Week #40 Fathers Day

Sister Schlachter and I were asked to speak in our church services last Sunday. We were not given topics, only a time limit - 13 minutes each. It was Fathers Day in Mexico just as it was in Canada, so that was my topic. Somewhere in my life, I heard someone say that a boy doesn't become man until his father dies and for some reason this thought stuck with me until now. Doing a bit of digging, I found the thought is attributed to Sigmund Freud, the 'father' of talk therapy which now helps many people with mental illness. My dad died on March 4 of this year - according to Freud, does that now set me up to finally become a man? 

Digging even deeper, I couldn't find the exact quote but what I did find was this, “A father’s death is the most important event, the more heartbreaking and poignant loss in a man’s life.” I spent a lot of time with my dad as we farmed together until 1992. Sister Schlachter observed that we didn't and didn't need to talk when we worked together, just a couple of random words, a nod and grunt was all she saw and heard. What neither she nor even I understood was how the dynamics of the intersection of our lives were likely outcomes of my childhood 'world' and probably my dad's too.  

While I was growing up I don't remember Dad ever telling me that he loved me at least using those words - his dad (my grandpa) was deaf and mute and so I expect this wasn't something he experienced either. I don't remember him ever hugging me, speaking kind words or throwing a comforting arm around my shoulders when things were not going well. In fairness, these gestures were not part of the stoic German heritage on his side of the family and these were still the days when children (there were five of us) were to be seen and not heard - much like the Super 8 silent videos he took. In his last years Dad was willing to accept hugs and even mumble that he loved me. Interestingly, his emotional attachment and generosity with each of his grandchildren was much different and all that you would hope it could be in the present day and age. 

Until I was a tween, I spent most of my time after school and on weekends with my sister and my mother, working in the house. This was my parents' solution to protect me from my older brothers - in hindsight, they probably should have just taught me how to fight. My brothers worked outside with Dad, however, when the older ones got their driver's licenses and took work off the farm, with my growing teenage frame, I was called into farming service. 

Up until we left Bow Island, the only emotions I remember observing my Dad express toward me were indifference as a passive listener to his stream of consciousness monologues, happiness when something was going the way he hoped and anger when it didn't. Through trial and error, I developed a self-protection/preservation strategy. I was hyper-vigilant and always on guard to avoid attracting my brothers attention or arousing my father's anger. I repressed my own emotions because if I reacted in any way or cried it was worse. Unconsciously, I took this same approach to all my interactions with everyone in my world except for children with whom I felt I could be "me", a strategy that I regret continued until I was 63 years old when I discovered what had happened, or could at least explain it to myself, which allowed me to be unleashed emotionally when around other adults. 

Growing up and until I left the farm in 1992, of my own accord I regularly, cleaned and organized the garage on the Flamme farm and every toolbox we owned so that I could find the right size and length of bolt, the right rivet, the right piece of iron and/or the right sized wrench that my dad needed to fix something in the approximately 30 seconds I had before my dad would start screaming or worse, come to get it himself. I ran from where ever we were working to and from the garage. I was very observant. I knew my father's work, what he likely needed and how he wanted things done. This past summer Dad asked me to see if I could look to see if there were any cans of gopher poison left on the farm. I knew where to look. In my hyperaware state, there was little need for talk when we worked together - Sister Schlachter's observation wasn't far off. I wonder what it would have been like for my dad growing up as his dad was deaf and mute. My grampa had a younger brother (Uncle John) that was also deaf and mute. Their unique "family language" was understood by members of the family and consisted of very foreign sounds and and in my child's eye, a lot of arm waving and yelling that I may have mistaken for anger. My father became his dad's interpreter at a very young age. He grew up very fast. 

My most cherished memories of my dad are of his last years of life after we moved back to Alberta when his health began to fail. We knew the same people in the community, where they lived and their life histories. I very much enjoyed my turns keeping Dad company and cooking for him the couple of times that his cherished partner, Barb, took a break to visit her daughters.

In preparing for my talk at church, what I realized is that the attributes of Jesus Christ that I strive to master and make part of who I am are the same attributes of our Heavenly Father. I cannot look upon anyone without seeing them first as an infant or child and being filled with love for them. What especially gives me pause to reflect are seeing and interacting with people that live on the street. My life has been blessed by a heritage of mostly pragmatic decision making and yes, access to talk therapy to help me along. I don't know what impact my dad's death has had in my becoming the man I want to be (like Jesus Christ), but I am definitely still a work in progress.

