all apologies.

Today was a momentous day in the Canadian House of Commons as our Prime Minister, Stephen Harper, stood before a gathering of other politicians and, more importantly, a gathering of First Nations members, and apologized. An excerpt:

Mr. Speaker, I stand before you today to offer an apology to former students of Indian residential schools. The treatment of children in Indian residential schools is a sad chapter in our history.

In the 1870's, the federal government, partly in order to meet its obligation to educate aboriginal children, began to play a role in the development and administration of these schools.

Two primary objectives of the residential schools system were to remove and isolate children from the influence of their homes, families, traditions and cultures, and to assimilate them into the dominant culture.

These objectives were based on the assumption aboriginal cultures and spiritual beliefs were inferior and unequal.

Indeed, some sought, as it was infamously said, "to kill the Indian in the child."

Today, we recognize that this policy of assimilation was wrong, has caused great harm, and has no place in our country.

The aboriginal community in Canada has been seeking an apology for a long time, indicating that it will help to put the pain behind them. My hope and prayer is that this apology will be more than a political posture, but will truly bring closure for both sides so that reconciliation can continue.

kayaking [pt. 2]

Read Part One

We decided to wait until a break in the storm, as the idea of packing up soaking wet gear in the pouring rain didn't appeal to any one of us. Everything seemed secure, and we figured we would be fine until the rains stopped again. Not long after, the sun made it's first appearance of the day. It broke through a small hole in the clouds, and we made our move. The rock became a bustle of activity as tents came down, tarps were folded, kitchen supplies were gathered and kayaks were filled. We each grabbed our wet wetsuits, slid them uncomfortably over our skin, donned our spray skirts and lifejackets, and were ready to go. One by one, a kayak was placed in the water, someone jumped in while two others held it in place, and he was pushed out into the roller-coaster of waves.

Kurt and I were the second last to go in our kayak fit for two. He jumped in the front while John and I held it steady. As Kurt slid his spray skirt around his cockpit, protecting him from any water that would try to infiltrate it, I jumped in the back and attempted my spray skirt. The waves bashed our kayak from both sides, and I was forced to give up as we banged into the rocks. We were pushed off, just as a wave crashed into the side of our kayak, filling my cockpit with water. Paddling as hard as we could, we managed to get away from the rocks before any further damage was done. As soon as we were safe enough in the open water, we swung our boat around and I grabbed my camera. After snapping a few shots of John preparing his escape, I packed up the camera and we, too, headed for safer waters. It was the most adrenaline-pumping fun I have had in a long time. We paddled our way a few hundred feet to the backside of an island. There, protected from the wind and waves, we eventually found a new campsite. The storm seemed to have subsided as the rains stopped and we were able to set up camp and hang some of our clothes on a clothesline. The Coast Guard reported that the storm was only going to get worse as the day progressed, but our area seemed further unphased by the weather.

We ended up on a campsite that had been frequently used over the years. It boasted such amenities as clotheslines, a picnic table, some counter space next to our a well-planned fire pit and a plaque naming our new location. A paddle had been nailed to one of the trees long ago, and either through abuse by human hands or by Lake Superior weather, it had broken in two. The plaque appropriatetly called this place 'Broken Paddle Campsite. It was a little disappointing to be on such a civilized campsite in the middle of Lake Superior, but it was a much-needed reprieve from the worry of the potential disaster we had just averted. We slept in the rain that night.

Sun. The morning met us with the warmth of the sun, and we capitalized on it in order to dry the rest of our damp clothes and equipment. We took our time getting ready that morning for two reasons: we needed to soak up as much sun as we could before jumping into our kayaks, and we had our best breakfast yet. Time has no relevance when pancake batter is mixed and heated over a morning fire. Satisfied with our sweet escape from bland oatmeal, we gathered our gear and prepared for another day of paddling. We left with the sun ahead of us, but were well aware of the clouds that loomed all around, their bottoms darkened by the shadows of their towering peaks. It rained off and on as we kayaked, and the waves once again began to grow. The winds pushed us along, however, and the kayaking was easy. We pulled up to shore for our lunch, where we huddled together in the cove of a cliff while we ate our regular lunch of soup and noodles. The winds persisted.

