SAVE MY CHILDREN
**Available for purchase ($18.95) through Castle Quay Books or by contacting Bethany Homes for Children directly. All proceeds go towards Bethany Homes for Children**
Save My Children: The Story of a Father’s Love
by Emily Wierenga
BayRidge Books, 2008, 303 pages
Reviewed by Sharon L. Fawcett
Withering under the negligence of a step-father who neglected and abused her, Stormy turned to the solace of imaginary friends. The man who was to care for her after her mother’s death routinely used her as washerwoman and a punching bag, and then left her home alone for weeks on end with empty cupboards. Stormy was likely near death herself, frail and filthy, when she awoke in a clean bed with a kind woman mopping her brow, smiling like an angel and smelling like cinnamon. Her name was Elsie Jespersen and she and her husband, Harvey, operated Bethany Homes for Children. Stormy soon flourished under their care and made so many new friends at the home that she no longer needed her imaginary ones. “The sky was so blue and the grass green, and everybody loved each other, and Stormy wasn’t afraid anymore.”
Stormy’s story is just one of the many Emily Wierenga shares in her debut novel Save My Children, a fictional re-telling of the true story of the founders of Bethany Homes for Children. From 1948 to 1991 the Jespersens fostered more than 800 children, caring for up to 55 at any given time. Their home was a set of old army barracks on an expanse of Albertan farmland that they transformed into a haven of hope and a hospital for broken little souls. Mended by love, “children who had never been taught how to smile…cracked the world in half with laughter.”
A freelance writer and artist who served on Bethany Homes’ Board of Directors, Wierenga has lovingly written Save My Children in honour of Bethany Homes’ 60th anniversary. The novel chronicles the Jespersen’s “50 years of army-barrack service, kissing boo-boos and breaking bread, planting gardens and training young boys in farm work, driving 35 youngsters around in a big yellow school bus, and bleeding with pain as the children they loved were forced to leave.” Even as adults Bethany’s brood remembered Harvey’s offer that wherever they were and whatever they needed, they could always C.O.D.—“Call On Dad.” “For many he was the only father they’d ever known. For others he was the only father they wanted to remember.”
Within the pages of this book Wierenga inspires with illustrations of sacrificial love, entertains with the antics that took place on the farm, and encourages with evidence of God’s provision in honour of the Jespersen’s faith and obedience. Her keen powers of observation of creation, emotion, and the human condition are revealed through beautiful prose and metaphor. Readers will want to live in Wierenga’s world where the early morning sun licks bedroom windows “with weary lemon strokes” and clouds are like “whipped cream on a blueberry pancake.”
Wierenga weaves a strong cord of hope through the stories she shares in this compelling and heart-warming novel. This is “the heavenly Father’s story…written upon the hearts of hundreds of children, a story of love.”
mum's dance
**CURRENTLY BEING CONSIDERED FOR PUBLICATION**On fuzzy days, Yvonne Patricia Dow can’t walk—but if there’s music, she can dance.
Mum’s Dance is the story of a woman who fulfills her dream of becoming a dancer after she’s been diagnosed with brain cancer.
One in four people battle cancer. For most, it dilapidates and destroys. For Yvonne, it made her come alive. Having a tumour removed her inhibitions and allowed her to dance on the darkest of days, unable to stop tapping her feet or bopping her head. While others cried, she laughed and raised her arms, twirling to the sounds of familiar songs. She could no longer feed, dress or wash herself, but she could dance. She couldn’t cook, clean or garden, but she could sing.
Yvonne had no reason to believe in miracles; no reason to cling to a faith which most would say had let her down. After all, it was the stress of her mother’s suicide which triggered the tumour. Countless prayers for healing had been uttered on her behalf—to no avail. Yet, with raw honesty she continued to worship a God she couldn’t see or, some days, comprehend. She longed to go to heaven, a place where she believed the music never ended.
As told by a ‘rebel’ daughter who returns home to care for her Mum, this memoir journeys through past and present. Yvonne’s deprived British upbringing is woven together with present-day incidents which are sure to leave the reader laughing, weeping and believing in life after death.
This is a story which celebrates, and marvels at, the faith and forgiveness of a woman whose own childhood was void of love. It draws readers into the reality of brain cancer, and the ‘role-reversal’ which subsequently occurs between mother and child. As well, it shows the ‘other’ side of cancer: its softening effect upon a mother’s heart (and mind) and the laughter-filled moments which ensue.
Mum’s Dance doesn’t offer answers; in fact, it proposes a lot of angry, pain-filled questions. Ultimately, however, it paints a picture of faith in the face of suffering.
