Category: Strolling Down Memory Lane

I was only seventeen and didn’t know it then, but the day I decided to move to the Town of High Level was the day my life quietly shifted. It began with a simple longing—to be near an older sister—and a sense deep inside that something was waiting for me there. It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was a soft pull, almost like God whispering, Go. This is your next step. Yet I never knew God existed at this point.

Before packing my bags, I phoned the Esso Café to ask about a waitress job. The manager spoke with me for only a few minutes before offering me the position. Then she mentioned a kind couple who had a bedroom for rent. It felt as though every door opened before I even reached it. Looking back, I can see how gently God was arranging the pieces.

When I arrived in High Level, the town felt small but quietly full of promise. I settled into my rented room, started my new job, and tried to find my rhythm. And then—almost unexpectedly—I met the man who would become my husband.

Our meeting wasn’t polished or perfect. It was lively, unexpected, and wonderfully chaotic. We fell into each other’s lives like two people who had been running toward the same future without knowing it. The adventure that followed was messy, beautiful, and full of moments that shaped us both.

Only later did I realize how much God had been guiding me long before I truly knew Him. Becoming a born‑again Christian before my marriage didn’t just change my life—it opened my eyes. It marked the beginning of a journey of faith that carried me through every season that followed. A journey where I learned that God had been leading me step by step, even when I didn’t yet recognize His voice.

The Choice That Changed My Path

Looking back, I can see how quickly I used to fall into relationships. I would meet a good‑looking man, feel that spark, and jump in before truly knowing who he was. Loneliness can make poor decisions feel like love, and I learned that lesson more than once.

After my divorce, fear settled in. I didn’t want to repeat the same mistake or put my children through any more heartache. I told myself, No more pain. No more chaos. Not again.

Being single has its lonely moments, but it is still better than choosing the wrong relationship. And even on the quiet days, I know I’m not truly alone.

Now I live in an independent senior home, and I genuinely enjoy it. There are many wonderful seniors here, and I never have to look far for someone to talk to or share a laugh with.

By the summer of 2026, I plan to move into a building close by—one where cooking and cleaning are taken care of. It will give me a slower, easier lifestyle, something I’ve earned after all these years.

And the best part? There will be even more activities to keep me busy, connected, and enjoying this new chapter of my life.

Grief is one of the most powerful emotions we face. It can shake our routines, soften our confidence, and make life feel unfamiliar. But even though grief influences us, it does not decide our future. It does not get the final word.

As we move forward, we can choose to hold onto hope. We can look toward new possibilities and trust that we have the strength to shape the next chapter of our story. Hope doesn’t erase pain, but it reminds us that our lives still hold promise.

Even in the darkest seasons, God has the power to transform what feels unbearable. He walks with us through loss, offering comfort, clarity, and steady support. When grief shifts our world, we naturally reach for something dependable — and God becomes that anchor. He is the One who steadies us when everything else feels uncertain.

Your heavenly Father is your foundation. He is present in every moment of sorrow, every question, every long night. You are meant to lean on Him as your rock and fortress.

What’s remarkable is that God sees light even when we cannot. In the middle of grief, He is already working, already healing, already guiding. These challenging moments serve as fertile ground for deepening trust, allowing God to gently reshape our lives in profound ways.

The journey through grief can feel overwhelming, but hope remains. Good can rise from pain. Strength can grow from struggle.

Losing both parents in just three days is a kind of heartbreak that settles deep in your spirit. It’s a sorrow that changes you, and it reminds you how important it is to cherish every moment with the people you love.

In March 2009, one of my sisters and I flew to Vancouver for our dad’s heart surgery at St. Paul’s Hospital. The night before his operation, another sister called with news that shook us to the core — our mom, who was in a hospital in another province, was very unwell and didn’t have much time left. The weight of those two realities at once was almost too much to take in.

We immediately called our eight siblings so they would have the opportunity to visit Mom while she was still with us. When I phoned our youngest sister, she told me not to call so late — it was just after 11 PM her time — and then she hung up. In her mental state at the time, I don’t think she understood what she was saying. When I told my sister beside me, we both burst out laughing. It was such an unexpected reaction from someone so close to Mom, and that small moment of laughter was exactly what we needed to break the tension.

The next morning, Dad’s surgery went well. The doctors told us their biggest concern wasn’t the operation itself but his nearing congestive heart failure. Once he was stable, we booked the earliest flight back to Alberta to be with our Mom.

I will never forget how Dad cried when he realized we had to leave. Even though my parents had divorced nearly forty years earlier, he still had feelings for her. They had eleven children together — a lifetime of shared history. Seeing his emotion was strangely comforting.

My sister slept most of the way home — on the plane to Edmonton and again for three hours while I drove toward Valleyview Hospital. I was exhausted, and eventually I had to wake her to drive the last hour.

We reached Mom’s bedside around 5 AM. Later that morning, around 9:30, I called Dad to update him. Shortly after that call, Mom passed away.

The next day, two of my sisters phoned Dad to see how he was doing. His voice was already slurred, and he was beginning to retain fluid in his lungs.

While we were planning Mom’s funeral, Dad’s nurse called from Vancouver. She told us that if we wanted to see him, we needed to get there as soon as possible.

I arranged flights and a different sister, and I drove to Edmonton and flew back to Vancouver. We reached the hospital at 9:30 PM. Dad was unconscious, but we stayed with him until 1 AM. Exhausted from two sleepless nights, we found a room across the street from the hospital and rested for a few hours.

About four hours later, Dad’s nurse called us, and we rushed back to the hospital. We were able to talk to him briefly — and then he was gone.

It was one of the hardest weeks of my life. A week that taught me how fragile life is, how quickly everything can shift, and how important it is to hold close the people we love while we still can.