Foremost on my Mind: Life Lessons from a Level

I was reminded recently of the need for necessary tools. You're thinking, “Yes, where would we be without our saw, hammer, or thingamajig?”

My words exactly, and I would add: “Where would anyone be without a level?”

Levels, for all you non-construction types, is like a yardstick with a little bubble in the middle. It can be superfluous if we have a good set of eyes—or a least we think so. We do that all the time when it comes to hanging framed pictures, don't we? We stand back, eyeball it, and hang it up. Sometimes we're straight, sometimes we're a little off.

And “off” we can be, in every sense of the word. More on that later.

So when we were installing those fencing cross bars recently, there really was no place for “sometimes”: Either it was straight or it wasn't. And if we were off just a little, by the time we were finished, we were off a lot. A little lazy now means disarray later. Or, in a much broader application, a little careless mistake here will always lead to a much bigger mistake there.

A level, at its most rudimentary, uh, level, can act as a simple straight edge. An expensive straight edge, no less, but it can serve that purpose. However, levels are meant for much more important tasks. We don't want to minimize the significance of using a level, do we? Nor do we want to under-estimate the need for sensible principles of basic life skills.

Levels help create structure, balance, and accuracy. With no level, it's guess work and presumption. Do we really want that for our fences? Walls? Buildings? Again, do we really want that haphazard approach to the significant issues in life? I didn't think so either.

Levels are really a word picture for those intuitive rules and foundations that we need to live by. In other words, we need “levels” in every component of life, making “level”-headed decisions, not just random, impetuous choices.

It's even a integral part of our language: A person “on the level” is a good, straight-shooting person; and a “level” playing field is based on equity and fairness for all.

There really is no place for sometimes straight and steady, sometimes off and unsteady.

So now I shift into a preachy mode at this juncture of the column. I see the need for a level of sorts in so many aspects of life—a measuring stick that provides some sort of benchmark and basis for everything we do.

In law, for example, if there is no standard basis for right and wrong—no legal level, if you will—we end up with chaos and anarchy. In marriage, yet another relevant example, if there is no standard that we submit to for what is healthy and unhealthy, we have abuse and tension. Law and marriage are only two of countless examples where basic rules are necessary, but they are both foundational institutions for a healthy culture.

Interestingly enough, we do have these problems today—and I suggest to you that it is because we have drifted away (maybe even run away) from something that once provided a level component as to how we approached law and marriage.

Some of you know that I am chomping at the bit to bring the Bible into this discussion. I want to and could easily show that the ultimate “level” in any civilized society is indeed the Bible—read, understood, and applied—but I refrain. Suffice to say, a clearly applied understanding of the Scriptures is the firm foundation for every component of every thriving society.

I am simply saying that there is a need—a desperate need, in fact—for a sound basis for institutions, to say nothing of how we build, eat, and talk, for example. There can't be a myriad of standards, varying standards, double standards, or worse, no standards, if we want to survive. Guess work is not an option; individualism doesn't cut the mustard.

I remain amazed at someone's ingenuity years ago to develop the simple straight edge with a bubble in it. If the bubble is in the right place, then the work at hand is level. If it's off, it produces problems.

Likewise, the “bubble” in the level for our culture is off a little. We need a moral level in every component of culture. And remember: Even a token off in the little things means it's really off in the big things.

We can all learn life lessons from the level. Keep the “bubble” in the middle: That will keep everything nice and straight.

Foremost on my Mind: Mennonite my Way

I was raised in a home where hospitality was the norm—you know, people stopping in for meals, bumping me out of my bed so they could stay overnight. My wife was raised the same way, so it was natural for us to become hospitable once we were married.

If you want a brief vocabulary lesson on the word “hospitality,” here it is: 1. it has nothing to do with the word “hospital,” though there must be some branch in the etymological tree where they're linked; and 2. it has everything (literally) to do with the “love of strangers.”

There now, don't you feel a lot better?

We've had a lot of friends that we have fed and housed over the decades; we've also had a number of strangers—some “stranger” than others (Maurice, just a little play on words, okay?).