As the clouds continued to block and reveal the distant sun, we repacked our lunch gear and hit the water. We paddled East with the wind and the ever-growing swells, eager to arrive at the final campsite of our trip. Soon, the land that bordered our route to the North came to an end and we struck for open water, Battle Island in the distance. We had no intention of approaching our lunch site of 3 days before, as it would take us off course, so we continued with the island to our East. As the swells grew, we would at times disappear from each other's view as we became separated by the peak of a wave. We estimated the height of the waves at 2 metres. The further we got from shore and the closer we got to our destination, the larger the swells grew. As the peak of a wave passed beneath the centre of our kayak, it would throw us slightly off course as our rudder would leave the water, hovering above it until our back end was gently lowered back in as we entered the waves' trough.

Soon we could see the opening between two islands that we were aiming for. The waves continued to grow, and soon were at an estimated 3 metres. We would lose each other for several seconds as our kayaks entered separate troughs simultaneously, a mountain of water between us. Apprehension was in the air as our paddles continued their monotonous strokes through the waters. Waves broke ahead of us, and we knew it would be difficult to steer our kayaks through the narrow passageway that lead to the relative safety of a bay. As we approached the opening, it became clear why the waves were breaking so far out in the lake. Rocks. We had to pass between a set of rocks straight ahead and a set of rocks to our right in order to get to the passageway. As we altered our course, the waves broadsided us and water would spill into our kayak. I was with Cody that afternoon, and we knew that all we could do was paddle. And paddle we did. As we passed between the rocks, the set of rocks to our right broke the waves up so that they became much more small and manageable. We were the first ones through, and had not looked back as we steered through the obstacles. Finally, we swung our boat around and I again grabbed my camera to capture the efforts of our fellow paddlers as they navigated the rocks. We all cleared the obstacle safely, though we each had a story to tell of nearly capsizing. Another adventurous day was behind us, and we paddled the calm waters of the bay where we set up our final campsite.

Our final camp was set up in the rain, which came as no surprise. We had taken down camp in the rain, kayaked in the rain, breakfasted, lunched and suppered in the rain, and so it was only fair that we now had to set up camp in the rain. We had our final supper under a tarp, and stood around the fire to warm us in the cool evening. Not long after, each of our three tents were occupied by a leader while the kids stayed with the fire singing Johnny Cash, and a host of other songs we requested. The night was cool as we slept, the sound of a light rain pattering against our tent flies. The final morning of our trip began with Cream of Wheat, and the excitement of knowing we would soon be back in the Suburban on our way to Transformers in Thunder Bay. We had a couple of hours of paddling ahead of us, and we were eager to begin the day on the water. Our site was packed up, our water bottles filled and our breakfast was eaten. We were soon on our way.

Coming out of the straight, we were immediately hit by wind and waves, while rain gently fell on our kayaks. We paddled. The waves battered us broadside as the crosswind had built them up from the open lake to the West. We paddled. We passed by the points of several islands, knowing that each was another island closer to our destination. Rounding the final island, we could see the buildings of Rossport in the distance. We paddled. Each stroke brought us closer to the sandy beach where our trip would end. As our kayak scratched the soft sand of the beach, we jumped out as the excitement of using a real toilet became a reality. Soon we had all of our kayaks emptied, and all our gear lying in wait to be loaded into the truck. I stood staring down the road when an amazing thing happened. A blanket of rain made its way up the street towards us, soaking everything along its path. It poured. The final rainfall soaked everything we had left in wait, leaving not one item dry in its wake. It was the final kick in the pants on this trip, and it came as no surprise. Our week had been plagued by wind, rain and waves, it was only fitting to finish with a good drenching. We threw all our wet gear into the truck and jumped in, leaving the weather, the waves and the excitement of Lake Superior behind us.

More Photos (lots more)

kayaking [pt. 1]

Last week was spent on the waters of Lake Superior. It was a week of rain, hot sun, cold water, and windy days. It was a trip of almosts. We almost lost our kayaks, almost lost a tent, were forced out of a campsite by mother nature, and almost capsized in 3 meter waves. And it was the most fun I have had in a long time.

