone, “I am in love, IN LOVE, with life right now.“  That was just a few short hours before I crashed.

I got a B12 shot, and I should have hit euphoria at the rate I was going.  Instead, I started coming down off my high.  I started feeling off.  Something was not right.  Then, I looked at the calendar, and flashbacks of the past, associations with places, people, even the weather outside, sent me into a tailspin as I remembered the events from the past that bombarded this same week years ago.

That afternoon, I came home.  We had recently welcomed a roommate into our house.  She had been with us for two weeks, and we loved her to bits.  In my books, she could not have been a better fit.  She was the first person to live with us since my husband died.

I painted her room yellow, the colour of joy.  Her room was the last room my husband slept in, in our house.  I took my husband’s “Be considerate” sticky note reminder off the back of the guest room door.  I painted over the “I love Shawna” note my husband had etched onto the wall with his wedding band when he slept in that room one night.  We moved boxes and cleaned house, and it was worth the effort because all of this was going to a good cause.  Every penny of her rent money was going to support the purchase of land in Uganda, for a safe-house that would provide a stable home to dozens of kids from the slums.

But I came home, and she was gone.  A note left on my kitchen table told me she couldn’t stay in our house any longer.  She was reacting to something in the air.  Perhaps it was an allergic reaction to the cats I used to have.  I’ll never know.  In the blink of an eye, another person vanished, and quite frankly, it was more than I could take.

Above my kitchen table was a card.  The writing on the front was a quote by Maya Angelou, that read, “Have the courage to trust love one more time and always one more time.”

I want to, Maya.  I really want to.  I want to so much I have left that card above my kitchen table to challenge me at every meal; to remind me that to give, and receive love, is a gift.  I don’t want to miss out on that gift.  It’s just, when that gift is taken away, when that gift unexpectedly disappears, goes silent, or in the blink of an eye ceases to exist, I just don’t know if I have the courage to trust love one more time.

Last Sunday, I visited my mother’s church, Spring Garden, in Toronto.  “Discourage means to take courage out of someone.  To replace courage with fear,” explained Pastor Gene.

Am I filled with fear?

I looked back on my notes.  Pastor Gene talked about 1st Corinthians 13 from the Bible.  It was the famous message of faith, hope, and love.  It was an old message, but told in a new way for me.  I had never realized there was an order to the three.

Pastor Gene explained, fear is the lack of faith.  Replace fear with faith and one will be encouraged.  Faith puts the courage back in encouragement.  Faith clears out the cob webs of fear, and makes space for the sprout of hope to grow.  As hope takes over, the blossom of love opens, and that vibrant flower changes everything.  When one acts, re-acts, thinks and speaks in love, there is nothing more pure, more lovely, more beautiful than true love.  As 1st Corinthians 13:13 says, “Three things will last forever—faith, hope, and love—and the greatest of these is love.”

Replace fear with faith.  Faith -> Hope.  Hope -> LOVE!

I was at a crossroads.  I knew a decision had to be made.  Did I have courage to trust love one more time, and always one more time?  I could barely imagine I could while being in a place of discouragement, brokenness, feeling shattered, and so very tired of being disappointed.  But, if I stopped for just a moment to think, I could see that by allowing fear to consume me, I would be responsible for transforming the root of an incredible flower.  I would poison that flower, and that flower would die.  The root would become withered and bitter and incapable of giving life and joy to others.   Did I want that?  I was scared, I was scarred, I was terrified, but even in these places I could see that fear equaled death, and only faith could keep that flower alive.

I thought back to a quote from the Batman movie, The Dark Night, “It’s always darkest before the dawn.”

I couldn’t see a sunrise on this night’s horizon, but if I closed my eyes I remembered, sunrises in the past came after every dark night before them.  That vision was enough to replace my fear with an inkling of faith.  That inkling of faith generated an ounce of hope.  That ounce of hope gave way to visions of the intoxicating bloom of love that I longed to hold in my reality once again.

Maybe, just maybe, the life-giving sun would break through this dark night if I could hold on to this glimmer of faith for just one more day.

I lift my legs off the floor pulling the free weight towards the ceiling with my arms, making the two meet in the air.

“Breathe out when you come together, in when you come apart,” Donna Perk, Supervisor of Individual Conditioning, instructs the Group Strength class as we work out in the upper room at the Stork Family YMCA.  It is my “aha” moment of the day.

Of course, when life is coming apart that is exactly when I need to breathe the support and care of others in.  When life comes together again, that is when I once again have the strength and capacity to breathe blessings onto others.

