Somebody Made It

A country singer and children’s entertainer called Cowboy Randy sings a song that starts with the following verses:

Who made a pet rock? —Somebody!
Who made a gym sock? —Somebody!
Who made the salmon and sardines? —Nobody!

Who made a whatnot? — Somebody!
Who made a teapot? —Somebody!
Who made the buffalo and bees? —Nobody!

See, somebody, somebody,
Somebody had to make all the small things,
Somebody, somebody, that’s what they tell me,
That’s what they say but
Nobody, nobody made the sun, the moon and the trees
No, nobody, nobody, nobody did – no way!

His song provides an amusing introduction to the topic of intelligent design. As he points out, we can look at things as simple as socks and teapots and conclude that there is a designer behind them – somebody had to do something to make those. Yet we are willing to look around us at the much more complicated things in our world, like salmon and buffalo, and say that they just happened “by chance.”

Last week, a post on Angela Hunt’s blog caught my eye, as she approached this topic. She considers Darwinism to be the root of most of the world’s ills and points out how the theory of chance cheapens life. She challenges her readers to be open to the idea of intelligent design as a scientific theory that provides much better answers than evolution.

I’ve been challenged before on this blog that theories of intelligent design and creationism are not scientific. Angela provides a link to a helpful document produced by the Discovery Institute, answering many questions about intelligent design. The Institute explains that this theory “holds that certain features of the universe and of living things are best explained by an intelligent cause, not an undirected process such as natural selection.” This is a scientific theory, and they explain how it works:

The scientific method is commonly described as a fourstep process involving observations, hypothesis, experiments, and conclusion. ID begins with the observation that intelligent agents produce complex and specified information (CSI). Design theorists hypothesize that if a natural object was designed, it will contain high levels of CSI. Scientists then perform experimental tests upon natural objects to determine if they contain complex and specified information. One easily testable form of CSI is irreducible complexity, which can be discovered by experimentally reverse-engineering biological structures to see if they require all of their parts to function. When ID researchers find irreducible complexity in biology, they conclude that such structures were designed.

Both Hunt and the Discovery Institute point out that intelligent design is not a new theory, but one that has been around for quite a while. In fact, the Discovery Institute notes that “the co-discoverer of the theory of evolution by natural selection—Alfred Wallace—strongly disagreed with Darwin and believed that nature exhibited evidence of intelligent design, especially when it came to the development of the human mind.” If we can look at clocks, computers, and cars, and conclude that someone smart must have designed those, how can we look at the human mind and think that it happened just by “natural selection” or “random chance”?

As Cowboy Randy’s song concludes… somebody made the big things too.

The Gift Bags

Sunshine's baptism on Sunday was beautiful. She was very cute in her white eyelet dress and didn't cry at all through the whole thing. Afterward, she was once again showered with gifts. We've been blessed with generous family and friends - I think some of them have done more baby shopping than we have! Now, between our wedding last year and her arrival this year, we have a gazillion gift bags. Of course I've kept them all - aren't gift bags supposed to be better than wrapping paper because you can reuse them and cut down on waste? But as I tried to fit the latest stash into our storage room, I began to wonder about that. How many friends do we have getting married or having babies that we might be able to reuse these gift bags? Should I just (horrors!) throw them out? Can I give them a second-hand shop? What do you do with your gift bags?

The Lynching

Today I've posted a hiking story over at Inscribe Writers' Online.

Considering Baptism

Sunshine is getting baptized on Sunday. We’ve invited family and friends, found her a christening gown, planned a party afterward. Yesterday my husband noticed that I had my Catechism in the stack of books that I’m reading, and asked why. I said I was reviewing; I wanted to be sure I knew what we are requesting for Sunshine when we take her to church on Sunday. Our priest exempted us from the usual baptismal preparation course because I went through RCIA last year and my husband spent a year and a half of discernment in seminary. The priest figured we knew our stuff; I wanted to make sure he is right.