CANVAS CHILD
*Shortlisted for The Word Guild's Best New Author Award**BEING CONSIDERED BY AGENTS*
As a postmodern, compassionate look into the inner thoughts of a young woman dealing with the disease, Canvas Child takes the reader on a journey into the devastating yet all-too misunderstood landscape of this common disease. It not only traces the origins of Anorexia, but shows how the disorder itself becomes a "person" to contend with, a force which ultimately demands the main character's undivided attention.
Twenty-to-thirtysomething females will be able to relate to Canvas Child's main character, Teresa Thompson. Teresa is both the "heroine" and "victim" of the story; she is a painter who falls in love with Nathan Abraham, marries him, then relapses into the grip of Anorexia, which she experienced as a child. The reader observes as Nathan gets overlooked and eventually abandoned, while Teresa submits increasingly to the demands of the disease. It also shows how the sickness affects individual family members like Teresa's parents and siblings, as well as her friends. The story's point of view is second person, allowing for an intimacy with the characters. The time frame slides between present day and past, weaving together the mosaic of experiences which comprise Teresa's current state of mind.
Ultimately redemption shines a light on Teresa and Nathan with a miraculous pregnancy. In lieu of being pregnant, Teresa strives to get better. Yet natural consequences are also in store, as Teresa dies from weakened organs while giving birth to a little girl.
SAMPLE CHAPTERS
mum's dance
Chapter 1
Some days Mum can’t walk. But if there’s music, she can dance.
She slouches onto my shoulder and I pull her along the carpet begging God no one walks in to see the way her blue sweatshirt bunches up at the back and her diapers are poking out of her stretchy pants.
I sit her in the blue armchair and pull an afghan around her legs. Puff up the pillow behind her drooping head and pat her hair.
Then as almost an afterthought I turn on the stereo and sigh as music softens my tattered edges and makes my eyes water.
I putter in the kitchen, piling up dirty dishes and shuffling mountains of paper on the table. Smile as I glance at Mum’s tiny blue handwriting scrawled across a piece of letterhead marking an in descript detail or a random thought. Wipe away another tear, glance over at her.
Then I pause, look again. Is her foot moving? Look closer. Yes, it’s tapping against the air keeping time with the music. I would have missed it but for her other foot which begins moving. Her head begins to bob. I walk over, sit on the edge of the couch and watch, feeling slightly guilty for staring yet unable to pull away. There—her lips have begun to move, mouthing the lyrics of the familiar Robin Mark song.
In a little while her eyes peel open revealing watery blue.
She won’t remember this moment. Even when she turns her head and sees me, even when her mouth breaks into a shaky smile, I know she doesn’t see me. She only sees a friendly face.
But she remembers the song.
While everything else fades the music lingers on. The melody breathes into her soul insisting upon life when everything inside her screams death.
Soon Mum’s holding out her hands, and I’m pulling her up, and keeping grip as she stands and sways and bobs her head.
Only minutes ago she couldn’t walk. Now nothing can keep her feet from moving.
Canvas Child
Forest Floor
March 2001
She grasped at the soil, lifted it to her lips.
Sticking out her tongue, 27-year-old Teresa Thompson dared to taste the dirt. From dust to dust, she heard the voice say. Her body was soaked in sweat.
Above, the sun was a twisted piece of lemon.
An owl hooted. She was too tired to be afraid. Pine cones and sticks dug into her skin. Jagged and sharp, her body lay motionless under an endless stretch of gray-cloud sky. She’d dreamed of this moment for months. This was it. There was no turning back now.
And without warning she began to cry. Foolish woman! The voice clawed at her brain. He’s nothing to you. You’re going to be a legend… Her chest seized up … an inspiration to Anorexics across the globe.
“What is truth?” she whispered. “Is being thin really all that matters?”
Eyes shut.
She was nine. Mom had put her to bed. Her stomach growled like a lion behind a bony cage. She shoved the blankets into her face and willed the hunger pains away. Soon the blanket was wet with weary tears. She was a child on a carousel that had lost its thrill, and she wanted off. But no one could hear her cries, and she was too weak to climb off the horse. So round and round she rode, a tiny girl in a big fat world of flaws.
Now: back on the carousel. Above her the stars whirled in Milky Way madness.
Down her face, drops of sadness. Clenched fists. Her memories formed a montage: the beautiful silhouette of a man who she knew intimately.
She shook her head violently, her blond hair scraggly, scarce. Lying there naked, fighting the thoughts which tied her down. He doesn’t love you! It shouted into the silence. Teresa’s fist slammed into the dirt, squashing any leftover feelings. He’s only going to hold you back. Let him go.