A few days before this class, I sat in church while one of the Pastors from Elevation, Brandon Malo, said something along the lines of, “the only reason life looks like a flat line is if you’re dead.”

Life is not a flat line.  Like life reflected on an EKG, it is a constant dance of ups and downs.  That movement is how I know I’m alive.

I lower my arms and my legs back down to the ground, once again stretching my body out length-wise and lowering the free weight to the ground.  I am thankful that I don’t have to feel guilty for what I need at any given time.  I wasn’t meant to carry a weight all of the time.  There are times I should lift it to build muscle, and times I need to put it down and rest.

Living is not a flat line, and I am glad to be alive.  Instead of fighting the cycle, I ponder the natural flow of ups and downs, and remember to breathe out when I come together, and in when I come apart.

It doesn’t take much for me to rise above; a little encouragement, a little grace, a strong hug.

It doesn’t take much for me to get knocked down either; running myself ragged, negative interactions, unforeseen mishaps.  When I’m in this place, I need to meditate on the good.  Thankfully, I don’t need to look far into my past, or present, to find something to be grateful for.

When my husband died, generosity poured in.  People from my church, Elevation, brought over dozens of home-made dinners.  I didn’t have to think about cooking for months.  Work gave me grace and understanding.  My mother stayed with me for two weeks, and my sister took over where my mother left off.  Even the government provided a stipend.

Sometimes I think to myself, ‘How many people suffer loss alone?  How many people live in countries where their governments are indifferent, or work in jobs where employers care more about their bottom line than the people who fatten it?‘

I can point to hundreds, no, thousands, of life-giving acts of love and compassion that sheltered my daughter and I in the desert of our sorrow.

Here are two examples.

Mel and Gary are close friends of mine.  On the night of my husband’s memorial service, my daughter was overwhelmed, over-tired, and I couldn’t be her mom.  Without hesitation, Mel took my daughter in her arms, drove her to our house, and put her to sleep in her own bed.

Not a week went by before Mel and Gary extended a standing invitation for dinner.  Once a week my daughter was invited to join them for supper, while I had two hours to myself, or could join them for dinner if I chose.

Dinners at Mel and Gary’s equated to treasured moments.  My daughter had a VIP pass to an environment where she could interact with a father-figure, grow a deeper connection with her partial guardian family, and be embraced by an extended community of love.

Our roots of love and admiration for this family have dug deep in rich, and nourishing soil.

Deb and Steve go to my church, Elevation.  In fact, Steve is one of the Pastors.

The theme of Deb and Steve’s lives I would say has clearly been to “live life together,” and “together” includes anyone who will join their tapestry; they welcome anyone who will come to weave a new thread through their masterpiece.  They see the beauty in every strand.

When my husband died, I had a lot of questions.  My questions weren’t all new, but they were louder in my head and refused to be silenced.  I became unwilling to settle for flimsy, unsubstantiated, fantastical responses.  Steve and Deb engaged me.  They opened their home, and their hearts to my inquisitive mind.  They invited me to weekly dinners, and welcomed me to ask any question, or approach any topic.

Above all, Steve and Deb shared life with me; the heights of my mountain peaks, the shadows of my valley dips, the times of numbness spent hovering over a flat, barren plateau.  Whether displaced, giddy, angry, sad, curious, loving, hollow…however I came, they welcomed me in.  Their feast of love sustained me.

How can I under-estimate the power of love and support?  Any strength I have, resiliency, and capacity to give back to others today, I attribute to the model of love my Creator has bestowed on me, and the earthly angels who have become the human expressions of that love in my life.  Each of these have been my teachers, showing me how to carry the next person from the shadows of the valley to the heights of mountain peaks, and to walk with others through every path in-between.  May I recognize the beauty of each thread, as it adds to the grandeur of the master tapestry.

When I received the coroner’s report that stated my husband had died by suicide, I was faced with a choice.  Now that I knew this information, what would I do with it?  Opposition was just around the corner, but I chose to break the silence instead of folding from fear.  I chose to be freed from stigmas, instead of bound by them.  I chose to rise above, instead of suffocate under.  I chose to boot stigmas out the door by breaking the silence, instead of living under the cloud of their smoke.

Today, I have learned, I am not alone.  Today, I have learned, that a man named Mr. Millben did the same, and it made a difference.

A very good friend of mine forwarded me an article titled, “Third suicide prompts Brampton school to address the subject head on.”  The headline caught my attention.  I had to read on.