I remember my own baptism. I was about eight at the time, as my parents had bounced between a couple adult baptism churches before settling at a Lutheran church. Shortly after they joined, they told my brothers and I that we were going to get baptized. I’m not sure I completely understood what was happening; I’d probably seen babies baptized before, but I wasn’t going to question my parents. I also remember standing at the front of the church, and the feeling of the water running off my head. My godparents gave me a silver necklace with a little dove, and a Precious Moments Bible.

In university, I took two courses on Martin Luther and what he taught. Conversations with a Catholic friend of mine had caused me to question what I believed – or rather, to ask whether I believed what the church that I was attending believed. I was curious in particular about why some churches baptized infants and others adults. Did it matter? I wrote one of my best papers on what Luther had to say about the topic, arguing that he showed the significance of God’s work through baptism for salvation in faith. While Luther disagreed with the Catholic Church on many issues, I think he held onto what the Church taught about baptism.

What happens on Sunday will not be the work of my husband, myself, or the priest – it is the work of God. Through water He will wash Sunshine’s sins away and make her His child, thereby saving her. And yet that gift of salvation is only hers if she will receive it in faith. That is the scary part: the promises that my husband and I will make to teach her all that her baptism means. Of all the things that we have to teach her as parents, faith is the hardest. It is making me rethink my own faith life and whether I will be able to model what I believe for my daughter. This is about more than just knowing the answers; I must also live them.

Winter Memories

Since winter seems to have returned to Alberta, I thought I'd share some good memories of this cold season.


It’s a cold winter day. A lifeless sun shines out of a cloudy sky, only beginning to melt the frost on the trees that circle the pond. We’re sitting on the bench at the edge of the ice, lacing up our skates as fast as possible so we can get our hands back into our mitts. I wear two pairs of socks, but my skates are still cold when I push my feet in. I shove my boots under the bench and lunge to my feet. My blades feel awkward for a few steps, and then I’m gliding across the ice, picking up speed as I go.

My brothers kick a hockey puck onto the ice and skate out after it. I circle back for my hockey stick. Balancing it in my hands, I skate after them. Bob sets up the goal at the end of the rink and Will gives me the puck. They face each other, tapping sticks on the ice, and I wait for the right amount of suspense before I drop the puck between them. With a scratching of skates and a thumping of sticks the game begins. Eyes fixed on the black spot, we turn and stop and dodge and dash.

A hard shot from Bob lodges the puck in a snow bank, and I clamber over to dig it out. They circle, jostling each other, calling out insults and suggestions, and I watch them as I flip the puck out. I hit the ice right behind the puck and slap it as hard as I can, sending it flying between them. They spin around and we’re off after the puck like sharks after a tuna fish.

We no longer notice the cold; in fact, Bob shucks off his mitts and toque as he passes the bench. I loosen my scarf and unzip my coat slightly. Then the puck flies past me, bouncing from Will’s stick to my skates; I kick it free, juggle it on my stick, and try for a goal. It misses and Bob takes it.

Later, when I tire of hockey, I convince my brothers to play tag instead. We jam our sticks into a snow bank and stash the puck in a boot, then take off after each other. I am chasing Bob through our maze of trails, skating as fast as I can, when one of my picks catches the ice and I hit hard, knees first and then flat out on my stomach. Time out. I catch my breath and wince as I get to my feet. My knees have been black and blue since we started skating this season.

Bob and Will circle back to make sure that I’m okay. The tag game ends as we skate around for a few minutes. Then Will picks up his hockey stick, I forget the pain in my knees, and we’re off after the puck. Five minutes later, I’m standing in the goal when Bob makes a shot from the other end of the rink. I dodge, and the puck hits me square on the shin. I take out my pain on Bob, yelling at him for pucking me yet again. He’s always hitting me with that puck and he should be able to aim when he’s shooting and he shouldn’t shoot that hard anyways!

That ends the hockey game. I leave my stick by the goal and skate off by myself, weaving through the paths that we’ve shoveled around our rink. We clear the pond by hand, so it’s taken us a while to get the rink and all the trails shoveled out. Will stabs my stick into a snow bank and they keep on playing, jockeying each other for the puck. I scowl and grumble to myself and try to ignore them, but in ten minutes I’m grabbing my stick and getting in on the game again.