Our trip began two Saturdays ago, kind of unexpectedly as Jordan and I were not planning on going until the number of kids increased, necessitating our help. So seven of us, John, Jordan, Dillen, Cody, Keith, Kurt and I jumped into the Suburban in the early afternoon and made our way to our launching spot at Rossport, on the shores of Lake Superior. We were met by rain right away. It would become a constant for us, as 5 of the 6 days we were on the water left us wet either in our kayaks or at the campsites. We took it easy our first day, making our way to a sandy bay where we set up camp. It was a relaxing night for those of us who did not have to train in a wet exit (how to get back in your kayak when you capsize). And the sand made for a comfortable night's sleep. The rains poured on us that night, but we awoke late in the morning to a bright sun and wispy clouds overhead. Our morning was spent puttering around the campsite, eating our oatmeal while we walked along the rocks that extended along the sides of the bay to the open water of Lake Superior. At the edge of the bay, we built a monument of rock called an Inukshuk (though the terms Shuknook, Shukshoonk, Nookshuk and Shusk-a-shook-shuk were all used to describe our creation, as none of us were really sure how to pronounce it). We departed our campsite a couple hours after noon and began our days travel.

We lunched on Battle Island. Situated on the opposite end of the island is a large lighthouse, manned over the summer by two senior volunteers. We went for a hike to see it, and spent a few hours on its surrounding large rocks, watching the kids play football and eventually watching the football float away into the vastness of the lake. Continuing on our way, we picked up the football as it floated along our path, something we would grow accustomed to doing during the week. A few hours later, we arrived at our next campsite, a rocky outcropping on the edge of a bay. It was a beautiful afternoon, and not a drop fell from the sky. We got there early enough to give us time for a swim across the bay. Though we camped close to the water, we weren't too concerned about rogue waves sweeping us off our rock. The water was calm and the sunset left us feeling as though we were in a bit of a paradise. We all went to bed early after a long day of paddling.

The next day was the most beautiful day of our trip. The sun shone over us as we cruised the cold waters of the lake. Unfortunately, our attire was meant to suit the water, not the air, and so our wetsuits kept us sweating as we paddled. It was a long day of paddling as we planned on camping on one island, only to find it inhabitable. We continued on our way, hoping to find a site that allowed the evening sun to keep us warm as we set up our camp for the night. An hour later, we found our perfect camping spot -- another rocky outcropping that looked out on the seemingly endless waters of Lake Superior. It was about the most exposed campsite we could have found, but on such a beautiful day and after a great sleep the night before on a similar outcropping, the thought of what could happen never crossed our mind. We spent the afternoon relaxing on the rock, leaving our mark with sidewalk chalk and building a bonfire on the edge of a perfect cliff diving spot. We enjoyed a round of soup, topped off with cherry-covered bannock. It had been a perfect day. We left the flies off our tent as it was turning out to be a perfectly clear night as well. And we slept soundly under the stars on our perfect little campsite.

The next morning, I woke up around 9:30 and looked up. Clouds. They weren't the kind of clouds that cause one to sit and stare at, trying to imagine what shapes they create. They were the kind of clouds that cause one to get out of the tent as soon as possible in order to put the fly on, in expectation of the raindrops that were sure to fall from them. John had been up for a while already, securing our tents and stowing all of the equipment we had left scattered around the night before. Soon we were all up, working frantically to prepare our campsite for the weather. We set up a tarp over our fire, gathered large rocks to tie our tents down to, and attached our flies. We planned on waiting the storm out. The storm, however, had other plans.

Soon enough, the rains came. Our regular morning meal of oatmeal was had under the tarp with much difficulty. While some of us ate, others would stand on opposite sides of the tarp to hold it steady as the winds picked up and threatened to rip it apart. We ate quickly, made a pot of coffee quickly, and then lowered the tarp to the ground, covering our kitchen supplies. While some of the group returned to a tent to stay warm and dry, John, Keith and I remained out to finish off our securing. As Keith and I stood beside our tent, a gust of wind grabbed it and started pushing it towards the water. We chased it down and secured it with even more rocks. The kayaks were covered with a tarp and tied together with the reasoning that if the waves came too high, they would have more difficulty carrying away all five kayaks at the same time. We found as many rocks and ropes as we could to secure our tents and, satisfied, we all retired to our tents to wait out the storm.

