Choose Joy

March 1, 2018

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Helena Smrcek

Over the years I have developed a survival strategy. As soon as the glitter of Christmas finds it’s spot back in our basement, I drag up our suitcases and pack for a getaway. Unfortunately, one week in the sun puts only a slight dent in the winter drab, and the older I get, the harder the seemingly endless days of winter are.

 So, when one of our neighbors invited me to an annual meeting of her horticultural society I jumped at the opportunity. That is, I upped my daily dose of Advil, and gingerly walked to my car, trying to ignore the yet another bad back episode.

Greeted by vivid potted plants, and a room full of gardeners, my spirit perked up. The first speaker shared her vast knowledge of soil. My heart swelled. During the coffee break I loaded my plate with home baked goodies, and reminiscent about our long-ago church get togethers. Then I chatted up everyone at my table and silently thanked God for pulling me out of my despair. These were kindred souls. 

 Finding my neighbor just before lunch wasn’t an easy task, but we did connect and had a great talk. She was kind enough not to ask about my sock-knitting project she helped me to start in early January but mentioned that she had a special daylily that I need to see later in the year.

The rest of the afternoon was hallmarked by perennial advice and raised bed presentation. As I listened, I suddenly found myself unwinding. The accumulated stress of the dreaded winter, combined with the absurdities of current news, the worries about our business, retirement, kids’ future, the cold weather pains and aches, and the simple daily stresses, collectively drained me.

I needed to get better. As retail therapy has been hailed as an instant cure for the blues, I purchased a hand-crafted bird house, and a giant hydrangea, before I left the event. On the way home, I realized I must get my joy back, find the lost creative spark, and reclaim the missing positive outlook on life. Enough of this defeatist attitude.

It took another week, a few visits to my chiropractor, and a good chat with a friend, but I took out my Easter decorations, and finally made it to church. Standing next to my daughter, who continually keeps conquering the stereotypes of the lost millennials, we sang the new, and the old; then listened to the pastor walk us thru the history of The Book.

I realized God protected His Word through time, kings and regimes, disasters and plagues, through wars and revolutions, so that we can read the Bible during these turbulent times of the 21st century. His Word is filled with timeless truth, eternal principals and ever-lasting blessings. Gratitude and quiet joy filled my heart. He is on His throne, His eyes upon us, only a prayer away. Therefore, I choose joy, regardless of the newsfeed, the rain, and my dog-chewed gardening gloves.

Life is a Fight

October 26, 2017

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Helena Smrcek

 The word had spread. Everyone knows we have a garden. I don’t mind our friends stopping by for zucchini or two, what irks me are the uninvited guests sneaking in when nobody's watching.

During our spring clean-up, our dog found a baby rabbit. When it squeaked, I made my husband to call him off. Little did I know.

Last year we lost all our berries. I blamed our chickens and netted everything I could. Unfortunately, this failed to deter Japanese beetles. I did read up about their four-week window of attack, after which they supposed to die. Perhaps I misunderstood because they stayed with me till October.

Potatoes? This year the potato bugs showed up. Burning the entire plants was a radical, yet sure method of elimination. Yeh, right.

Red color on the peach trees? Google suggested cutting off all the infected leaves. I sprayed the branches with oil of oregano mixture. After four such interventions, the trees seemed healthy. Two weeks later, the apple trees got mildew.

Midsummer, I noticed I had no corn. One lonely stalk verified, that indeed I have sown the kernels. I suspect some rodent had them for dinner before they had a chance to sprout.

The list of missing plants and produce kept growing all season. I couldn't blame all these losses on one animal, but when I spotted a chewed hole in my netting, and an empty spot where my kale used to flourish, I called over my husband and demanded action.

“Look at this,” I pointed to the mocking hole.

“The chickens did it,” he said so seriously I almost considered his suggestion.

“It’s the rabbit,” I said. “You have to catch it.”

Powered by the promise of a stew, my husband is still looking for the furry creature. I swear the thing knows. On occasion, our dog goes crazy as the bunny hops nonchalantly in front of our windows. I spotted it near the chicken coop, and among the chewed up hostas.

It’s the little foxes that spoil the wine. As the blight, bugs, and bunnies attacked my handiwork, I thought back to our days of struggle. We worked hard, yet we never seemed to get ahead.

Then a friend prayed for us, asking God for a hedge of protection. At first, I didn’t understand, but then an image came to my mind; our family standing in the midst of a tall cedar hedge. I continued to pray, and things slowly improved.

Gone are the days I shopped for groceries with a calculator in hand, and winter coats and boots were an overwhelming expense. Yet, we’re faced with new challenges each day.

Therefore, I ask our Father to place a hedge of protection around you and your loved ones. I pray that He’d protect us from the thief that comes to steal and destroy. The one who’d kill our hope. For our God is an awesome God, and we find the strength to stand in the midst of storms because we’re surrounded by His love and grace.

My Man Has a Cold

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Helena Smrcek

The winter months brought a break in our farm routines, and a vacation. Warmth, sand and sea, I felt simply spoiled. 

But two nights before we were scheduled to head back home I sneezed. I took antihistamine and went to bed. 