We quit for the day when our watches read five o’clock and the sun is settling on the horizon. We shove our feet into cold boots, tie our skate laces together and loop them over our shoulders, then pick up our sticks and head up the trail. We laugh and joke as we trudge the half kilometer home. It’s good to have brothers and hockey sticks and frozen ponds.

Crib, Cradle, or Co-Sleep?

I was about three months pregnant when I saw the notice on the office bulletin board: one crib and change table for sale. The price was less than what we’d pay for a new crib, so my husband and I jumped on the deal. We hauled the furniture home and spent the next few months trying to decide where to fit it in our one-bedroom apartment. It ended up in the living room, because the crib was too big to even fit through the bedroom door. It was also rather big for the living room, no matter how we rearranged.

I was about seven months pregnant when we were touring second-hand shops with my mother-in-law and found the cradle. I’d been digging through the maternity racks, trying to find some clothes, when my husband came to get me. The cradle was white, with a train and circus animals stencilled in bright colours on it, and came with a mattress and three sheets. It was also very cheap. We already had a crib, but the cradle was so cute, and would fit much better in our apartment. So we squished it into our car and hauled it home. Once again we rearranged, moving the cradle and change table into our bedroom and taking the crib apart to put it in the storage room.

The night Sunshine was born, we all slept in the Murphy bed at the hospital. The bassinet there seemed very cold and medical, and Sunshine just wanted to be held. The next day we were home and discovered that she didn’t like the cradle. She slept with us again that night… and the next… and the next. We laughed a bit, over the fact that we had a crib and a cradle and were co-sleeping anyways. We also tried to understand that, after being tucked in my stomach for nine months, it was a huge shock to her to be away from me, in a strange, cold, hard cradle. So she remained cuddled close to one of us day and night.

She’s starting to sleep longer at night now (five hours!) and to nap more in her cradle. She’ll also fall asleep on her own sometimes when I put her down almost asleep. My husband and I agree that we’re not going to leave her to cry herself to sleep in her cradle, and so moving her there remains a slow process. Let's see, by the time we get her used to the cradle, she'll be too big for it and we'll have to get her used to the crib...

Movie Review: Bella

Sooner or later every one of us will face an irreversible moment that will change our lives forever. If it hasn't happened to you yet...it will. BELLA is a true love story about how one day in New York City changed three people forever.

Bella starts off with Jose sitting on a beach watching a young girl play in the waves, and flashes back his memories of two days that changed his life. On the first day, he had just had his dreams of becoming a big soccer star come true; with his manager, he was going to sign a multi-million dollar contract with a soccer team. Then the accident that ends his career happens. Five years later, Jose is a chef in his brother Manny’s restaurant, a quiet, passionless man still living in the memories of that day.

Nina is one of Manny’s waitresses, and as Manny prepares his restaurant and staff for a big day, she is late for work. It’s the third time this has happened, so when she arrives, Manny fires her – without bothering to find out the reason she’s been sick and late is that she’s pregnant. Jose follows Nina out of the restaurant and spends the day wandering New York with her, listening to her talk about her problems. She’s a single, pregnant, unemployed woman in New York, and it seems only one option is open to her: abortion.

Jose seemed a Christ-figure to me, in more ways that his beard and gentle expression. While Manny sees the people in his restaurant simply as employees, Jose knows them and their problems. His compassion for Nina leads him to risk his own job to help her out, just as Jesus would have reached out to the many women who asked for His help.

The end of the movie returns to Jose on the beach, some four or five years after that fateful day. It is an expected and yet unexpected ending that completely fit this beautiful story. This movie wrestles with some big issues and does a good job of it. If you haven’t see it yet, I heartily recommend it.

Contemplating Culture

A few months ago, a priest from Florida visited our parish to lead the youth rally. I like him because he’s not your typical priest; he has a beard and a ponytail, and wears jeans and a T-shirt, and likes Birkenstocks (though this time, due to the -30* temperatures, he was wearing running shoes instead). One night as we hung out with him before the rally, he asked why we were so obsessed with our maple leaf. He’d been seeing it everywhere – the apostrophe in Denny’s, the side of the Real Canadian Superstore, etc.