The thing about constant wind over a large body of water is that it tends to cause waves to increase in size. We hunkered down in our tents, listening to the sound of the waves breaking all around us, and even coming close enough to touch the corner of one of the tents. During a break in the storm, Cody ran out to go to the bathroom, and on his return he came by our tent, telling us he was going to grab a deck of cards and come back so we could play a game. We never had the chance. A few minutes later, we heard Cody yell, "Our kayaks!" Under normal circumstances, one could assume that Cody was just joking around, as he often does. But these were not normal circumstances. And his scream coincided with the sound of what could only be our kayaks banging into each other as they were being swept into the lake. Sure enough, as I jumped out of our tent, I looked over to where we had docked our kayaks. The spot was empty, except for the waves that had commandeered the kayaks position. Cody had managed to grab onto the end of one of our kayaks and was holding on for dear life, effectively saving them all as they were tied together. Jumping into action, I ran out and grabbed the other side just as Jordan arrived in his polka-dot boxers. Then, joined by John, and with the rain beating down on us, driven into our skin by the forceful winds, we managed to pull the kayaks ashore and onto higher ground. A quick decision was made, and we all agreed to it. We had to get off this rock. Fast. ... read Part Two

pow wow.

A couple weekends ago was another cultural experience for me, as I attended a First Nations Pow Wow on Mount McKay in Thunder Bay. I was spending the weekend with Josh, a friend and young adult from Aroland. He had previously educated me on First Nations culture and traditions, and I was eager to spend a weekend with him in the midst of hundreds of other First Nations people from the greater Thunder Bay area (by that I mean within 10 hours of driving or flying).

We drove into the city in the late afternoon on Friday, and began our weekend with some Chinese Food. It's a real treat to be back in civilization, and I never realized how much I really do miss suburbia. Though Thunder Bay is an old relic town, far removed from the more modern cities such as Toronto or Vancouver, it boasts a population that is 200 times the size of Nakina, where I live. Thunder Bay has the basic necessities of life: a mall, a Future Shop, Starbucks, Tim Horton's, four-lane highways, and stop lights. I've noticed that my driving has digressed as I have become accustomed to small town driving: yield signs, potholes, and no need for signalling turns. With the Chinese sitting weightily on our stomachs, we made our way through the First Nations Reserve at the base of Mount McKay, and winded our way up the road to its plateau.

The Pow Wow didn't officially begin until Saturday afternoon, but already there were people pitching their tents and setting up their snack and souvenir shops around the pow wow grounds. I imagined that, traditionally, there were no vendors selling hot dogs and bannock burgers around the site where the drumming and dancing was to occur. But today's pow wows aren't just for the native culture. They also are a display of how life was before the White People came, and are open to those same people who like to eat hot dogs and bannock burgers. We stayed on the pow wow grounds for a few hours while Josh caught up with some friends from other reserves, and I hung out with some of the kids from Aroland who had arrived on a bus that night. My experience of the pow wow was slightly diminished due to the fact that Josh and I had chosen to not join the tent-dwellers for the evening. We left to find a place to stay.

We arrived late at Keith's place. Keith is a cousin of Josh's, and a former resident of Aroland. He is also an amazing artist. We spent the first half hour in his room, flipping through his drawing book, mesmerized by the life-like characters he created on its pages. Our tiredness quickly overtook our interest, and we were soon sleeping uncomfortably on the two couches in Keith's living room.

The pow wow began in the early afternoon on Saturday with a Grand Entry of all those who had come, dressed in their native regalia. Pow wow's are a step back in time. Each participant made their way around the centre gazebo, where a handful of drummers beat a single drum simultaneously and monotonously. While they drummed, they sang. There never seemed to be any words, only vocal peaks and lows in a well-rehearsed pattern. Meanwhile, the dancers walked, skipped and glided to their beat in a one-two step pattern. This went on for hours. Only once during the day did the drumming and dancing stop.

