The Simple Life {Decluttering, Part Two}

So this former tent-dwelling backpacker has acquired a houseful of stuff.

That skinny, salty-water-hair girl would have cringed at the thought, but I've got a basement and crawl spaces, a big second-hand freezer, and a 14-year-old VW. When our former, grandmotherly neighbour shows up on our doorstep with another large kid's toy she wants to give us cause she knows no one else with kids, we say yes, cause hey, we've got the space.

Analogue photos circa 2003. I actually just decluttered that grey vest *today*. This move is necessary. 

And I love it--it is the stage of life we are at, and many of these things have emotions attached to them. In many ways, I'm a different person than the one who left Quebec 10 years ago--we met and married in Europe, our kids were born in this city--which makes the sorting, giving, selling at times painful.

We've lived in this city for 9 years now. At first, it was hard for me to settle down. After 5 years of moving every 4-8 months, from dorm rooms in Toronto to a tent in the islands, from a furnished apartment in Quebec City with a view of the Chateau Frontenac to an attic garret in Austria, to a huge (but freezing) room in Greece one winter with a wrap-around balcony looking out over the Aegean sea. I've been blessed to have lived in some beautiful places, to have met more beautiful people. I got used to leaving, to living a materialistically-speaking "simple life." It was an adventurous period for discovering more of the world, of myself, of people and the faith that runs thick in my veins.

But there came a time to put down roots. To stay awhile. To commit to a place and people, a church family. To let people know me and peel back layers of self-defense and protection, layers of criticism and picking the speck out of your eye while sanding the comfy plank in my own.

After years of the transient life, once it was clear I would be moving to Germany to marry the charming German who swept me off my feet, I gave away dishes, pots and CD player to university friends, leaving a box marked "please help yourself" in the hallway of the dorm I lived in in Toronto for the summer between visiting Europe and living here.

So we planted ourselves in this rich southern German soil, our roots drinking deep from the clear blue Bodensee. Life is no longer simple. Those roots have become a network curling around and enmeshed with hundreds of other lives, not just friends but colleagues, neighbours, church, our children's beloved Kindergarten teachers.
And we're about to yank them up.

This post is the second part in a little series, here is part one.

The Trail

Hiking those familiar trails
felt like coming home
to a place I had lived in thrice.

weeks, months, weeks

In a lifetime, short
but pivotal
times
of learning, growing, stretching, straining, singing
laughing, cherishing, changing, celebrating.

Moments on benches and paths
scribbled prayers
tear-stained journal
Surrender and new life.

The Alpine air filling lungs broad and clean
built strong on the spiritual heritage in this place.

I am reminded of lessons learned, mentors gone before, strangers-become-friends who shouldered packs and hiked for hours in front and behind me.
Incompatible tribe
different nations
different ages
different allegiances and preferences
different everything
but one God.
And the strong and fast took the heavy things from the weaker, slowed their pace, took the last place in line.
And we pressed on 
and we listened and we tore down borders and we let each other in and we learned to love 
in spite of it all.

They taught me that I too can love 
those whom I at first didn't like, 
with whom I had nothing in common. 

They taught me why Church matters, 
that I need others
to be fully who I am meant to be.
That those fruits of love, 
joy
peace
patience 
kindness 
goodness 
faithfulness
gentleness 
self-control 
only grow in the rich soil of community
Fertilized with annoyance and waiting and offense and hurt.

They taught me to go from this place 
and put down roots and let people in. 

And, eventually, I did 
and I am grateful for 
that motley tribe and what they teach me still, 
when I remember.

I am reminded that the trail 
is sometimes flat and open and comes easily. 
The ground springs beneath my boots, coniferous cushion.

But sometimes it is steep and arduous
and I have to put my head down
and need an encouraging word to get to the top.



The trail is sometimes muddy
and I have to slog my way through
and progress can only be made slowly.

Sometimes the trail is littered
with branches 
or it is closed 
and we have to find another way
and there are obstacles to overcome. 



Sometimes the fog descends and we can't see the peak 
or even the next bend
but 
there are trail markers, if you look for them.
And if I missed it someone on my team has spotted it 
and they show me which way to take
so we keep going
together.



I am reminded 
that I don't need to know what awaits today
or exactly where the trail leads
if I trust the Guide.

(And we never really know it)

I can see the next step, and that is enough

to follow.

I am from snow boots drying upside down

I am from snow boots drying upside down on the heating vents, warm air blasting away at soggy lining.

I am from a dishwasher that hadn't worked in years and remained as an island for the microwave to rest on, the microwave dishes stored inside.

I am from "the first long lane on the right" and the house with white siding.

I am from doing the dishes with mom every Tuesday and Saturday after supper, from cooling scalding corn cobs in water in that same sink at harvest time.

I am from meat and potatoes and a vegetable on the side. I am from salt and pepper and mom's cherry pies.

I am from humid August nights and crickets hopping across my bedroom floor.

I am from lining up the marshmallows from Lucky Charms before eating, and real maple syrup from our own woods.

