Martin Olson

I first met Martin in 1984. I was travelling through Europe at the time and Iwas getting kind of lonely and homesick and felt I needed to put down some roots as I was hopping from country to country, city to city via eurail. I was sitting among the rocky edges along the coast in Cadaques. Martin was spear fishing and popped out of the water and asked if I wanted to go fishing with him. He was from California and was visiting his grandmother. His mom was at the beach that day and he introduced me to her. It was uncomfortable meeting her - she was sunbathing topless. That was a special moment for me, not the intro to his topless mom but just the connection with such a great guy. From that point on we hung out everyday during my week in Cadaques. 

I stayed longer than anticipated in this small town because there was the best company to be had with Martin. He and his family invited me to dinner at their grandmother’s vacation apartment. Chicken and rice! Three rounds for 120 pounds of me who at that point in my travels had really missed home cooking. I almost ate them out of house and home. I had thirds and out ate all three of them combined. I bet there was a family holdback on account of me. 

We “learned” how to windsurf for the first time because it was so cheap to rent a windboard...but there was no wind. With no air movement we just stood afloat on the boards with sail in hand and just drifted to at the whim of the lapping waves. Afterwards we got our haircut together at Romans Salon. You can tell from the picture of me and Martin that I needed it more than he did. 

That week in Cadaques was the longest I stayed in any one place during my travels and was the highlight of my 2 months of travel. I have so much gratitude to Martin for being not only a companion but a friend when I was feeling homesick. We explored different beaches, visited the Salvador Dali museum and joined in the town dance at the public square. 

We exchanged a few letters/postcards when I got back to Vancouver but then lost touch. Not until spring of this year did I hear from Martin. Some 36 years later. He searched my name on FB. He called over FB.... we chatted for over an hour. "There's not many Barry Jungs from Vancouver” he told me over the video call. “I was hoping it was you” 

Martin: Do you remember when we first met? 

Me: Ya. at the beach. You were with your mom. 

Martin: I bet you remember because she was topless. We both cackled with laughter. It was such a gift to hear from Martin! 

He told me on a subsequent call that he had MS. For decades it gradually took away his mobility, his love for running, swimming, cycling. He was a triathlete. He told me it was starting to limit his speech and his ability to use his phone and that he was nearing the end of his life. Despite his physical limitations, he would call me,using Siri to send voice or text messages. He was always positive, asking me about my life and family. 

We exchanged pictures and stories of past and present. We only knew each other for not more than a week over 36 years ago and yet he has had such a significant impact on me. I grieve that he is gone yet I am so grateful that he would reach out to me in his remaining days to reconnect. 

Thank you Martin! May you be experiencing the Peace that surpasses all understanding. 

Miss you brother!

Morning Coffee

The morning coffee run. It’s not an everyday thing, but the sun is out and it’s dry for the first time in a long time. There’s no reflection of wetness bouncing off the black-gray boulevard asphalt. Some respite from the never-ending winter rain. Such an affordable luxury to get my usual - a decaf americano and one of those prefab breakfast sandwiches that, honestly don’t taste so prefabricated. Heated up, it’s so surprising how unlike it is to the usual soggy breadlike encasing of protein from almost any other cafe chain. The steaming bun is buttery and crispy and the bacon inside? Well, It tastes like the real thing and in fact gives a bit of a crunch when your teeth finally discover the solo strip neatly cut in two, flanking the disc-shaped egg scramble(which is not rubbery but not exactly the fluffy cloud of yolks and whites one cooks at home). 

It’s early enough and the road hasn’t yet filled with cars driven by single occupants making their way to work - such an unusual occurrence at 7:30am. The curb in front of Starbucks is already lined with parked vehicles. The super-early birds - the construction folks - have hogged all the curbside space with their service trucks and SUV’s. 

 “I’m running late. Just keep going. Don’t spill the coffee,” I say to myself as I navigate past the motionless body that lay near the building. 

Oh, someone else will take care of her. See! A young man, probably a student, is kneeling down to see if she’s ok. The student pulls open the door and disappears inside the Starbucks. Surely he’s going to help her. He’ll be out soon enough with an extra coffee and an extra sandwich to offer her. 

She appears semi-conscious, it’s probably due to lack of sleep. I don’t think she’s injured or high on anything. I heard on the radio this morning that it was minus one last night. How can you possibly get a good night’s sleep or any kind of rest without shelter, especially when it’s below zero . At least it wasn’t raining and wet. Looks like she has a functional setup of a blue tarp and thick blankets stretched out from the Safeway shopping cart and draping over her body like a lean-to. And she’s got a couple of fluffy sleeping bags to lie in and on. Kind of cozy. I’m sure she’s resourceful and knows the regulars lining up to get in their morning brew. I felt confident that she would get her breakfast from the young man. 