I had noticed that everything had stopped, and that a few of the older men were all standing in a small circle to one side. Asking the man beside me what was happening, he explained that they were having a ceremony. A feather had fallen. A few of the regalia worn by the men had wreaths of feathers on the back, and one had fallen from its place. A fallen feather represents a fallen relative, and the men were standing over the feather, saying a prayer for the relative. It was a five-minute long ceremony, after which they picked the feather up and gave it to someone else in the group, as it could not be returned to its original owner. Soon the drumming began, and the dancers slowly made their way back out onto the pow wow grounds. The Pow Wow was back into full swing, and it continued that way until late in the evening, as different drumming groups had an opportunity to showcase their talent. The next day was no different. The Pow Wow began with a Grand Entry and ended late in the evening on Canada Day.

While the festivities came to a close, I returned to my car to wait for Josh as he said farewell to his friends and family. As I passed the ridge of Mount McKay, it became clear to me that there was more to see. This night was not yet over, for in the city below, the population was celebrating the birth of a country. I joined and was joined by a number of others who were eager to see the constant display of light and sound from Thunder Bay. We stood there for another half hour, watching as hundreds of fireworks were set off in backyards, followed several seconds later by the sound of each explosion. Canada Day was spent between two worlds. One celebrating a history not-yet forgotten, and another celebrating the beginnings of a country that was then determined to see the end of a beautiful culture.

the coptics. [pt. 2]

"The Egyptian Coptic Church" is a sequence of words that has never crossed my ears before. I had never heard of this denomination of the Christian faith, and was curious to find out more while a group of them lived in Nakina and served in Aroland. All I knew of this group beforehand was that their priest (or Father) had to wear his uniform at all times, and that they were going to have mass every morning. Based on such little information, I had already decided what the Egyptian Coptic Church is: another church bound to a series of man-made laws that overshadow the teachings of Christ. A harsh judgment, sure. But I, along with a number of other young adults have become jaded with the structured, institutionalized churches of our North American society. Turns out, the Coptic church far precedes even the discovery of North America. It also turns out that they are, in fact, Egyptian, and date their beliefs to the gospel writer and apostle, Mark.

The Coptic church claims to have stuck to the original traditions handed down from the apostle Mark to the present day. I experienced and learned a number of these traditions: the holy bread with it's thirteen stamped crosses, the reciting of the Lord's Prayer, the reciting of Psalms, facing east while in communal prayer, the saints and the status of Mary, the incense and the chanting of Scripture. While many post-Reformation denominations form and divide over such trivial matters as whether congregates can wear perfume in the sanctuary (true story), the Egyptian Coptic Church has remained unwavering in the issues that matter. In some ways, it has no choice. Any decisions passed down by the Pope are established and made into law -- no questions asked. While it does put a lot of power into human hands (though the Pope is accountable to its council), it almost leaves no room for the questions that we (those of us who feel we have a better understanding of truth simply through our attitudes towards our modern day North American churches ) have. . I'm still deciding whether that is a good thing or not.

If I were to look at my beliefs, they would look like a mishmash of post-Reformation churches: Christian Reformed, Pentecostal, and Mennonite. I was raised in the Christian Reformed Church, experienced much spiritual growth through the Pentecostal Church and was educated under the Mennonites -- all the while learning more about the nature of an infinite God. My experiences with the Coptics has, in a way, grounded me. I have begun to ask a different set of questions, even of the benefit of Martin Luther's Reformation. Though many of Luther's issues with the Roman Catholic Church of his day were valid, was it necessary to break off from a belief rich in history and tradition? Is that what he really hoped for? This only resulted in a hodge-podge of denominations, each claiming to know the answers to every question of faith. Many of our modern-day North American churches root their beliefs in a set of man-made doctrines. These doctrines were written down hundreds of years ago in response to the heretics of their day. In essence, they were "solid" answers to valid questions, and have since never been questioned in return. And so, the debate continues between child and adult baptism, predestination, the power of the Holy Spirit, the infallibility of the Bible, and all the other theological questions that various demoninations differ on. This brings me back to the only question that should really matter: what does it mean when Christ says to love God and love my neighbour in the world I find myself in?