Part of entertaining strangers for us has been this network that we're part of, called “Mennonite Your Way.” It is only one of many organizations that link open homes with travellers. I am not Mennonite, but, as you know, I have many strong ties with them.

Having visitors stay overnight with you harks back to the old-fashioned days of travellers finding free accommodations, even among hosts unknown. That practice led to roadside inns, which morphed into Motel 6, Super 8, and Travelodge 10, er, Inn.

Recent visitors to our home included a retired grain farmer and his wife from South Dakota. Others included a retired United Church pastor and his wife from Ontario. Last year, we were supposed to host a retired professor from Trinity Western University, but that didn't work out.

There are many pluses with this sort of service we provide, although one big one stands out. They include:

1. We save the travellers money. They leave a token amount on the dresser on the way out, and I mean token. But that's no problem, as we're not doing it for the money. How do you put a price tag on fun and fellowship?

2. By keeping their money in their pockets, they have more to spend elsewhere—meaning, we help the local economy. I know business people reading this appreciate the value of tourist dollars.

3. A lot of goodwill is exchanged: There is a greater connection between strangers-cum-friends over coffee, learning about other families and parts of the land. It brings together different regions of the dominion, or the dominion and the republic (Maurice, that would be Canada and the States, respectively), even if in a very limited way.

The fact that they politely laugh at my jokes is icing on the cake. Maybe the threat of “laugh, or we turn of the water” helps.

4. Visitors always benefit our family, prompting us to get the house tidied up even more than usual, and our kids to serve others. After all, my wife and I were kids who saw this modelled in our respective homes—and look what happened to us!

5. The biggest reason, even for a experienced married person like yours truly, is the sight of older people still married to each other, still enjoying each other. There aren't any fix-it books or how-to DVD's that can teach that. You've got to see that in person.

I am not so naive to think that they've had no problems in their marriage or that their marriage is perfect. Not at all, but I see real, ordinary people, who are the backbone to this country, committed to each other in a mutually beneficial way.

In an era when relationships are as disposable as plastic razors and as shallow as a wading pool, I am encouraged to see couples that continue to work at it, stay together, and finish well. That goes against the grain of current trends.

I wouldn't think this was a motivation for the founders of Mennonite Your Way, but it has been a great by-product. They can send Mennonites (and non-Mennonites) my way anytime they want to.

Foremost on my Mind: The Big Sechzig Still

Last week I wandered (off) a little, taking a stroll down memory lane. Tend to do that at the advanced age of 60. Hope I didn't sound too morose, but looking back tends to do that.

I find that as I get older, I am taking more time out to reflect and reminisce. That's one of the reasons that I enjoy reading Old (his word) Fred Mellen's column, though his clippings go back further than I do.

I'm still trying to figure out whether a sixty-year time lapse impairs my judgement, or was it actually better back then. I lean toward the latter: It was better back then, but it doesn't mean we have to mope over our mocha today.

Let me quote the county-famous columnist in this space from last week: The world made more sense a few decades ago.

In other words, the world doesn't make sense to me as it once did. Does it to you? Pick your subject matter: politics? education? law? families? church? So many rational and normal institutions and events are no longer rational and normal. It bothers me, but beyond that, it also scares the you-know-what out of me. And then I think of my kids, and theirs—yours, and theirs, too, for that matter.

Developments that, well, don't make sense. Sense that isn't very common anymore.

Let's consider wars for a moment. I cannot say if there are more deaths per capita throughout the world. A perusal of history—say, within the past 10,000 years-- would show that nation versus nation, tribal warfare, and genocide, have always been with us. Pick your continent, and colour it red (for its bloodshed). Maybe we're just hearing about and seeing it more.

So the (social) media may appear to make the world seem like it's getting worse. It's instant news that comes with twitter and Facebook. All the news that's fit (and unfit) to report—in your face and in your space at the click of a send button.

I'm not sure that turning sixty for the likes of Chan, Travolta, and Howard is as traumatic for them as it seems to be for me. I haven't talked to them recently, so I don't know where they're at with this. And actually, I'm probably more reflective than traumatized by this milestone.