Mr. Millben was the father of the third student who had taken his own life.  The article read, “Mr. Millben’s openness has enabled the school to tackle the issue of teen suicide head on, allowing teachers to lead discussions on the topic in every classroom.”

Relieved, hopeful, and feeling that a small, but incredibly significant victory had been won, I found myself being thankful for Mr. Millben after reading this article, for courageously agreeing to make public that his son had taken his own life.

As the article pointed out, Mr. Millben’s willingness to do so, to seek the greater good, and refuse to live under the fear of a possible ignorant back-lash, “enabled the school” to address the issue of suicide with a larger audience of possible at-risk teens.  It was also his transparency that gave teachers permission to raise the topic in their classrooms.

If one thinks stigmas have power, one needs to realize the power of rising above.  Mr. Millben’s actions could potentially save lives.  By bringing to light what is in darkness, what was in darkness suddenly holds less power.  If Mr. Millben’s honesty saved one life, or gave one person the strength to seek help, or caused one person to think before they judged someone who committed suicide or lost someone to a death where an individual took their own life, wasn’t it worth it?

The article continues, “What’s happening now at Sandalwood Heights Secondary School fits into a broader movement to build education about mental health and suicide – the second leading cause of death among youth in Canada – into the curriculum of high schools across the country.

“It’s enabled us to have frank and open conversations, which really gives us an ‘in’ with regard to the stigma and taboo that exists around this topic,” said Jim Van Buskirk, chief social worker for the Peel District School Board. “That’s been a huge advantage.”

This is an important article.  This is a turn-point article.  This article speaks of a significant action of honesty, and vulnerability, that has impacted a school, and may change an entire national curriculum!

Thank you Mr. Millben, thank you school board who listened, and thank you to all those courageous individuals who are breaking the silence of stigmas by sharing their stories.  Here is proof that you are making a difference!

To read the full Globe and Mail article, “Third suicide prompts Brampton school to address the subject head on.” click here.

Kids, like adults, can get discouraged, beat up, knocked down, and lose hope when life gets tough.  Unlike adults, they might not have honed the communication tools to express what they’re up against.  That’s why it’s so important to support programs that will help our next generation grow up strong, so when the storms of life hit they have enough buoyancy to ride the waves of adversity.

The most gratifying moment I have enjoyed at my local YMCA to date, was when I took my three year old daughter to a program called Little Dribblers.  I watched from the window as the 3 to 6-year-olds picked out their toddler-sized basket balls, bounced them around the room with great delight, and then sat in a circle, staff and volunteers interspersed in-between, who engaged the children with questions, making eye contact with each one.  No one was left out.  The children were edified and activated through conversation and sport.

As a single mom, I felt gratitude that the Y staff, unknowingly, poured into my life by pouring in to my daughter’s.  As they focused on strengthening my child’s confidence, I grew in my own realizing I had made a great decision bringing her here.

Right now, the YMCA is fundraising for their Strong Kids Campaign, which is a drive to raise money so more kids, like mine, can be strengthened through phenomenal programs.

The YMCA is a place of vitality for the body and spirit, for young and old.

If you feel inspired to sponsor kids, like mine, to have access to programs that will build their self-confidence, promote healthy living, and foster their self-esteem, click here to make a donation.  Any donation of $10 of more will receive a tax receipt.

Resiliency is fostered.  Help the YMCA keep kids strong, because strong kids make resilient adults.

I was in no hurry to release her.  I was in too much awe and wonderment at the life I could cuddle and hug, who could not yet run away, out of the reach of my arms.

Now, my baby is three, and I am widowed.  As I sort through my closet I decide it is time to pack away my maternity clothes, and pass them on to another vibrant, expectant mom-to-be.  As I fold each shirt and place them in a bag, I smile with fond memories.  One shirt has a bow in the middle.  I remember how that bow perched itself, like wrapped decoration, on the hood of my round stomach.  I delicately fold my grey party dress.  How proud I was to drape that silver satin outfit over my belly, and graciously show it off at Christmas dinner.

Those were days of great joy.  Days of intertwined connection with another being, silent life spoken through active womb movement, and my wonderment explored through bright-eyed amazement staring down at protruding elbows and feet.

I put the last outfit in the bag, as though I am laying that part of my life to rest.  Then I remember, those clothes were just the wrapping paper.  My true gift is sleeping in her bed, down the hall, recharging her energy for another active day filled with her own amazement, as she uncovers gifts of an unexplored world she has not yet learned to take for granted.

I say goodbye to the wrapping paper, and think about playing with my precious gift tomorrow morning, as though I am enjoying her again, for the very first time.