the coptics. [pt. 1]

They came. And they went. This past week has been busier than any week so far in Aroland. A group of 28 young adults from Mississauga spent an entire week serving the community of Aroland. They are the Coptics. Twenty-eight people from an Egyptian Coptic Church, wanting to serve closer to home than their previous experiences in Africa and Mexico (though perhaps a flight to either country would take less time than a drive from Southern to Northern Ontario. Who doesn't love a road trip though?). It has been an interesting experience in two ways: 1) being on the flip-side of a mission trip and 2) a new understanding of a faith group I had never heard of before.

I have been on a number of mission trips before. Though I have only ever played the role of a leader on these trips (Mexico, Michigan, Ontario, California), there has always been a responsibility on my shoulders for the group I am serving with, as well as those we are serving. Never have I been the 'co-served', so-to-speak. Though the Coptics were directly serving the kids and the community of Aroland, they co-served those of us who have a longer-term, direct vested interest in the community. I have gotten to know quite a number of the youth in Aroland and, in a way, felt responsible for how they were treated and served by these young adults from Southern Ontario. At times, it has felt like I have been running a babysitting service in Aroland, and am simply maintaining control. This past week has shown me that I have been doing more than that...without even really realizing it. I wanted to protect them, and in recognizing that, I learned that I deeply care for the youth in Aroland.

Not that I had anything to worry about. The group worked amazingly with the kids. I observed many handshakes, many high-fives, and many high-energy games. I heard many positive and encouraging words spoken to the kids, and I read them on the backs of their signed t-shirts. And I listened to their questions about the validity of short-term mission trips. That question has been around for a long time. It is a question I have never fully had an answer to, mainly because I have only ever been the short-term missionary -- the one who sweeps in for a week, does some work, and leaves everything behind. The question is a valid one. How can short-term missionaries possibly be effective? Why is it so important to befriend a kid in Aroland, if I only plan on leaving that kid behind?

Yesterday, one of the teenagers told me of an encouraging word he received from one of the Coptics. In a way, it serves as an answer to the question of the effectiveness of short-term mission trips.

"Tamar told me I have potential," he said. "What's potential?"

This ninth grade young man learned something invaluable: That he has potential, something he had never heard of before. To have a group of 28 young adults pouring out their words of advice, wisdom and hope, has accomplished more in one week than one or two of us could have in a month. These kids need to be hearing what the Coptics had to offer -- even if it is just one word that sticks in their minds for years to come, providing constant encouragement and hope. From what I observed in this past week, there are at least 28 youth in Aroland with a word like that. Thanks, guys. ...read Part Two

the driving range.

Today we went to the driving range. The nearest golf course is an hour away from Aroland, which really isn't that bad. The kids are often wandering Aroland with their golf clubs, whacking their balls into the forests.. They are actually really good golf players, but their knowledge of how a driving range work is limited, as I was soon to discover. We got to the range around 6pm, and retrieved our buckets from the pro shop. Now, i have been to a number of driving ranges in the past, and usually one of two things happen: either we are given a bucket full of balls, or there is a ball dispenser that fills our buckets for us. Neither option was available to us at the pro shop. We were simply given our buckets and told that the driving range was across the street. So, the six of us walked over to the driving range, empty buckets in hand. I kind of assumed we would find a dispenser at the range itself, but that wasn't the case either. All we saw was a giant open field with distance markers, golf balls and broken tees scattered about. Odd, I thought. And then I watched. Even odder, thought I. For, as I stood there, I watched three of the boys, buckets in hand, walk out into the open field and proceed to pick up golf ball after golf ball. it was like an easter egg hunt set to the easiest level.

"This is how it's done," said one of the boys. "We have to collect our own balls."

It simply didn't seem right.

And so, while they continued on their golf ball hunt, I trekked back to the pro shop, hoping to get some answers for this peculiarity. Maybe things were really done different up north. Still, come on. There was something fishy going on. The minute I walked into the pro shop, the girl behind the counter smiled and looked at me. She said one word that confirmed my suspicions: "Balls?"

