For Fewer Ahead Than Behind, I'm Thankful — Lynda Schultz

Our pastor resigned last week. Gone are the days (for which I am thankful) when all of the rest of the staff would have been required to resign as well. This brief descent into madness was meant to give the "new guy" a chance to form his own team. The intentions were good even though the chaos created by massive resignations was a bit hard on the church!

In any case, I mentioned to our elders that whoever they interviewed should be allowed the option of a grace period after his arrival during which he could decide whether or not the staff he had inherited was the right "fit" for his vision. I'm on staff so I was talking about myself and it was only later that I realized that the elder to whom I had spoken thought I was worried about my job security.

I'm 62—today. Given the trend in finding a senior pastor, it will likely be about two years before we find the man that God has for our congregation. If God chooses to parachute him in long before the stats say he's supposed to arrive I'll be more than happy. But supposing that we are as average as the rest of the world, I'll be 64 by the time the new man comes. It will take him a while to decide whether or not I "fit" and it may take me a while to figure out if I want to "fit." By that time I'll probably be 65 and about as unconcerned about job security as anyone can be.

I really was sincere in my concern that our new pastor, whoever he is and whenever he turns up, have the freedom to choose the people he works with. I honestly was not concerned about job security.

It sounds odd that I am thankful for being 62, and for being able to say honestly that there is a certain freedom that comes with age. It's the freedom to look back and have an "aha" moment when I am reminded of how the Lord has blessed me and kept me over all the years I have known Him. The remembrance of past privileges overwhelms me still. But with age also comes the freedom to look ahead and anticipate other blessings. I'm a year closer to eternity and that's wonderful, but before I get there I can look forward to freedom 65 (I missed "Freedom 55") and the possibility of doing some of the things that I don't have the time as a "working woman" to do now.

Perhaps I'm still a bit naive—astounding at this stage of my life—but I think the best is yet to come. I don't know what it will look like but I believe that on this side of heaven there are still mountains to climb, experiences to savour, a less hectic pace to enjoy, and maybe even some books to write. Aging doesn't signal the end of the road; it marks a different road. And the best thing about it is that, thanks to Christ, all the roads, whatever they end up looking like, will lead home.

Joe Who? - Lynda Shultz

When I was eight my heroes were Lassie and The Lone Ranger. That was before I met Joe Bonikowski.

There wasn't much to do in our little town. During the summer, I tagged along with my brothers doing whatever they did. That usually amounted to hanging around the drug store, playing baseball, or swimming in the river. In the winter, we donned skates or snowshoes. I tried to imitate Dave, Danny, Frank and Jimmy, but since I was the youngest, some activities earned me the "wait until you are older" thing.

The local undersized hockey team bore the oversized name of The Temagami Timber Wolves. Dad and I went to just about every practice and all the games. Archrivals, Latchford and Haileybury, killed us on the ice, but nobody beat us at cheering.

I first met Mr. Bonikowski at the rink. He was an old man then. Of course. everyone is old when you are eight. He'd worked in the bush for most of his life, cutting trees and hauling logs. Now he did odd jobs at the arena; changing light bulbs, repairing the wooden benches we warmed, and picking up Juicy Fruit wrappers and empty Coke cans.

When Dad couldn't come with me to watch my brothers play, Mr. B. would often come and sit down beside me. Neither of us said much, but somehow he seemed to know how much I wanted to be on the ice playing, not just watching and cheering.

Then when I turned ten, I got my big break. The Temagami Timber Wolves ran out of players. Like I said, Temagami is a REALLY small town. The season had just begun and the team's right-winger took a check into the boards and broke his wrist, Neither the coach nor the rest of the kids were too happy about letting me try out. However, faced with the possibility of losing the entire season and the long-awaited chance at revenge on the teams from the neighbouring towns, they swallowed their objections. Mom imagined my broken body carried out of the arena on a stretcher. Even Dad was doubtful.

But I made it. All those street hockey games with my brothers were paying off.

I was to start in Saturday's game against The Haileybury Hurricanes. I was thrilled—and suddenly terrified.

On Friday afternoon, I walked over to the rink. Mr. Bonikowski was there. He was throwing sand around the front entrance. The snow had melted and then frozen again, and it was slippery.

"Gonna play tomorrow, eh?"

"Yup."

"Scared?"

Was it that obvious? I had grabbed my star and now didn't know exactly what to do with it.

"A little."

"Don't worry."

"Everyone thinks I'll mess up."

"You won't."

"How do you know?"

"Gotta have faith."

"In God?"

I went to Sunday School, but God's interest in hockey had never been mentioned. I figured he was more concerned with Saturday night baths—you know, "cleanliness is next to godliness"—than he was in Hockey Night in Canada on TV.

"Sure. Faith in God is good. Faith in you, too."

"Do you have faith in me?"

"Hundred percent."

He sensed my doubts, so he added: "You'll see tomorrow."

The next night I waddled to the rink behind my brothers. I'd put my gear on at home. The boards thumped underneath my skates as I made my way past the dressing room.

Then I saw it.

To the left of the dressing room there had been a broom closet. The buckets, brooms, and cleaning cloths were gone, leaving behind a wooden bench and a peg nailed to the wall. The sign Cleaning Supplies was gone. In its place, carefully carved on a piece of two-by-four, was Helen's Dressing Room.

Joe had proven his faith in me and had planted the seeds of mine. The first girl to play juvenile hockey was here to stay, and I had a real-life, heaven-sent hero.