I’ll just walk on the other side. I look down at my watch. I’ve got to get to my appointment. What appointment?! Just look purposeful and oblivious. Just look away. Turn a blind eye. Blind eye? Why do you need to turn your eye if it’s already blind? 

                                                     ______________________ 

And the blind man turns his head, hearing from others that Jesus is walking down the sidewalk. He brings Jesus’ three mile-an-hour cadence to a pause. He calls out: “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!' 

Jesus stops. Looks at the blind man. Then Jesus asks. “What can I do for you?” 

“Lord, I want to see! I REALLY want to see!” 

Jesus surveys the sidewalk. He sees the woman under her blue tarp along with the shopping cart holding all her possessions. The head-cover to protect her from the cold is a mauve-coloured scarf spiraled around her head and wound tightly down to her neck. Her left arm protrudes awkwardly out of the mummy-style sleeping bag; a whitish-pink sore the size of a toonie and encircled with a crimson crust is visible on the exposed hand. A trail of snot on her upper lip glistens as the morning sun catches her hardened face. She is asleep. 

                                                         ****************** 

Then Jesus looks back to the other side of the sidewalk where the blind man is standing. He is no Samaritan. He was warmly dressed in his Patagonia down vest and fleece-lined Arc-teryx joggers. The strap of his Herschel messenger bag is slung across his left shoulder and across his chest - the bag itself positioned against his right hip. The unSamaritan takes the Airpods out of his ears and navigates his chest with his right hand until he finds the zippered breast pocket of his puffy vest to put them away. He faces expectantly and intently in the direction of Jesus’ voice and waits for His reply. 

Jesus says to him: “Receive your sight, your faith has healed you.” 

Immediately, the blind unSamaritan sees. Praising God, he moves across the sidewalk and he crouches down to the woman under the tarp. He gently touches her arm. She awakens from her slumber. He fixes his eyes on her soft brown eyes. They gaze at each other for just a moment. The unSamaritan sees her in a different way. Not as a motionless and disheveled body tucked under a makeshift canopy. Nor a homeless, drug-dependent mother of two who is numbing the pain of a traumatic past. Not even as a stranger who is giving notice to latte-lovers that she is in need of some attention. She is not one of those but all of them. She is also a child of God. 

SHE IS! a Child of God. 

He speaks gently to her, “Blessed are you, ma’am, for the Kingdom of God is yours. Can I get you a coffee?”

Can less be more?

For the very first time, I lost my job.  This happened  a couple of months ago, just a week before a much anticipated European vacation with my wife.  I guess there’s never a good time to lose your job.

The reality of losing half of our  double-income  weighted on me very quickly, especially with the intention of going on a relatively extravagant vacation to celebrate some milestones in our lives.  Though most of the trip was already paid for and non-refundable ,  the money we did end up spending while vacationing was very calculated and in some cases, downright cheap.   

I still have some leeway before I get to the end of my financial-comfort- zone-rope but  I have already made lifestyle changes to anticipate the possibility that it might be awhile before we’re back to double-income luxury.  My reality now is…less eating out;  more use of cheaper forms of transportation(bike, public transit, walking); less expensive/free fitness sessions (no visits to the gym and more biking and walking to stay fit) ; making use of long-forgotten dry/canned goods way in the back of the pantry(there’s gonna be some interesting meals for sure!) ; more diligence in scoping out deals at the grocers.

It’s not my intention to paint a picture that my family will soon be in need… far from it.   In fact, I wanted to highlight just the opposite.   We have so much to be thankful for and are bathed in luxury, regardless of where our income level is at.  I have so much!  I have a supportive wife – who continues to bring home the bacon(or half of it). I have great kids.  The oldest just recently married and the 3 youngest living at home going through various stages of college or work.    We have a supportive extended family, most living just minutes from us.  We have a vibrant church community that is so enriching to our lives.  We are rich!  By the way, nominally speaking, most of us North Americans are the top 5% income earners in the world!!!  See how "rich" you are... http://www.globalrichlist.com/

Yes, I try to live with an attitude of gratitude.  I am grateful for food on the table, a meal from a restaurant, a banquet at a wedding and the ability to work, earn a salary and pay for all of these - the last two of which I consider privileges.  Contrast this to friends I have  in another part of the world… they struggle to  earn enough take home pay that would often only cover their meals until mid-week.