"Yup," I replied. She pointed, and, lo-and-behold, over in the corner was a large tub of balls, ready to be shoveled into the buckets for the driving range. A couple of minutes later, I left the pro shop with 6 pre-filled buckets, a golf cart to deliver them with, and a great story...

dogs.

Dogs abound in Aroland. Many of them are ragged, rough and large. Often you will come across a few of them hanging out together, waiting for a lone dog to come across their path. I have seen several dog fights in Aroland, and have rescued one or two along the way. One dog, Trigger, seems to remember the day I kicked his attackers off of him and brought him in the Shack to lick his wounds while I dripped some hand sanitizer in an open wound on his neck. Now when he sees me driving towards the Shack, he will often sprint along my car and meet me as I get out. It probably helps that I feed him some dog food. He was one that got away.

I attended a dog funeral yesterday. Cody and Brady, two brothers in Aroland, had a little dog called Sebastian. Cody found his body on the side of a back road the other day and threw some logs on it. Apparently Sebastian was a little promiscuous, and the other dogs got jealous. Promiscuity kills in the dog world. As he finished telling us about it yesterday, he asked if we wanted to go see. "Sure," we said. I really don't know why we decided to go check out a dog's carcass, but that's what we did. We brought a shovel along, too. Sebastian needed a proper funeral. There were a couple of interesting elements to this impromptu funeral. Brady, the younger brother, didn't want to see his dog in it's expired state. Cody explained that he might get angry at the dogs who killed him. Brady said he was afraid to look. It took a little coaxing to get him out of the car and, in his own way, say good-bye to his dog. "I'm gonna hit this golf ball," he said. He set down the golf ball that he had hit and retrieved several times over during the day, grabbed his driver and took a swing. The ball was gone. And so was his fear and anger, it seemed. His way worked.

Sebastian was kind of gently lowered into a fresh hole, dug by Cody. Somebody mentioned something about saying a prayer. It was a half-joking, half-serious comment, but nobody wanted to say it. So I simply prayed that God would take good care of Sebastian and that Brady and Cody could get another dog. "Yeah, a better dog," said Cody. And with that, we hopped in our car, and drove away.

elusive bears

The drive from Nakina to Aroland and back generally consists of two things: trees and potholes. Lately, I’ve been adding bears to the list of sights to see. Bears are elusive creatures. For weeks now, I have been trying to get a decent picture of one in particular. It usually seems to be wandering close to the road, just past the railway tracks close to Aroland. Yet, whenever it rests its beady little eyes on my Swift, it takes off into the forest and out of sight. Dang thing. The other day I was driving a few teens from Nakina to Aroland when we spotted her. Jumping into action, the two boys advised me to honk my horn and drive up to the bear in an effort to ‘tree’ it. It worked! The bear ran only a few feet into the woods and began its ascent into the closest tree it could find. It would have been a great opportunity for a picture, had the weather cooperated. It didn’t. It rained.

And the one thing that I thought I had going for me turns out to be my downfall. I had long hoped to slowly creep up to a bear in my car. Swift is fairly bear-shaped. It’s got a rather large rear end and a beautiful sharpened front that sits close to the ground. With the potholes constantly shaking and jostling my car, she even moves like a bear. Surely she’s the perfect disguise. Alas, the creeping thing has yet to pan out. I can only imagine it has to do with colour. Swift is green. The bear probably mistakes her for some sort of sea-sick relative and runs in the opposite direction. My only hope is to find someone with a black Swift. With a gray interior. And standard, as bunny hops might help in the disguise. Yeah, that’s a hint, James.

time passes by

it's amazing how quickly time passes. almost one month ago, i drove my little swift into this little town with little clue as to what i would be doing. one month later, i sit in my little swift outside the local elementary school, 'borrowing' their high-speed internet connection. it's a decently warm day here in nakina, which is nice as the sun continues to melt the snow. yeah, that's right. snow. it fell from the sky a couple days ago, and on days like today it seems to be quickly disappearing into the earth. yeesh. 25 degrees earlier this week to freezing rain and snow a couple days later. northern ontario at it's finest, i'm sure.