I am from the rich Ontario farmland, humus black and sun bright fields. 

I am from hours trailing behind the tractor picking up stones, from days on the tomatoe harvester snatching clods of dirt, weeds, and frogs off the conveyor belt.

I am from jumping in the ditch when we saw the bus coming, hiding so we wouldn't have to run to catch it. I am from huddling in the grey building to keep out of the icy wind.

I am from sliced carrots and celery every day in my lunch bag, and an apple alongside my sisters, catching up after school.

I'm from treat night on Fridays and popcorn after AWANA on Wednesday nights.

I'm from too much prime time TV and too many isolated hours after school.

I'm from sweaty gyms and a sports team for every season. I'm from cross country races in the warm autumn sun, throwing up afterwards from the exertion.

I am from bus 17, from Kindergarten to OAC, rattling around the same gravel country roads.

I am from a small town church meeting in a municipal office, from spinning in the councillors chairs after service. I am from Sunday school in the basement, filling in the ant holes of the dirt floor with the heels of my shiny Sunday shoes.

I am from an Easter and Christmas dress from Grandma and Grandpa and showing off a Grandpa with the real name "Donald Duck."

I am from "push yourself" and "hold your horses," from unspoken apologies and silent I-love-yous.

I am from Saturdays playing card games at Great Aunt Helene's. I am from Bunco and Rook and stories of the Depression.

I am from dressing up in olden days clothes, from living most of my childhood in the 19th century of my mind. I am from Ska-Nah-Doht and First Nations beadwork.

I am from beyond-class enrichment and molding a sculpture at the cultural centre.

I am from the green station wagon and packing the car-top carrier for camping trips, sent up on the roof cause I was the lightest.

I am from the Lake Erie beach, cool between my teenage toes in the evenings, writing and dreaming of life yet to come.

I am from Charles Street West and late-night runs for chocolate cake at Raba. I am from new friends in res and sleeping above my desk. I am from 5 a.m. rowing practice in the choppy darkness of Lake Ontario. 

I am from summer in St-Jos, from fires on the beach of the St. Lawrence and a circle of friends who welcomed me in.

I am from rock scree sliding in the Austrian Alps, from "don't argue, just climb" and "there's a time to be wet."

I am from les îles and sleeping in a tent for 4 months. I am from the smell of salt in the air, fresh pine forest and a transparent screen roof between me and an ocean of stars. I am from cigarette smoke Au Centrale. I am from québécois violin and guitar jam sessions late into the night.

I am from Quebec City winters and tire à l'érable. I am from cold that stings the skin around the eyes, the only bit exposed. I am from a view of the Chateau at night, debating God and politics and existentialism.

I am from German pretzels for the kids and a capuccino every morning made by my husband.

I am from crossing borders and erasing them. 

Linking up with SheLoves today - it's easy and fun, come tell us where you are from.

In Memorium: My Austrian Spiritual Father

We had slept in the parked car since about 3 a.m. I got our almost 3 year old son out of his car seat and let him snuggle on my lap so that I would have enough room behind me to recline my seat. My husband held our daughter in his arms to give her a break from her car seat, although he was unable to sleep sitting up in our tightly packed rental car. We'd decided to undertake the 8 hour drive from my parents' place in southwestern Ontario, Canada, to Montreal overnight so our kids would sleep through it, but stopped in the parking lot of an OnRoute rest stop to (try to) sleep for a few hours. At 6 we went inside for some breakfast, to freshen up and to enjoy the free WiFi. After getting our kids settled with juice and yogurt, my husband checked his phone. I was laughing at my son's excited antics when my husband nudged me, "Look at this." His voice broke.

A friend back home in Germany had alerted us to the sudden announcement on Tauernhof's Facebook page. Hans Peter Royer, the director of Tauernhof, an mountain retreat centre and Torchbearer's Bible School in Austria, had died suddenly in a tragic paragliding accident.

a snapshot of Hans Peter from the summer of 2007
when my husband & I returned to work as guides

We were shocked. He was only 52. He was an experienced mountain guide, often rescuing others. For a few moments I wondered if it had been some kind of sick joke, how could he have passed away in the same manner as his predecessor? My heart broke for his family, knowing his daughter Lisa, with whom I had hiked when she was 8 years old, had celebrated her wedding only a few weeks before.

We held it together so our kids would not notice our sadness. Back on the road, when they were sleeping again, we shed tears and reminisced about our times at Tauernhof, where we met at Fall School in 2004, and how Hans Peter had impacted the narrative of our lives.