At breakfast the sneezing returned.

The flight home was a little trying. I popped a gum in my mouth and tried to cope with the ear ache. Who gets a cold in Mexico?

Next day I dragged myself out of bed, went to the barn, milked the goat, fed the chickens, unpacked, sorted the laundry, checked the fridge. After I dropped our daughter off at her school, I got groceries, then switched the laundry, made cheese, shoved another load into the washing machine, figured out dinner, and wished someone would blow the gloomy fog away, or at least make me a tea. 

Following morning my darling husband turned over and complained he didn’t sleep. While I set a cup of coffee in front of him, he wore a sheepish grin, then proceeded to play a recording of me—snoring.

With a triumphant glee, he turned up the volume so neither of our kids accidentally missed his clandestine achievement. I was ready to snatch the eggs and bacon, his sick and snoring wife made him, and feed his breakfast to the dogs. 

Next morning, he woke me up with a simple statement. I made him sick.

I could take it no longer. Not only I was sick for five days, and he didn’t even offer to make me tea, but instead secretly recorded me, as if he worked for the CIA, and now accused me of causing his illness? What was his problem? I got up and went to the kitchen to make me some java. 

A few moment later he joined me, and asked in a weak voice if I could make him a tea, and did I have anything he could take.

He sighed heavily. He had a headache. Where did I put the Advil? Kleenex box? Thermometer? Something for his sinuses?

I point to the HydraSense, not ready to talk. He asked how to use it. I explained in as few words as possible. My husband, who seemed to have landed from Mars only a few short minutes ago, proceeded to press the tip and sprayed the Eucalyptus all over the counter.

When I protest, he moved the operation to the sofa and started to administer his medicine. Of course he sprayed himself in the eye. I couldn't help but laugh. He froze, then joined me, tearing up, due to the burning liquid. 

To make him feel better I admitted his cold is truly much worse than mine. I filled the teapot, stirred in some honey, and grabbed his mug. He thanked me, and asked if I could make him chicken soup.

I recalled the short video explaining man-cold that landed on my Face Book page a few months ago, and suddenly I felt lonely no more. There is a sisterhood out there, that understands me.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gLj7fj-3L78

Let's Be Real about Christmas

One of my favourite childhood memories is the Advent calendar. Each morning in December I opened a window, and got a piece of chocolate. Sometimes Grandma took me to mass. When we came home, the house smelled of tangerines, frankincense, and fresh pine needles. Grandpa and I set up the Nativity Scene. Christmas was magical, filled with wondrous expectations. 

As I grew older reality chipped away at the illusion. It began with a paper calendar, with numbered windows, but no chocolate. The Santa mystery was revealed. There were gifts my siblings and I snooped out, and never received. The fight my mom and dad had over my Grandma and Grandpa coming to dinner, and the silent treatment that preceded the Christmas Eve feast. 

The most stressful holiday tradition was my mothers’ parents’ annual Christmas Day dinner. Dad hated to go. His opinion of the socialist government, embodied by my mother’s family, was no secret. Fights ensued. My stomach in knots I couldn’t wait to go home. Then mother would be silent for weeks. 

Things got stranger yet. Our first Christmas in an Austrian refugee house Grandma’s catholic traditions came to life once more. There were shoe boxes delivered by missionaries, who also brought us the Good News. I grasped the irony of the past family gatherings of professing atheists, celebrating birth of Christ. My mother cried. She missed them. My father was mad. We have left everything behind, because of communists, like them. 

But the festive season took on another meaning that year. I considered it my first real Christmas, and purposed to celebrate the holidays in a new light, and start new traditions. 

Yet the family drama continued, bringing on more stomach knots. One year it was my sister’s drinking boyfriend, then my father’s gallbladder attack, the phone mother unplugged so we couldn’t wish them Merry Christmas, yet another one of my sister’s boyfriends, this one absent, causing her a meltdown, subsequently blamed on me and my family. 

I found professional help. When my psychologist asked what I really wanted, I told her a normal family. She said I would never get that. Then we prayed, and she freed me, making it clear that I was only responsible for my behaviour. 

Thinking of my children, and their memories, I searched for balance. We made a few changes. Not everyone was happy. But as I edited my Christmas expectations, I learnt to say no. Those who didn’t think my family deserved to be happy and enjoy the holidays, didn’t need to come. Harsh and selfish, perhaps. But as the years went on, we developed new traditions, centered around our faith, peace and love. 

I cherish the Christmas season, still sending out cards. We host parties, cook our giant home-grown turkeys, make time to go to church, and sleep in on Christmas Day. 

Be good to yourself, my mentor used to say, and at first I thought it was a bit strange. But now I understand. So, be good to yourself, and say no to invitations that don’t bring you joy. Buy an Advent calendar, and as you claim your daily chocolate, think of the sweetness of God in your life. Play your favourite Christmas music, and eat the cookies. Indulge in the wonder of the season, and cherish those you love. It’s one big birthday party after all. He chose to come to us, Emanuel, God with Us. Let us celebrate and rejoice, with no guilt, because life is too short for needless drama. 

Have a truly Merry Christmas, may your holidays be blessed, filled with love, kindness and peace.