as in the days of youth pastoring, i find myself questioning my effectiveness among the kids in Aroland. and i am learning to be content with the fact that this is likely a consistent concern among many who work with kids, teens, adults, elderly. it's part of our human desire to feel effective, useful, needed. i am not being asked for miracles. i am not being asked to solve the problems in Aroland. i am not being asked to meet every need that passes through my ears. for now i am simply being asked to show love to those whom i cross paths with in aroland. for some of these kids, it means encouragement, for others tough love, for others it's about reminding them that they have value. and for me it's constantly reminding myself that i don't have the answers, that i, too, am learning. it's reminding myself to put my pride aside -- that i am just like everyone else. no better, no worse. the difficulty is not in the reminders to humble myself, but in actually doing it. Pride can be such a blinder. For me, and likely for many in our culture.

radio.

Last Saturday, John Reynolds had the opportunity to share what he is doing in Aroland on The Drew Marshall Show. He was interviewed along with a survivor of the Canadian residential schools ("a religious system that abused [him]"). To better understand the current situation in many northern reserves and learn about one persons experience in the residential school system, download the mp3. Find the May 5 broadcast with John Reynolds and Rene Meshake.

Aroland

The train pulled into a station 11 hours later, at 4am. Nakina. As the snow fell lightly out the windows of Train #1, I once again gathered all the necessities of life that were crammed in two backpacks and walked off the train into the –10 degree weather of Northern Ontario. Soon I would find myself sleeping comfortably in the wood-stove warmed home of superfriend Ryan and his wife, Amanda, in apprehensive expectation of the days to come. While this trip would be a getaway from the norm of Southern Ontario life, it would not entirely be a holiday during this, the holiday season.

A couple of months ago, I got a call from Ryan, who was in search of a youth worker to lead a group of teens into the neighbouring First Nations reservation of Aroland to hang out with the kids for a week. I told him I’d get back to him. He got back to me first, saying that the group of teens would not be going up, so my assumption had been that the trip was off…until a late night phone call. John Reynolds, a man with a passion for First Nations youth, called to see if I was still coming up to work with the kids of Aroland. A bit confused, a bit curious and a bit hesitant I told him I’d get back to him.

Two weeks later, I found myself in a taxi cab, chasing down a train.

Little Africa

Five days of driving in and out of a First Nations reservation to interact solely with its future generation cannot and does not bring a full picture of life on a reserve. What I saw from the outside – as an outsider – did not line up with the statistics I had inside my mind. And the statistics are mind-boggling. But, like Africa, they tend to be statistics of a situation that seems to be bigger than the assistance of any North American with a desire to help. The irony of it is that these are statistics from within North America, where the major concern is not AIDS. Or famine. Or tribal warfare. In Aroland, and in many reservations across this first world country, kids face the consequences of their parents drinking problems either through dealing with an alcoholic parent or directly through the effects of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. Here, and in many reservations across this first world country, kids face the reality of a friends’ or a community members suicide. Here, I have heard of a 12-year-old girl drinking hairspray for its alcohol content. And like most kids growing up in North America, there is the constant pressure of drugs.

It’s sad to think that I feel like I needed to see a drunk parent, or a stoned kid, or a funeral for a victim of suicide to believe that these statistics are realities. I had to see the IDP Camps in Northern Uganda to know such places existed, despite the sponsor-a-child commercials. I had to see Ground Zero in December of 2001 to comprehend the reality of September 11, despite the television repetitively showing the twin towers collapsing. But what I did see in Aroland were kids. Kids are kids, no matter where you are in the world. And I can only assume that life will not get easier for them as they age and come to grips with the reality of the world they are brought up in.

There is a certain amount of joyful freedom in being a child, though I will admit that the kids I saw in Aroland have experienced more in life than I had by the time I turned nine. And they seem to be aware of that fact. As I was talking to a group of the First Nations youth, something I said triggered a response that still rings in my ears: ‘Yeah, but you don’t know Aroland.” He's right. My knowledge on the history of First Nations communities and reservations is vague at best, let alone their current situation. And so these thoughts are as of yet unfinished. And so is the processing of my experiences in Northern Ontario.