I first went to Tauernhof in 2002 for a mountaineering program called Upward Bound. Those six weeks truly changed my life. Never had I understood or experienced the sweetness and beauty of Christian community like that before. We were often pushed to our physical limits, hiking with heavy packs for up to a week without having a shower, sleeping in a cave 1200 m under the Dachstein mountain in utter darkness at 0 degrees. We were challenged emotionally, putting up with teammates from all over the world of various ages, abilities and personalities, with whom we had to live, cook, and sleep in tents or mountain huts (note the aforementioned lack of showering). We were forced to work together to cross glaciers, literally shouldering each others' burdens when injuries or weakness brought some teammates to their breaking point. I remember fondly the morning we woke up to find our leaders had abandoned us in the night, and we were left to make our own way down the mountain, and then run a 12 km jaunt back to a warm shower and a real bed. My time at Tauernhof taught me that, by God's grace, I am capable of loving other people, even those whom at first impression I thought would drive me crazy, whom I judged and wrote off as uncool or too cool. That I can learn something from everyone.

entering the cave

In those six weeks I learned things that have shaped me continually since then, though I have to admit forgetting how profoundly my character, my outlook and beliefs, were formed in the Austrian Alps. Once we got back home to Germany a week ago, I spent a jet lagged night reading through my journal from that summer in 2002, my first time in Europe. My 20 year old musings are at times cute, painfully embarrassing (I was just getting to know myself), at times profound and still true. And such a reminder of God's faithfulness. Reading through this old journal reminded me that the roots of all the spiritual growth I have known as an adult go down to the cold mountain stream that runs through Schladming and the teachings of HP.

I don't want to try to tell Hans Peter's story here. I can't. Not only is it not mine to tell, hundreds of people knew him better than I did. HP's ministry, not only at Tauernhof but traveling and speaking all over the world, has touched tens of thousands of lives. But he is part of my story, for whom I will be forever grateful. His strong leadership, blunt manner and challenging messages called out to the best within me. He stirred up my desire to grow and change, he made me want to "live a life worthy of the calling you have received" in Christ Jesus. Many students seemed a little bit afraid of him, intimidated by his expertise in the mountains and straightforward Austrian ways. But I saw the twinkle in his eye, the sarcasm and fun behind his rather stoic exterior. I wrote in my journal back then, "If he wasn't so demanding, I wouldn't be confident enough to do all these things [in the mountains]. The staff are totally not about babying us, especially Hans Peter. He just presses on, you don't have a choice or time to think or worry, just go. It's so good, no time to fear." One of the strategies of the program was not to reveal much about what activities we would actually be doing in the course, in order to simulate real life (we do not truly know what the next day will hold), teaching us trust, spontaneity and shaking us out of our desire to control our lives and circumstances.

spot the hut we were headed for...

I remember a particularly painful day in the climbing garden by Hofpürglhütte. I was new to rock climbing, and trying to find my footing wearing big hiking boots on the slick rocks was proving nearly impossible. I was complaining to my belayer why it wasn't working and Hans Peter hollered from a nearby peak, "Don't argue, just climb!" Even after HP scurried over to try to help me, I failed to make it to the top of the route. I fought back hot stinging tears while others took their turns. I was embarrassed and felt terrible, being someone who had always put her self-esteem and value in what she could achieve. Later I wrote in my journal "HP had tried to help me and I felt like I had failed him." But with the encouragement of others and knowing I would only feel better if I got up and conquered something, I completed the Klettersteig and went on with the day, proud to have overcome failure and fear. I'll never forget his words, it meant a lot to me that he noticed me and pushed me to go beyond my comfort zone to achieve what I guess he somehow knew that I could. Others told me later they would have been embarrassed if he had hollered at them like that, or perhaps found him too challenging. But for me, I needed that and it stirred me up to want to achieve the potential he saw in me.

Another day in that same climbing garden, with Heli sitting in the top spot

"Don't argue, just climb" became my motto in the following years, as I tried to stop arguing with God about all the reasons why I can't or don't want to do things and instead get on with obeying him, stepping out in trust. I hadn't thought about that now in a few years, but HP's wisdom has proven timely again.

We were all impressed with the stoic confidence of his children in the mountains. Lisa who told me, "God gave us legs to use them" as she cheerily hiked about 10 hours uphill with us. Lukas as an 11-year-old, helping us slow, somewhat scared, 20-somethings through a wind tunnel in the cave which blew out our lights, telling us in a semi-bored sounding Austrian accent, "I am coming, give me your bag."

I remember him teaching on death in the context of Ecclesiastes, quoting Psalm 90:12 and Amos 4:12, telling us to be prepared for and comfortable with it. Hans Peter told us, "We aren't afraid of dying as much as dying without having really lived." I think everyone would agree, Hans Peter was a man who really lived. And he read us a quote which I took down in my journal, "I depart from this life like a little boy running home from school."

Hans Peter truly was a spiritual father to me, his teaching and timely guidance forever changed me and the course of my life. Tauernhof taught me to love the local church and directed the passion I had for Jesus. We loved you HP and grieve with your beautiful wife and children. Thank you Hannelore, Lukas, Lisa and Eva for sharing him with all of us. His legacy lives on in the thousands of lives he touched, and the millions of lives they will in turn reach.

"But as for you, continue in what you have learned and have become convinced of, because you know those from whom you learned it."

2 Timothy 3:14