Day: September 17, 2026

A Life I’m Finally Growing Into

There was a time when I kept stepping into relationships too quickly, hoping love would quiet the loneliness I carried. I didn’t truly know the men I fell for — I only knew the ache of wanting to be wanted, the thrill of infatuation, and the hope that maybe this time would be different. After two divorces from the same man — my children’s father — fear settled deep inside me. I couldn’t bear the thought of repeating the same mistake or putting my children through any more heartbreak. I told myself, No more chaos. No more pain. No more pretending things were fine when they weren’t.

Being single had its lonely moments, but it was still safer than choosing the wrong relationship again. And even in the quiet stretches, I learned something important: I wasn’t truly alone. God was my strength, my steady companion, and the One who kept me moving forward when I didn’t know how to take the next step.

As the years passed, I slowly began to rebuild my life — not all at once, but piece by piece. I learned to enjoy my own company. I learned to trust my instincts. I learned that peace is worth protecting, even if it means walking away from what looks good on the surface.

Today, life looks different — softer, calmer, and far more peaceful than anything I knew in my younger years. I live in an independent senior home, surrounded by wonderful people who share stories, laughter, and the gentle rhythm of everyday life. I never have to look far for company. There is always someone nearby who understands the value of a warm conversation or a shared smile.

As I look toward the fall of 2026, I feel a quiet excitement rising in me. I’ve moved from the Manor in January, where I lived for two years, into the Lodge — a place filled with activities, social gatherings, and opportunities to stay connected. You can be as busy as you want or enjoy the comfort of your own suite.

I now lead a Bible Study in the Chapel, something that brings me joy and purpose. On Fridays, the little pub opens for one hour, giving everyone a chance to visit and unwind. In the Auditorium, we enjoy live music and even dancing. It’s amazing to watch people — some 97 years old — moving across the floor with such happiness. A few even dance with their walkers because they simply love to dance. This truly is an incredible senior community to live in.

My suite is perfect for me, with a beautiful view that means so much. I have space for a fridge, microwave, and a big IKEA cupboard, and I’ve decorated everything to my taste. It feels warm, personal, and exactly right. I call it my “glorified hotel room,” complete with all‑inclusive meals and endless things to do.

After working as a Health Care Aide in long‑term care — and spending my final working year in home care — it feels good to finally be the one who is taken care of. This new chapter offers a slower, easier lifestyle, something I’ve earned after all these years. More activities, more connection, and more time to simply enjoy this season God has led me into.

I’ve lived through storms, heartbreaks, and hard lessons. But I’ve also lived through healing, growth, and grace. This is the part of my life where I finally breathe deeply, knowing I’ve made it through — and I’m stepping into a future shaped by peace, wisdom, and a God who never left my side.

And perhaps the greatest blessing of all is that I am finally back home in Sherwood Park — the place that has always held a quiet, steady love in my heart. I lived here years ago, long enough for its streets, trees, and familiar corners to become part of me. Even through the hard memories, I never stopped wanting to return. Now that I’m here again, settled and safe, it feels like life has gently placed me exactly where I was meant to be. Sherwood Park has welcomed me back with open arms, and I’m grateful every day to call it home once more.

One quiet evening, while my aunt and uncle were out, a familiar loneliness settled in. It wasn’t heavy or dramatic—just a gentle ache reminding me how much I missed the comfort of home. That small feeling was enough to nudge me toward a decision I knew had been forming for a while.

With a mix of excitement and sadness, I packed my suitcase. I wrote a heartfelt thank‑you note to my aunt and uncle, expressing my gratitude for their care and the time I had spent with them. After paying my rent and buying a train ticket, I set off on my journey home, eager for the familiar sights and sounds I had been longing for.

In my rush, I forgot to call the hospital to let them know I was leaving. They would have been short‑staffed for those shifts, and that oversight taught me an important lesson about responsibility. I also forgot that I needed my T4’s from Manitoba before filing my taxes. The government caught the missing information after I submitted my return—another reminder that life teaches us even through small mistakes.

Despite those bumps, my train ride from Winnipeg to Edmonton was wonderful. I cherished every moment. Travelling at my age felt like a gift, and I soaked in the experience with joy.

When the train arrived late at night, I discovered the Greyhound station was closed. Thankfully, a friendly cab driver took me to the YWCA so I could find a place to sleep. But when I arrived, there were no rooms available. For a moment, I felt stuck.

Then a kind young woman stepped forward and offered me a place to stay—for free. Her generosity touched me deeply. I accepted with gratitude and slept soundly, my money pouch tucked safely away.