I harvested my first Mexican growth cucumber from my wall garden. While not pretty, it was delicious. I hope there will be many more. 

On July 8, we are scheduled to participate in a protocolario event with an organization that helps mostly kids with cerebral palsy. The Church donated a Canadian-made exoskeleton (TREXO) that allows intervention at a younger age than other exoskeletons that are available (we have donated some of those too), delivering the hope of a better quality of life than being bedridden 24/7 for these kids. The exoskeleton is part of a small fleet used in a clinical setting by many individuals receiving therapy there.  July 8 is also my birthday and this will be a great way to celebrate my 64 years on the Earth. I am grateful that I am still walking, fighting and in good health.

We have been shadowing the couple from whom we will be taking on some additional responsibilities.  The most time consuming and perhaps challenging of their responsibilities is overseeing the housing needs of the 11 couples that live at Suites Teca Once. Because we are located in the neighbourhood we are, rents and the service expectations of the tenants are both very high. We have an app called, "Mantenimiento y Alertas de Desperfectos (MAD) which is an apt description of the attitudes, emotions and approach of a very vocal minority among us. We are the only Canadians. The person who thought of the name in Spanish had very good sense of humour. 

We were down to one washing machine last week and the water flow was a trickle that took over an hour to fill. I dragged the maintenance guy down with me to check the hose filter.  It was plugged and thankfully that problem was resolved. The other machine is still down - it doesn't empty.  It's still under warranty and so a call to the company would be in order but the Hotel seems to instead trusted their own technical person more - and he didn't think to check the hose filter on the machine that is now working again. We each have a set time block to do our laundry and with only a single machine, that's tough to do outside of business hours unless both machines are working properly. 

People living on the top floor often run out of water. Mexico City is been experiencing a general shortage of water for the past couple of months as seasonal rains have yet to arrive to refill the reservoirs. Some of them are now dry. All of the water we consume (bathing, laundry, cooking and dishes) where we live is hauled in by truck as if we were living at the Flamme Farm. We buy bottled water to drink. Sister Schlachter and I live on the first floor and have only run out of tap water once. The expectations of our fellow missionaries is that there should be an unlimited supply of water 24/7. The cement cistern cover is at ground level just beside the hotel entrance, and they have tossed it to one side. Six or seven truck loads of water are delivered daily. I am not sure what kind of creatures fall into the cistern or how big they are and I don't want to know.  When I cleaned the Flamme cistern, there were a lot of small critter bones at the bottom of it too. 

Lastly in February during a room swap, a couple of quality cooking pots that belonged to an outgoing missionary couple went missing and as a matter of principle still haven't been replaced because agreement can't be reached with the hotel and the folks expecting to use the said pots on what to replace them with. Three months later and those involved are still haggling on what is a fair settlement. I have asked the outgoing couple to please settle this before they leave, explaining that I don't have patience to haggle over used pots that no one is taking home with them. If we do inherit the task, I intend to set a one week deadline for them to resolve things or I will make the decision.  My goal will be to ensure no one is completely happy. At least that's my plan.  

On a more pleasant note, as part of our additional assignment we are participating in calls with couples prior to their arrival in Mexico to answer questions and for those that watch the news, to put them at ease about living and serving here. 

In our main assignment, I am finding my experience and training as a previous Government of Canada executive very helpful towards providing myself and other senior missionaries with the hope that a one degree positive change in the bureaucracy we work within is possible and that over time, that one degree might result in something impactful. We are trying to get written terms of reference for a critical committee that reviews all humanitarian aid project proposals before their being considered by the Area Presidency for consideration and approval - no small task when the preference is to not write things down, under the mistaken assumption that this results in 100% flexibility and where the expectation is that a lack of planning just makes an emergency for everyone else. Our full-time employee leaders are still relatively inexperienced and seemed captivated by a "guiding principles" slide I showed them yesterday, enough so that we at least have an opportunity to continue the discussion on the need for written terms of reference. 

Unfortunately, in my experience building and supporting a business culture is rarely intentional with notable exceptions (Farm Credit Canada is one of them and a model to follow), however, almost always business culture is established from the top down by what leaders unconsciously reward and what they tolerate - and employees strictly adhere to the unwritten rules of the game. The absolutely most toxic office environment I have ever worked in was my three years at Crop Life Canada in Ottawa - I was part of a very painful but positive change and left it a much better place. I learned a lot about what I can't nor shouldn't tolerate. I continue to be grateful that I and many other colleagues there had somewhere else to go to work.