At thirty years of age, sixty seemed a lifetime away; at sixty, seventy looms in my future. And there's no longer a lifetime ahead of me. Not a pleasant thought, despite how active or alert I am.

I enjoy good health, peace of mind, safety, and economics, for which I am very grateful. I am keenly aware that any one, or all, of these could be taken away from me in a moment. I see it all around me, so I need to cherish each day.

Recent phones calls and emails about people much younger than me having strokes, slipping on stairs and passing away suddenly, dying of cancer, have left me feeling vulnerable. Physical, emotional, and financial setbacks and death are no longer the lot of the old.

A walk down memory lane leaves me breathless these days. I get winded just thinking about it, so it must be a heart condition—heart, in the sense of affection and recollection.

I can't go back to the Land of Shouldacouldawoulda, a land where I used to live in simplicity, hope, and trust. That was also a land of rotary telephones and 8-tracks. There is nothing inherently noble about these things.

I like my laptop, cell phone, running water, and all the other amenities that I come with living in this century I don't really want to go back to a typewriter, only one phone in the house, and no Internet. Skip the sod hovel and outdoor plumbing: I like my nice, warm house with its ensuite.

What I miss in this world—and by that, I mean my Canadian culture, Alberta-style-- more than anything else, is warm, real human relationships. We appear to be far more in contact with each other, through the magic and mystery of social media, but I suggest we are far less in contact than ever before, thanks to the same social media.

Facebook relationships (such as they are) don't cut it; that medium misleads people into thinking they have something when they don't—using words like “friends” and “like.” I continue to resist that approach to relationships. I long for something deeper, not shallower; long-term, not short-term; and more genuine, not phoney.

I know it's not the '50s or '60s anymore, and maybe that's alright. It would be nice, though, to retrieve some of the values and experiences from those early years.

I need to wander back now from memory lane; there's still a lot of miles left in these shoes.

Foremost on my Mind: The Big Sechzig

Sixty years ago last Sunday, someone very important was born. Actually a number of important people were born in 1954 (but only one of them on July 27): Jackie Chan, John Travolta, Ron Howard, Denzel Washington, Dennis Quaid, and Craig Funston.

Oh well, five out of six isn't bad.

Other events that are now sixty years old include the following: Sports Illustrated, the Unification Church (aka the Moonies), Burger King, Play Doh, and the BC Lions.

Many other people, books, movies, and events are also celebrating their sixtieth anniversary this year, but I trust you're impressed enough with my collection of random facts. Truth be told, I have Google to thank here: One click and I am a factual phenom.

Let's take a short stroll down memory lane to see what sort of world I was raised in. I have no intention of trashing (or whitewashing) my parents' generation with this article. Just a few thoughts on what I think were the good old days.

Not sure how good they were then, but they sure look good now A fifty-to-sixty-year reflection will do that every time. Maybe my rear-view vision is a little skewed, I don't know.

In the world I was raised in, marriage was still between a man and a woman. And it had a certain permanency to it. The only d-word we knew stood for divorce. We ate our meals together as a family, and rarely went out to eat—but when we did, it was a real treat. We came home to mom every day after school; she was a full-time homemaker, as raising four sons was a full-time vocation.

We never had a television, never went to movies, and never had a computer. Speaking of computers, they were as large as a normal bedroom and were totally unaffordable and unnecessary to the common man.

When I wanted to phone anyone, I just dialed seven numbers. We did have area codes, but they were never part of the regular phone number. We also had one (read: one) phone in the house; it hung on the wall, not on our belts.

And speaking of phones, we did not take pictures with them, text with them or use them to search for mail. We simply talked to people with it. Kind of a novel idea, isn't it?

For play, we would go outside many nights and play Kick the Can, or street hockey with the neighbourhood kids. Families were larger back then, so neighourhoods teemed with children.

I don't know if being raised in the '50s and '60s was better than today. I think it was, and I speak using only broad strokes. Feel free to disagree—I won't be offended.

In some ways, we have come a long way in parts of the medical and technical professions, for starters. In the main, though, I believe the streets were safer, the future was brighter, the food was healthier, and the morals were clearer. And I could understand the lyrics of most songs.