The next morning, I boarded the Greyhound, excited for the final stretch of my journey home. That trip reminded me that even in moments of loneliness or uncertainty, kindness and adventure can appear when you least expect them.

After working for a while, I felt a restlessness growing inside me — a longing for something new, something beyond the familiar streets of home. I knew one of my great‑aunts lived on Vancouver Island, though we had never had the chance to connect. Still, I had always felt a quiet bond with my Grandma Berger’s side of the family. So, with youthful determination, I changed course and set my sights on Neepawa instead.

I was excited at the thought of surprising my grandparents in Neepawa, Manitoba. They had no idea I was coming, and the idea of showing up during the Christmas season filled me with joy. I could already picture their smiles, the warmth of their home, and the twinkling lights that always made the holidays feel magical.

My bags were packed, and my Greyhound ticket was tucked safely in my purse. I boarded the bus bound for Edmonton to visit friends first. A couple of days later, my longtime girlfriend drove me to a truck stop on the south side of the city. I felt a flutter of excitement — hopeful, nervous, and ready for whatever adventure lay ahead.

I knew I had to be brave. If I wanted to reach Calgary, I needed to ask a driver for a ride. Finally, I gathered my courage and approached a respectable-looking older gentleman. He agreed to take me along.

He even offered me the chance to rest in his sleeper cab if I got tired. I accepted gratefully and drifted off to sleep, only to wake when he applied his Jake brakes in Red Deer. After unloading a few items, we were back on the highway, talking comfortably until we reached Calgary. Before saying goodbye, he gave me helpful tips on how to catch another truck heading toward Winnipeg.

But once he left, the darkness made everything unfamiliar. I lost my sense of direction, and my hitchhiking plans changed quickly. I stayed overnight in a lovely hotel near the bus station, then continued my journey the next day. Instead, I took a Greyhound bus to Neepawa. 

When I arrived at my grandparents’ house, their neighbours spotted me. They told me my grandparents had gone to Winnipeg to celebrate Christmas with family. I couldn’t surprise them, but I was happy knowing they were enjoying themselves.

So I embraced the uncertainty and boarded another Greyhound bus to Winnipeg. My aunt and uncle greeted me warmly at the depot, thrilled to see me. I spent Christmas surrounded by family — many of whom I met for the first time. They were friendly, welcoming, and full of holiday cheer. The decorations were beautiful, and the food was delicious. I even remember being fascinated by their sunken living room floor — something I had never seen before.

Back then, we didn’t have cell phones to stay connected. I hadn’t thought to call home, but eventually my sister phoned our grandparents to ask if I was there.

My aunt and uncle offered me room and board for sixty dollars a month, and I gratefully accepted. I searched the want ads and found an administrative job at an income tax office. But before long, I began to feel uncomfortable with my boss. Trusting my instincts, I left and soon found another opportunity.

I was thrilled to secure a job in the kitchen at Winnipeg Hospital. My task was to place condiments on trays as they moved along the conveyor belt. It sounded simple, but the belt moved quickly, and each tray had different dietary needs. Sometimes it was hard to see what each patient required, but I enjoyed the work and the rhythm of the kitchen.

That adventure — from buses to truck stops, from hotels to family gatherings — taught me courage, independence, and the beauty of embracing the unknown. It became one of the many stepping stones that shaped the woman I would become.

When I finally returned home, I stumbled upon a little blessing: a cozy studio basement suite for just sixty dollars a month, less than a block from my family home. At sixteen, that felt like independence wrapped in comfort — close enough to the people I loved, yet giving me space to grow.

Not long after settling in, I stepped into the whirlwind of a full‑time job as a waitress. At that tender age, the work became more than a way to earn money. It filled the empty spaces in my days and eased the loneliness I often carried. Each shift taught me something new — resilience, responsibility, and how to manage my time when life felt bigger than I was. The fast pace of customer service kept me moving, kept me learning, and connected.

One of my fondest memories from that time was seeing my very first meal plated in the kitchen. Pork chops, creamy mashed potatoes, and bright vegetables — simple, but beautiful. The aroma of those sizzling pork chops drifted through the air, awakening a love for cooking that has stayed with me ever since.

I was even allowed to keep my homemade meals in the restaurant’s freezer — a small victory that felt huge. I packed each dinner carefully into freezer bags, labelling them with the date, the type of food, and my name. It was my own little system, a way of caring for myself while juggling the demands of work.

But before long, I noticed something troubling: my food began to disappear. I didn’t have the courage to confront the owner directly, so I tried a gentler approach. I left a note on the remaining bags that read, “To the person taking my food, please make sure you replace it.”

