When I was young, I was fortunate that my life seemed full of almost mythological, inspiring stories. In Kenya, the first place we lived was at the AIM mission station at Litein.  As I understand one of those big stories, more than twenty years before we arrived, when the first AIM missionaries came to the area, those missionaries asked the local elders where they might live and build a health clinic and school. Some of the elders were wary. They said, “you can have the hill that gets struck by lightning so often that people who try to live there are often killed. No one lives there.”  The missionaries agreed, asked for God’s protection, and began to build what is now AIC Litein. Although there was still a lot of lightning, no one was struck. One dramatic day, I remember running hand in hand with mom through tall wet grass on a stormy afternoon. Lighting had struck a huge tree. It had split in half and fallen across a road, just missing a car driving onto station. The man driving stopped, got out of the car, and run to tell others, leaving the car near the huge split tree. The air smelled of tree sap, rain, and burnt wood. Everyone stood and stared and then prayed, thanking God.

There were Kenyan friends in this new world.  They were from a people who spoke the Kipsigis language. I learned the greeting “Chamgei”.   The first time I told them that my African dolly’s name was Kikuyu, two of the young men almost fell over laughing. I felt frustrated and humiliated. Later someone told me that Kikuyu was the name of the language of another people group that our people didn’t like much, a bit like calling a dolly “French” if you moved to England in the 1700s.

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Mom and dad were going to be missionaries in Kenya, so we were heading overseas. New things, changes and challenges for all! I don’t remember saying goodbye to grandma and grandpa Nichols. I doubt I had any idea of how long we’d be gone.  Grandma told me later, “We were proud of your folks, their dedication to serve God.” Another time when I was an adult, she said she’d been thinking, “How can they take those two little girls all the way to Africa!?” *

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In one of my first memories, I was crying.  Strong hands lifted me up. I was on grandpa’s knee.  I must have been not much more than a year old by the great height of his knee and his chest and head over me.  The quality of light and the woodsmoke smell was that of the living room of my grandparents’ house, the one built just after the civil war. Grandpa’s voice was almost scolding. “Don’t you hurt my granddaughter!!” I stopped crying in confusion. I was his granddaughter!  I wasn’t a stranger who hurt me!! I tried to explain, but Grandpa only laughed. He just would not understand me!

I was fortunate to often be with my mother’s parents, Bob and Florence Nichols. They were a gift. A different sourse of love and security for me. I was their first grandchild. While we lived at McLane Bob was often working in Erie as an electrician.  He told me later that he used to pick me up for the weekend on his way home from work. “You were such a little thing. Talked so early. You used to stand up behind my shoulder as I drove and talk the whole way.”  Obviously, pre-seatbelt time!  

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For me, memory consists of something like video clips with all sensations and emotions included. Without context, these clips don’t make much sense. The early memories have almost no context of their own. It’s only by putting them into the bigger picture gleaned from others, that they begin to make some sense. Later memories, seem to be filed as part of larger story. All of it is perceived through the filter of my own limited understanding. So here goes . . . 

One thing that is firmly there is all my childhood memory “clips” is a deep awareness of being loved. I was so blessed to be a loved child! I was the first child of Roger and Joyce Coon. Of course I don’t remember my birth, but I do remember being shown the sweet sketch my dad made of newborn me.

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If we look, we see that the psalmist who wrote Psalm 118 was clearly living in difficult times, yet he chose to say, "This is the day the Lord has made, I will rejoice and be glad in it." The word "day" in scripture can mean a season of time. 2025 is the season coming up that the Lord has given. For many of us, it won't be all easy, happy, happy, times.  I've been praying thie verse in the photo below for all of us. It's my Phil's hand in a joyful moment :-).  I've found, if I look, there are almost always the equivalent of chickadees in the middle of cold hard days. Wishing you a joyful, peaceful, and hopeful 2025. 

Light in the dark has a kind of double meaning to me living in Alberta.  There’s the physical darkness. Today, sunrise was at 8:32, and sunset at 4:28.  For the next month, there’s less than 8 hours of daylight. It’s cold, dark and slippery out!   On top of that, with Phil’s illness, times can seem dark. So many friends are also living in difficult circumstances!

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A moose cow and baby ran by our house last week. There are baby ducks and geese in the pond near our house. :-) I’m learning to use Merlin, the free bird app from Cornell. It’s fun to identify the birds by sound! I’ve had time to garden since I’m here with Phil. It’s been such fun to plant and plan. The asparagus I planted earlier gave us some lovely meals. So fun to see how things grow. Photography is a great way to really look at patterns and beauty in nature. I’ve been enjoying posting new art photos on our website.Earlier I sent a picture of geese in the ice as a symbol of hope. This was taken last week very near the same place. A happier picture :-)

Check out Ecclesiastes: Enjoy all the days for your fleeting life:

Phil is struggling more and having a harder time with normal things  like unlocking the house or finding food in the fridge. 

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It’s almost April, Easter weekend, and yet snow and ice are still cold on the ground. It seems not very hopeful some days. We’ve had more snow in March than in much of the winter. And we’ve had storms and challenges that had nothing to do with weather.

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My father is the one who taught me to draw and to really look at light and patterns. He died last week. I'd like to share his obituary with you.

Here's his obituary:

Roger Coon, 94, entered Jesus' presence on March 15, 2024, from his home at the Africa Inland Mission Retirement Center in Minneola, Florida. Born July 20, 1929, Roger was the first in his family to go on to higher education, studying theology at Wheaton College. He and his first wife, Joyce, married in 1951. They served for three years at a rural church in McLane, Pennsylvania, where his two daughters Karen and Tami were born.

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I wrote this yesterday on US Thanksgiving Day. Our Canadian day was in October. Either way, thanksgiving comes in the fall. It's a rich harvest time, but is on the cusp of winter. Here in Alberta, all of nature is downsizing and heading into challenging times. The pasture where I walk our dog gets simpler with the loss of summer birds and leaves. The texture of grass, rocks and flowers is lost under the abstract of windblown snow. For songbirds the time of songs, babies and bugs is over, no more home territory, just a long hard trip to a new place.

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