Let's not be naive: Things were bad back then, just not as bad as they are now. There were the usual wars, genocides, and murders. There was nonsense when it came to sexual abuse, but it wasn't as prevalent. Skin and sex were private affairs, no pun intended.

I'll just stick to the generalization that the world made more sense back then.

Was Blundell Elementary School on Lulu Island (seriously: that was its name) a great experience back in 1966? It was a safe place to learn, I suppose. I was an ordinary student, with average intelligence, height, and looks. I wasn't good at either academics or athletics. I was the class clown, that witty voice at the back of the room that drove some of my teachers crazy.

Today, I wish I could sit down over coffee and tell them how much I appreciate their input into my life, and apologize for disrupting their class. I wouldn't mind even seeing some of my old classmates, but they probably have lost ageing battle, as I have. Maybe I should just keep those days as a distant memory for now.

In the meantime, I just plan to hang out with overweight eighty-year-old midgets: Makes me look skinnier, younger, and taller.

Foremost on my Mind: A Land of Disbelief?

I doubt you have met Andre Poulin. You may have read about him recently, like I did. His name sounds like a hockey player from a village in Quebec. Maybe, but apparently he used to live in Timmins, Ontario, so I'm sure he played a lot of hockey, like any normal Canadian kid.

A “normal Canadian kid.” How would you describe that? If you're asking me, I would say the following: lives in a nice house, eats good food, attends public school, and has a safe lifestyle.

These are pretty broad assumptions, I concur, but this is what this Andre said last year. But his brushes with the law and growing sense of religious intolerance, plus other struggles, led him to choose to leave Canada.

His intolerance for intolerance, if you will, led to him to become a Muslim state freedom-fighter.

Canada, to him (and in his words), became a “a land of disbelief,” so he left, killed, and died, somewhere in Iraq, fighting to create a rogue Islamic state.

If you could sense my heart here, you would understand my burden as I write this. I don't feel any religious smugness or any cultural complacency when I read his words. It simply bothers me that someone like that can fall through the cracks, as they say, and leave this land for that cause.

Let me focus on that expression “a land of disbelief” for a moment or two. Andre--or his combat name of Abu Muslim--and I agree on this point, though it's possibly the only thing we agree on. Canada is, in fact, a land of disbelief, no matter how much I want to think otherwise.

It is a land of disbelief for a number of reasons. The key difference here between Mr. Poulin's approach and mine is the way we have both responded to this state of unbelief.

Andre chose to flee, fight, and finally fall in some foreign soil, engaged in a cause that had no relevance to solve the state of disbelief in his home country.

Denouncing the culture is not the best way to change it, in my opinion. For myself, I have chosen to work at it from within.

My response to a pagan Canada—let's call it what it is, okay?—is to be a positive, Christian influence wherever I go, walking the walk and talking the talk. There is no question that I have sometimes stumbled miserably in this pursuit, but I am satisfied that I have at least tried.

My “trying” has included establishing a Christian home, obeying the laws of the land, paying taxes, voting for the best political representative I could, getting involved in my community, among other ways. One might even include this column—a weekly compendium of rational and witty thoughts from a conservative perspective—as my contribution to a better Canada.

I know of others who are a mix of Andre and Craig (that would be me, Maurice): They shared a deep concern for the state of disbelief in Canada, but they felt compelled to leave our shores. They have headed to other countries and poured their respective lives into the culture of that foreign soil. I would describe them as positive productive, not negatively destructive.

They don't preach death, they preach life; they don't torture, they teach.

They are called Christian missionaries, and, when overseas, they build hospitals that their host country won't and schools that their host country can't. They learn the nuances of the language and culture of their new country; and they do all sorts of good things that make their new land a better place.

It would be nice to do that here in Canada, but (remember) it is a country of disbelief, after all, and such acts of kindness are rarely appreciated or understood as such.

You see, it's one thing to stick it to a society; I do it all the time. But to call out a culture without any feasible solution is lame. Any reader of this column knows I at least attempt to come up with solutions.