I can’t remember whether anything was ever replaced, but I do remember the quiet strength I felt in speaking up. It was a small moment, but an important one — a reminder that even at sixteen, I had a voice worth using.

After finishing Grade 10, I made a choice that changed the direction of my life—I left school and moved to Slave Lake to be closer to my boyfriend, Richard M. At the time, it felt like the right thing to do. I wanted to give my heart, my time, and my hopes to our relationship, building memories and imagining a future that seemed so certain. Before long, we were engaged, and I truly believed everything was falling into place.

But a few months later, the truth surfaced. I learned that Richard had been unfaithful with his ex‑girlfriend, and she was now expecting a baby. He told me he needed to marry her “for the sake of the baby.” His words broke something inside me. I questioned myself, my choices, and everything I thought I understood about love.

With a heavy heart, I resigned from my job and made the long trip back home.

When the new year arrived, I decided to return to school. I tried to settle back in, but once basketball season ended, my motivation slipped away. I left again—this time for good. I didn’t realize then how much that decision would shape the years ahead.

Looking Back at Unwise Decisions

Reflection is part of growing. It helps us understand what influenced our choices and what those choices led to. We learn by noticing what worked and what didn’t, and that wisdom guides us toward better decisions later on.

Growing up, I was a loner even though I had many siblings. Our parents were struggling in their own marriage, so guidance about relationships or dating wasn’t something we received. Richard was my first boyfriend. I had crushes before, but I was too shy to act on them. Maybe that’s why I accepted his proposal so quickly—I simply didn’t know any better.

Looking back now, I’m grateful I didn’t marry him. He later cheated on his wife and left her too. Life has a way of revealing truths we couldn’t see at the time.

If only I had known then what I know now.

When Childhood Cruelty Found Me

After saving every nickel I could, I finally bought a bike. It was used, a little squeaky, and definitely not fancy — but to me it felt like pure freedom. I rode through the back alleys like a tiny warrior on wheels, soaking up the peace, the quiet, and the simple joy of moving fast enough that nobody could bother me.

Kids sometimes made fun of me for riding a bicycle, but that never stopped me. I just slipped into the back alleys and kept enjoying my newly purchased “legs.” I was the kid who loved solitude. Quiet wasn’t just nice — it was my sanctuary. Growing up with five brothers and five sisters — planted squarely in the middle of the pack — shaped so much of who I became.

One afternoon, I was walking down a back alley just a block from home, heading to the Shamrock Café with my hard‑earned money for french fries and gravy. As I turned the corner, I saw Bonnie T. coming toward me.

Bonnie was known for one thing: surprise slaps. No warning, no explanation — just whap. Her presence always carried a sting, and I spent far too much time wondering what I had done to deserve it.

But that day, something in me shifted. I stopped where I was and decided I’d had enough. I didn’t announce anything or give her a chance to prepare. When she got close enough, I quickly took her down to the ground. I didn’t hit her — I simply made sure she understood that I wasn’t going to be an easy target anymore.

And it worked. After that day, she never said or did anything to me again.

Later, my sister told me that Bonnie slapped her too… and others. It wasn’t personal. It was simply Bonnie’s way of interacting with the world — a communication style none of us appreciated, and none of us understood.

Looking back now, I can only imagine how unhappy she must have been. Childhood cruelty often has roots we don’t recognize until we’re older — and kinder.

But at the time, all I knew was this: if I kept pedalling fast enough, Bonnie couldn’t catch me.

My dad landed the role of Town Constable in Valleyview, Alberta. So, on my twelfth birthday — June 11, 1966 — we packed up and moved to town. What a sweet moment for our family.

We were so excited about our new house! It had an indoor bathroom and running water; what a treat. No more long trips to the outhouse — we felt like royalty. It was such a big step up in comfort, and we couldn’t have been happier.

Looking back, we truly hit the jackpot. What a birthday surprise. Who needs cake when you can trade it for a major life change on your special day?

Once we settled into our new home, Dad made a declaration to my sisters and me. In all his legendary wisdom, he suggested that we should babysit to earn some spending money.

I had a sweet tooth, so the twenty‑five cents I earned per hour allowed me to enjoy plenty of treats at Froberger’s Corner Store.

A few years after babysitting, I was old enough to work at a café. I started as a dishwasher in a busy little place, and before long I moved up to a waitress (server) position. With the enthusiasm of an Olympic athlete, I showed off my multitasking skills at every opportunity.

Year‑end school picnics always had a special kind of magic. Our whole class piled into the school bus, packed in like excited sardines, rattling down the road toward Sturgeon Lake. The windows buzzed with chatter, elbows bumped, and someone always sang off‑key—but none of us cared. We were children on an adventure, and that was enough.