I often extol the virtues of simple living(frugality of consumption) and try to live simpler so that others can simply live. Easier said than done, but the path to simple living is definitely a lot easier when you lose your job.   

My job search continues… but at the end of the day, I think less IS more.

Simple Life ~The Weepies

SomeOne's listening... it ain't me.

Are you a poor or lazy listener like me?  

I'm easily distracted which likely contributes to my poor listening skills.   I don't think I'm intentionally a lazy listener, I try to pay attention and concentrate when spoken to.  I'm pretty sure I  have some sort of attention-deficit in conversations, especially when there are others talking, noises or activities going on in the background.

This deficiency affects me most noticeably when I listen to songs.  I'm terrible at picking up the lyrics or for that matter remembering them.  It's a multi-tasking thing to listen to the music AND the words.  I gravitate to the music rather than the words...but not both at the same time.

I can recognize tunes but generally don't know the lyrics to them.  I'm always amazed at how everyone else in my family can rattle off lyrics to songs... not me.  I can't even remember the classic hymns/songs for church service...not even traditional Christmas carols. !!! -  without the aid of a song sheet/hymnal or powerpoint slide

So recently, I really paid attention to lyrics from a song.  I've heard this song many, many times....but never really heard the lyrics until the other day.   There were few distractions as  I was in my car pulling out of the garage on my way to the gym.  No traffic, no pedestrians, no glaring sun, no rain,  no passengers, just me.... the radio was on - I listened.

This was the song that was playing... 

Better Than a Hallelujah ~Amy Grant

At the end of the day, I know I need to work harder at listening.

God listens.

God loves a lullaby
In a mothers tears in the dead of night
Better than a Hallelujah sometimes.
God loves a drunkards cry,
The soldiers plea not to let him die
Better than a Hallelujah sometimes.

We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah

The woman holding on for life,
The dying man giving up the fight
Are better than a Hallelujah sometimes
The tears of shame for what's been done,
The silence when the words won't come
Are better than a Hallelujah sometimes.

We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah

Better than a church bell ringing,
Better than a choir singing out,singing out.

We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah

it's good to be home

Where is home? I was born and raised in a beautiful city bordered by water to the west, mountains to the north and dotted with green belts, bikeways and trees throughout. Vancouver is home and I can't think of anywhere else on earth I'd rather live.

I went on a trip recently with my wife to her country of birth. The Dominican Republic. Her home was in Boca de Nigua until she was about 11. She hadn't been back in 18 years. The last time she was there, she didn't have the opportunity to connect with neighbours, friends, or classmates from her childhood. She made it a point this time to meet with as many people as possible from her first home.

We traveled to the DR in July - it was probably the hottest time of the year to go visit. Hot. Humid. We were hosted by friends in Santo Domingo. Our excursion into the little town of Boca de Nigua took about 40 minutes. Though I couldn't understand what she was saying, I could hear the delight, eagerness and happiness in Joan's voice as we got near her childhood home. I couldn't understand her because she was rambling off in Spanish to her friend from Nigua-days, Carmen, who was also on this excursion with us. Joan was on the edge of her seat- the backseat- straining to get a better look through the front windshield at the approaching town and homes, that weren't so familiar anymore. The day brought good memories for Joan but there was some disappointment as she could only see two families from her past. 

On the last weekend before we left the DR, another trek into Boca de Nigua was planned. I grudgingly went on the second trip. I was not a happy camper. We would be travelling those 40 minutes again in Nicio's car that had A/C comparable to a battery-operated fan pushing air behind an ice cube.

We first met with Rafaelito. Friendly, warm, inviting, and gregarious. He made you feel welcome. No wonder he is a leader in the community. He knows so many people. My displeasure in going on this long drive and potential wild-goose chase soon dissipated as I witnessed the overwhelming joy and disbelief on the faces of these friends when they realized it was Joan walking towards them. There were long and tight embraces, tears, photo ops/ video ops, distribution of family photos from Joan, prayer and then the good-byes.

In the 2 to 3 hours that it took to shuttle from one to house to another house and another house and another..., we were able to see 5 beautiful, joyful and precious people and their families. Never in their dreams did they ever expect to see Joan again when she left the island 27 years ago.  I'm glad I went along and got to experience what it looks like from the outside, the joy of a homecoming.

Homecomings can be special.  I wonder if I'll get to experience homecoming.   I believe that I will someday.    It 'll  be that Place that many of us have heard about -  a Place where you will know the answers to a lifetime of questions, a Place of familiar voices and faces, a Place of comfort, refuge, peace, love and unimaginable  joy.

At the end of the day...it's going to be good to be HOME.