Scoffing without solving? Any coward can do that. That's why I get outraged at student protests in Quebec, native blockades in Ontario, and publicity stunts in the Alberta oil sands. Maybe these people have a genuine axe to grind; maybe there is a basis for their concern. But protests, blockades, and stunts are borderline anarchy, and there is no place for anarchy in a civilized society, whether here in Canada or there in Iraq.

Andre Poulin chose to wage his war against Canadian paganism by heading overseas to kill people there--but that doesn't solve things here. Canada is no less pagan by his dying overseas.

His death there should be a wake-up call for us here: If Canada is indeed a land disbelief, we need to get back to becoming a land of belief.

Foremost on my Mind: Dyed Blonde Dilemma

Let's have a brief talk about the growing dyed blonde trend these days. I'm not sure if you have noticed it, but there's more (strident) talk and (bombastic) action about being dyed blonde than ever before, though I'm not sure if there are actually more dyed blondes themselves. It just appears that way.

In fact, it may be an illusion in the saddest sense of that word.

Dyed blondes have always been with us: people choosing to change their natural colour to another one. Not sure why; I suppose that's their business. I would like to know why, but even the simple act of asking, “Why the hair colour change?” can get one into trouble.

Seems strange that their business is their business, until I make it my business. Then my question becomes harassment and bigotry...on my part. But when their blondeness is crammed down my throat, then that is simply justice...on their part.

If they are, say, brunette, but for any number of reasons, legitimate or illegitimate, they switch, there's not a lot I can do about it. I think I have the same right not to be dyed blonde as much as they do to be dyed blonde. I don't think anyone is taking their right away to choose hair colour—yet my sense is that my choices are being taken away.

The hair paradigm is shifting, so now I, and millions like me who are grey, black, brunette, and naturally blonde, are being made out to be enemies of humanity for our choices. Even if we don't dye our hair blonde, apparently we should laud those who do. Not doing so has become a new battle-

ground, a war we non-dyed blonders are seemingly being forced to participate in.

Not sure if you know where I'm going with this, but this is an alarming trend: Being dyed blonde is now the new benchmark for tolerance, equality, and human rights.

In other words, if you are not dyed blonde, and don't have a bent towards dyed blondeness (if that's a word), you must at least tolerate it, even embrace it. If not, you will then be labelled as “dyedblondephobic”--and I know that's not a word.

That's frightening.

“Frightening” is a word I use a lot when I see a dyed blonde lifestyle paraded about on the streets of our country. It's a word I use when I see rational human beings stripped of their basic human rights. It's a word that I use when 90% (plus) of the population simply says nothing about this loud, intolerant movement.

You see, there are dyed blondes and then there are dyed blondes. I knew few of the former growing up: kept to themselves, had their dyed blonde friends, and really, had no demands on others to accept their choices. Now there's a new breed of militant blondes—and their allies--and this is where it gets frightening..

You see, it's getting to the point where the viability of every single established institution is at stake if they don't embrace dyed blondeness. Politicians are seen as heroes (and heroines) if they embrace dyed blondeness—even better if they dye their hair blonde. Even the church is waffling in some quarters.

Character virtues such as integrity, honesty, diligence, initiative—for starters—are cast aside and replaced by this new standard, this new expectation, this new approach.

It's no longer acceptable to simply tolerate dyed blonde people. It is now expected and demanded that dyed blondes are to be embraced and promoted.

I've always thought Canadians were warm, accepting, and tolerant. In fact, I know they have been; I'm sure you read about that in a county-famous column here recently.

I'm thinking of my generation, but more precisely for the next generation and the one that follows it. If they do not choose to be dyed blonde, will that then become a criminal act? Hair colour cannot possibly become the new benchmark of a civilized culture, could it? As a matter of fact, it could.

I have seen the disproportionate power that this bombastic movement is now wielding over the hapless masses who are too frightened (there's that word again) to say or do anything.

Dyed blonde parades, bookstores, conventions, and mission statements are the new norm. Woe betide the politicians, preachers, teachers, and yes, even columnists, who call out this scary trend.