Now, every picnic needs a little extra flair, and apparently I decided to provide it. In a burst of childhood imagination—mixed with questionable judgment—I brought along a large matchbox filled with tiny baby mice. To me, they were adorable, soft, and clearly the perfect surprise to share with my classmates. (Why I thought this, I cannot explain. Childhood logic is its own mysterious universe.)

When we reached the lake, I opened the box like a magician revealing her grand finale. Out scurried the mice—quick, jittery, and absolutely determined to explore every inch of grass. My classmates shrieked, laughed, and jumped around in a mixture of delight and mild panic. For a moment, I felt like the star of the show. Who else brings live entertainment to a picnic?

But later, as the excitement settled and the bus hummed its way back home, a quiet thought crept in. I wondered if those tiny mice had been taken from their mother, and how frightening that must have felt—alone, hungry, searching for the warmth they knew. It was a small but important realization, the kind that stays tucked in your heart for years.

Looking back, I smile at the innocence of it all—the laughter, the chaos, the tiny mice making their great escape. But I also carry the gentle lesson that arrived afterward: even the smallest creatures have stories, families, and feelings we can easily overlook.

And that’s childhood for you—equal parts wonder, mischief, and unexpected wisdom.

Growing up on our little farm near Valleyview meant we didn’t just have neighbours — we had characters. And two of them, both elderly bachelors living just beyond our property line, left a mark on my childhood in ways I didn’t fully appreciate until much later.

One lived across the road to the north, in a house that always felt like stepping into a storybook. His specialty? Cold pancakes. Not just any pancakes — perfectly stacked, chilled pancakes that he served with the pride of a chef unveiling a masterpiece. I imagine he cooked a generous batch earlier in the day, leaving them to cool long before we ever knocked on his door. We ate them cold with no butter or syrup, like they were a rare delicacy. Something in the way he handed them to us — gentle smile, soft eyes, pleased to see children enjoying his creation — made those pancakes taste like kindness.

The other bachelor lived just east of our farm. He was quieter, more reserved, but he kept a secret stash of scotch mints tucked away like treasure. Whenever we visited, he’d reach into his pocket and pull out a handful, offering them with a shy grin. They weren’t fancy, but to us they felt like a reward simply for showing up. It’s funny how a small gesture can make a child feel seen.

Saturdays were our adventure days. One of the bachelors would head into town for groceries, and Mom permitted us to walk the three miles across the countryside. Three miles feels like nothing when you’re young and free, with the sun warming your shoulders and dust rising behind your steps. I feel these were acts of kindness — perhaps even more so because we were a family with many children. They never had any children of their own, yet somehow treated us as though we belonged to them. 

Looking back, I see how much those small gestures mattered. Cold pancakes and Scotch mints — but all of it felt like love. In a world where adults sometimes forget how powerful simple kindness can be, those two old neighbours never did.

Their generosity still lingers in my memory, soft and sweet — like a mint tucked into a small hand, or a pancake served with a smile.

My life began on a small farm near Valleyview, Alberta, where my first twelve years unfolded in a lively mix of laughter, chores, and the steady rhythm of rural living. Summers were our season of freedom.

Summers on the farm were full of simple joys. We became eager berry‑pickers, gathering strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, saskatoons, and even mushrooms as if they were little treasures waiting to be found. We fried the mushrooms in butter, and they were delicious. Now, all these years later, I still cannot identify which wild mushrooms are safe to pick. Considering how expensive they are in the store, foraging feels like a wonderful idea.

The bachelor who lived east of us had acres of wild blueberries, and we enjoyed them as often as we picked. People from all around were welcome to come and gather berries for free — a generous gift to the whole community.

One of our summer chores was picking rocks from the fields. It wasn’t glamorous, but we made the best of it. We bent, stooped, and hopped around, turning the job into a kind of game. It felt like we were competing for a gold medal in “Rock Retrieval.” It was hard work, but we always found a way to have fun with it.

Our farm was like a cheerful little zoo. We had clucking chickens, fresh eggs, happy pigs, fluffy sheep, and gentle cows — all bringing smiles without any admission fee. Dad spent winters hunting, quietly tracking wild game while the deer and moose kept their distance. Mom’s garden overflowed with vegetables, enough to feed an army. Our big family helped with the work, though I don’t remember ever weeding. Judging by how healthy those vegetables were, someone must have picked weeds.

We were lucky to have a creek close to our house to enjoy as often as we could. When Dad had time, he drove us to a river or a lake, giving us even more chances to splash, play, and enjoy the carefree fun that kids love.

Our last day living on the farm was June 11, 1966.