But even as her soul faded with the coming of dawn, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had gone terribly wrong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Somebody somewhere did love her. Someone who didn’t whisper death into her ears, who brought her breakfast in bed and tickled her until she hiccupped.
She had been wrong. Terribly mistaken. Was it too late? So faint, so cold, her struggle was pitiful. Even the birds perched in tree branches above looked away.
Suddenly: Jagged-edged love, laughter, beauty and tears cut through her, leaving her breathless, vulnerable, dying.
“I know! I know truth!” Her weak voice screamed in silence.
The next morning rose like a rumpled old woman. It found the forest as it was, with the exception of a sentence scrawled in the dirt floor: Nathan, forgive me. I know not what I do.
SAVE MY CHILDREN
Chapter One – Farm Boy
1938
It was one of those mornings where the air hangs like wet laundry.Harvey rolled over, tossing the sheets aside in sleepy exasperation. Sunlight licked the bedroom windows with weary lemon-strokes. Morning had broken.
He’d had it again. That dream. It wouldn’t leave him alone. Each night it awaited him like a stranger assuming friendship.
The dream found him in a field, surrounded by row upon row of furrowed earth. Standing tall he could see the faraway horizon where the sun melted downwards like stewed tomatoes.
Then, pulling a package of seeds from his pocket, he bent his wiry frame and began tucking seeds into the soil, as if putting them to bed. Patting the earth with calloused hands, he said a prayer: “Good night, wee one. May God make you grow.”
For hours he planted and prayed. Upon reaching the thick forest which fringed the field, he turned to look upon his work. Springing up from the ground were tiny children, beautiful and young, fresh and wide-eyed, uncurling their dirty tired arms and reaching towards the sky. Some faces were already old and lined, but as they looked upon the sun, new skin formed, stretching across their little bodies. And they were singing.
Soon, there was row upon row of children, stretched as far as the eye could see, raising their hands to the heavens, voices harmonizing with the songs of the birds above them, making a melody unlike any he’d ever heard.
Only Dad knew about the dream. His brothers would think him crazy. Shaking his head to loosen nighttime’s grip, Harvey heaved his 18-year-old body from bed, stretching in the 5 a.m. sunrise, making shadowy ripples on the floor. Pulling on his overalls and plaid shirt, he heard quiet voices in the hall; his father and four brothers were heading outside to do chores.
Mother and sister lay sleeping. No doubt, sister’s face was painted with a smile. Dad had recently promised her the money she needed to go to Africa. “Call on Dad” was his gruff, authentic motto, assuring his children that their needs would be met. A giant of a man, Dad was not only chief of his tribe, but of the community. Hard times may have struck but the dirty thirties couldn’t rob Dad of his generous heart.
Even now, the basement was inhabited by a family, homeless and heartbroken, beaten by the economic paddle and sent packing to try and find new hope behind closed doors. Harvey’s family had been the hands to turn the knob and usher them in, assuring the fatigued folks of a roof and a bed until their wallets bore more weight.
Outside, the cows mooed and the wind breathed wearily. It was an August day in Alberta. Waves of heat and humidity haunted every farmer, trickling sweat down their necks.
The sky opened up its blue arms, welcoming the early risers. Harvey stood on the front lawn of his family’s home, overlooking the cattle sheds and fields. Only one more month until Bible School. Despite being the strongest of the bunch, he knew he was born for more than this homestead life.
Harvey started towards the barn, aware of the heaviness in his chest – a burden to behold what the Creator had up his patchwork sleeve. The cows flicked their tails, flies buzzed quietly and the hay smelled sweet as honey. Harvey pulled out his milking stool. His mind lingered in a dream composed of multi-colored faces and young laughter. Silently he talked with God, his hands squeezing the teats letting warm frothy milk pour smooth, slippery into the metal pail. Some slapped onto his boot. He didn’t notice.
From the doorway, Harvey’s father watched the back of his son’s head, wondering what was going on inside. He often caught Harvey staring off into the distance, as if he could see something the rest of them couldn’t. Even before learning of his son’s recurring dream, he’d known Harvey was special.
Farming was the blood that coursed through their family’s veins. He couldn’t imagine not being one with the earth, feeling its dry soft blackness slip through his fingers, knowing the potential for growth.
But it was obvious Harvey’s heart belonged elsewhere -- beyond the fields of wheat and barley. His son was made for something more. What, exactly, he didn’t know, but God did. And that was all that mattered.