We explained to him that those were Canadian stores, while most of the other businesses he saw around here were probably the same as what he’d see in Florida. We get inundated with American influences, so we’re a bit proud of the things that are Canadian. He was still baffled by why our maple leaf and flag are so important, as in his opinion, Americans don’t make such a big deal about their flag. But his comments got me thinking about our culture.

While I was in Australia, I tried to get to know the country and its people, to find out what made them Aussie. For a good part of my trip, I was staying with native Aussies who were happy to talk about their country and to compare it to mine. We had some great discussions. I picked up several books by Australian authors while I was there. The only book about Australia that I didn’t like was written by an American; Bill Bryson spent about two weeks touring Australia, most of it in a car on the highways, and then wrote a book. I wondered how he could claim to know a country that he’d seen for such a short amount of time through a windshield.

At work, I edited several resources for language teachers that focus on teaching the culture as well the language. Often, students are asked to compare the culture that they are learning about to the culture that they are familiar with. Again, that made me think about Canadian culture and how we are different from other cultures. Yet we carry traces of those cultures too, in our multiculturalism and the influences of all the immigrants who have arrived here.

So what makes us Canadian, beyond the maple leaf? What is culture?

Some Observations

We were shopping at Safeway a week or so ago, and had Sunshine sleeping in her carseat on top of the buggy. A fellow walked up to me, gestured to her car seat, and asked, “What aisle do I find those in?”


Babies are the most emotionally expressive people in the world. When Sunshine is upset, she flails her arms in the air with a music conductor’s flair; she pumps her legs as though she were an athlete climbing stairs; she screws up her entire face and yells with the lung strength of an opera singer. The more upset she gets, the faster her arms move and the louder her wails get.


Being a mom requires a huge amount of organization. Sunshine has clothes to fit her from now until she’s two. They fill a humongous box in the bottom of my closet. Yesterday I did laundry, sorted through her closet (again), and put away a few things that don’t fit (some too small, most too large). Yet some of them will fit her soon, so in a month I’ll have to drag that box out again, sort through it trying to find what does fit her, and put away the ones that don’t fit her anymore. Without having her grow out of any clothes before she even wears them.


Holding a baby who has been screaming for the last hour and a half and won’t stop no matter what you do is the most frustrating feeling in the world. Holding a baby who is snuggled up to you, with her head tucked under your chin and her hair tickling your skin, is the most calming feeling in the world.

Book Review: The Idiot

“My intention is to portray a truly beautiful soul,” says Fyodor Dostoevsky of his novel, The Idiot. And Prince Myshkin is such a beautiful soul that he is often taken for an idiot. While he suffers from mental illness, he is only “simple” in the sense that he cannot grasp evil. He thinks good of everyone he meets and expects that everyone else does too; this simple acceptance of people, and his simple way of living, leads those around him to befriend him and yet to feel themselves smarter and better than him.

Despite its length and reputation, The Idiot is a fairly easy read. Dostoevsky grabs the reader in the first few lines, as Myshkin journeys back to Russia from a school/hospital in Switzerland, where he has been treated for his disease. In Petersburg, he meets the Epanchin family and their acquaintances, and becomes involved in the story of the lovely Nastasya Fillipovna.

Taken advantage of by her guardian, Nastasya now considers herself a fallen woman, but must choose between several offers of marriage. Only Myshkin grasps her suffering and believes that she is not “spoiled.” From pity, he too offers her his hand in marriage, and for a moment, Nastasya sees her salvation; then, refusing to drag him down with her, she rejects him and runs off with Rogozhin.

The middle of the novel becomes a bit complicated by a large cast of characters. Dostoevsky follows Myshkin’s acquaintances with Rogozhin, the drunken Lebedyev, and the consumptive Ippolit. Anne Hruska, in her introduction to the novel, calls The Idiot a novel of ideas, rather than plot, and much of the middle portion is spent in investigating these ideas. Nastasya’s story takes a back seat, as visitors come and go from Myshkin’s porch debating various theories and opinions.

