Page 42 - Presbyterian Connection – Spring 2021
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Connection
REFLECTIONS
The Seasons of Change
42
PRESBYTERIAN
SPRING 2021
presbyterian.ca
   By Vivian Ketchum, originating
from Wauzhushk Onigum Nation of Northern Ontario and now a member of Place of Hope Presbyterian Church in Winnipeg, Man., and Life and Mission Agency Committee member
I start my day with coffee in hand sit- ting in my recliner in my living room. The City of Winnipeg is under Code Red restrictions and people are ad- vised to stay home if they can. My world is now the four walls of my home. Figuratively speaking.
It is early morning and the front view of my window faces a busy street. I watch the rush-hour traffic begin as the sun rises. Buses rum- ble by and stop outside my building. I have noticed there are less passen- gers lately. As the sun rises even fur- ther, I hear the sound of children out- side my window. There is a school right across the street. Sadly, not as many children heading to school as last year. My cat jumps up to the win- dow to watch the children walking by. This is his favourite part of the day.
My coffee is done and the morn- ing rush is now over. Time to have breakfast. I head to the back part of my place where my kitchen is. My cat follows me knowing it is break- fast time. I make my cereal and open a can of cat food for my cat. Before we can settle down for our breakfast, I hear a noise outside the back win- dow by the kitchen. My cat runs and jumps up to the window. I watch to see how my cat reacts to the noise. If he hisses and runs, there is pos- sibly danger outside. My cat is show- ing signs of curiosity, so I go over to look out the back window. It is my young neighbour who has visitors. There is also a home support worker dropping off meals for residents in the next building. The residents are elderly and are not able to go out due to their health. It is a mixed bag of reactions to the pandemic restric- tions. The youth and his constant
stream of visitors. The elderly resi- dents who are confined to their home due to their health and vulnerability. I turn around to have my breakfast and leave my cat’s breakfast on the floor.
It is now noon and time for me to get ready for work. I head to the dining room where my home office is set in the corner by the window. I have been working from home since March of last year, when my office moved all its employees to remote home offices. Before I settle, I see the bylaw vehicle outside my window. It is the bylaw officer walking around the area. No, he was not ticketing cars, but checking the stores in the area. Making sure the store owners
were following the Code Red restric- tions. Allowing the limited number of people in the stores.
So much has changed in the last year. People gradually wearing masks everywhere. Buses and stores. Chil- dren attending school from home with digital aids. Many people now working from home. Setting up re- mote home offices. Bylaw officers checking stores enforcing the rules. It is frightening to see how the world has changed over a year. I have seen it changed all through the windows of my home.
Lyrics to be Sung at the Toppling of Tyrants’ Statues
The Seasons of Change happen-
ing through the windowpanes of my
home. By Joshua Weresch, Central
We now confront these statues, Some deeds poised in metal, stone, But there’s no history in emblems, For it’s in stories, blood and bones.
What are statues: more than a window,
Aquinas’s “instant that abides,” The past yanked toward a future, In which only force decides?
MacDonald hangs Louis Riel, Dewdney’s rations: tools of war, Sarge Kenneth Deane kills Dudley George:
Still stolen land: that’s what it’s for.
The statues threw their shadows From their then onto this now, But they were just their shadows, Not the bodies breaking down.
When you see what once were statues,
As you pull them to the ground, Think on the space you’ve now created,
Possible sunlights streaming down.
Think of the metals to re-purpose, On the spears beat into ‘shares, Or the stones to build the houses, Always the poor’s, from rich folks’ lairs.
Think on all clay-footed tyrants, Sons of David, ground to dust, For if something’s made from nothing,
There’s, first, some nothing: so God must.
If there’s something worth re- building,
May it be storied breaths and words, Though may our tears not be the mor tar
Yet built upon the hearts so stirred.
Presbyterian Church in Hamilton, Ont., Anishinaabeg land
I grew up in the Spirit: Pentecost was every day. She gave us our own stories To walk in Jesus’ Way.
My wife grew up United:
Love watered many a just seed:
“From each, by their ability, To each, in their own need.”
Now we have four children, Presbyterian, for now, Though name is unimportant: Jesus’ love is Why and How.
We grew up under statues,
As you, in shadow of them all,
And only learned as we grew older How so many sought their fall.
The first statue named Enchantment Fell, as church leaders fell
Into beds with others’ wives.
You know such stories well.
The second named Intelligent Tumbled: taught in home or school, Asking questions of the Bible
Was to be an apparent fool.
Thus, three fell in the shredded Bible,
For many manuscripts abound
And each witness to a Jesus
Who loved, died, and lives, unwritten down.
Leaned on and under,
They felt right, smelled just and true, Yet as they’ve other sides and lights, They were destroyed. Thus, honest stories do.
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