Finally, as Myshkin falls in love with the beautiful yet unpredictable Aglaia Epanchin, Nastasya re-enters the story, and Myshkin must decide which of these women he will love and marry.

Like many writers, Dostoevsky based some events in the story on his own life. One scene in the book came from Dostoevsky’s own near-execution experience, which Juliette Riitters says “was devastating to an overly sensitive mind such as his, and the psychological scar never quite healed.” The experience thus makes it way into his writing, as does his epilepsy, which afflicts Myshkin.

According to Surendra Thapa and Yasuhito Une, Prince Myshkin “is an irony and a paradox to the modern society: Is the modern society so twisted that acts of simple goodness is equivalent to acts of idiocy? Is an ideal Christian and his conception of good so basic and simple that in modern world sophistication looks down upon such acts of goodness?” The Idiot thus challenges the reader to consider what is good and how society reacts to it.

Holman, NWT, Canada

North of the Artic Circle in the Norwest Territories of Canada lies a hamlet called Holman (or Ulukhaktok). It perches on Queen’s Bay in the western shore of Victoria Island, and has been there since 1939, when a Hudson’s Bay Company post and a Roman Catholic mission were established. Most of the people here are Inuit; the last census, in 2006, recorded about 400 people living there, with about only 20 white people.

You may wonder what there is to do so far north (yes, there is life north of the Arctic Circle!), but Holman actually offers a variety of activities, including golfing. North America’s most northerly golf course is located here and hosts the annual Billy Joss Open Celebrity Golf Tournament in July. The advantage, of course, is that you could golf all night, since the sun doesn’t go down. You just might have to watch for muskox while you’re golfing your 9 holes. Other activities include curling and ice hockey at the modern sports complex.

Because of its northern location, people in Holman have retained much of their traditional lifestyle. Only in the 20th century have they had contact with the outside world. The sports complex and golf course reflect some of the rapid changes in the last 60 years, while their dances and artwork reflect their traditional lifestyle. The Holman Print Shop has been releasing prints since 1965, using techniques such as stone cutting, stencilling on seal skin, lithography, woodblock printing, and acid free etching. Tourists can visit the print shop and see these artists at work. Many of the prints are also online in the Holman Virtual Museum.

Besides sports and artwork, Holman has a huge variety of Arctic wildlife, from polar bears to arctic fox, muskox to ducks. The people of Holman are also used to strange daylight hours: for two months of the winter (mid-November to mid-January), there is complete darkness, while during the summer (May to August), there is 24-hour daylight. If the darkness worries you, consider that it will be brightened by the northern lights.

But why am I blogging about an itty bitty town in the north? My husband is considering applying for a teaching position there. So maybe in September I'll be able to give you a first-hand account of Holman.

Put Her In Pink

At the school play: “Oh, what a cute baby! What’s his name?”
“She’s a girl, and her name is Sunshine.”

At the library: “Look at the little fellow! How old is he?”
“She’s a girl, and she’s five weeks old.”

At the grocery store: “He’s just sound asleep, isn’t he?”
“She’s a girl, and yes, she’s pretty good.”

It has been said that green and yellow are gender neutral colours; but in all of the above instances, Sunshine was wearing yellow and got taken for a boy. Half of her wardrobe is “gender neutral.” A few people gave us things before she was born, and so of course tried to pick outfits that would work for either a boy or a girl. My husband and I went shopping just after she was born, as she was in need of sleepers, and at a second-hand baby store found as many nice yellow sleepers as pink ones.

I’m not a fan of pink, particularly the soft pink that most baby clothes are. In my entire wardrobe I think I have only one pink blouse, and it’s a deep fuchsia pink. My husband laughed at me for getting a camouflage-coloured sling, but since a lot of my wardrobe is khaki, green, or brown, it matches my clothes quite well. Everything for baby girls, however, is pink. Baby boys go in blue; baby girls go in pink. So now when we got out, the rule is: Put her in pink!