Knox Presbyterian Church, Bayfield

Imagine. Its 30 years ago. You're sitting at the table with your family, about to eat some fresh moose meat stew with bannock. You're watching your 5 year old ...son across the table - innocent. Playing with his moose meat. And you start to feel the knots of anxiety in your stomach... Hes going to be 6 soon. Then they will be here to take him away. Should you take him into the bush and disappear? ...no.. they'd find you. They ALWAYS found you, and when they did.. the threat became a much bigger one. They might rape, torture you, murder you in front of him.. no.. you cant run. You would never get away. What about begging? Maybe if you beg and plead and cry... they wont take him away. But they always did. They'd tear your hair out while ripping you away from your child. Pointing their guns in your face while your baby cries in fear. They were ruthless. They didnt give a shit about your baby or you. You made the decision not to teach him the language, to ONLY speak English around him so that's the only world he will ever know. If he never breathes a word of Anishnaabemowin, he won't feel the needles piercing through his tongue. The taste of blood fills your mouth with memories of torture - of whips, and molestation, of the Sanitorium. You cant finish eating. You are glad you braided his long, jet black hair one last time - the braid that connected him to Mother Earth - and cut it off. You will at least have one, small part of him during those 10 years. The days pass by and the need to vomit almost never leaves your body. You wish you could hug him - you wish you could kiss him and tell him how much you love him, and lie through your teeth saying "Everything is going to be okay". But you dont know how to love. The priest took that away from you. You cant hug - because the moment your skin touches another's, and you feel that warmth; your heart starts racing, your body shaking. You want to puke and scream and run and hide forever, where they can never touch you again. The scars on your body from being burned by a branding iron; the choke marks and the lack of feeling in your tongue are all reminders of the schools and the evil they carried. So you choke on your tears watching the sun rise and set day by day, swallowing all of the words you wish you were strong enough to say. Then comes the day. The day that was burned into your memory at 6. The day that every mother feared more than death itself - the day they would come to take your children away. You knew this day was coming. And yet, you feel your heart sink into your gut as that engine pulls up. Your adrenaline begins to pump. The tears begin to fall uncontrollably, and the pounding on your door echoes in your frenzied brain. It's like death is waiting at your door. Because the moment you open it, a part of you will die inside forever. You may never see him again. And if you do, he will be a different person forever too. You have no choice. They will arrest you if you try to fight, they might even kill you. So you do what every native parent across Canada has been forced to do for the last 100 years. You open the door. **Between 1881 and 1997, it was mandatory by Canadian law and the Catholic church that all Indigenous children were taken into the residential schools to live (sometimes out of the province). There, the children were experimented on like animals, abused in every way, starved, kept away from their families, and many murdered. ***Children were more likely to be killed in residential schools than soldiers were to be killed during the second world war. Our generation -- the children of survivors or the childrens children of survivors - has a plague of difficulties to face. Many of us dont know our language, family, or culture. Many of our youth are growing up in foster care because of the inter-generational impact of residential school trauma, being demonized when they want to learn their culture. I have many friends who cannot hug their parents or who have never once been told "I love you". But our parents & grandparents are the ones who paid the ultimate price. I cannot imagine having my children taken away, or growing up in an institution, being called a number instead of a name for my whole life. They didnt have a choice. They were FORCED into following the ways of the Catholic church and giving up their way of life. The difference is - we have a CHOICE in who we are going to become. That is more than our parents and grandparents EVER had. We have the choice to drown our sorrow in the safety of the bottle, or to stand up and do what we have to do to break those cycles forever. We have the choice to LEARN our languages. To sit in ceremony and pray. To smudge, to drum, to heal. The power of CHOICE is a gift that wasnt given to our people for over a hundred years. In honour of our grandparents, great grandparents, great great grandparents, and every generation beforehand - the ones who gave their lives for our freedom - the ones who fought to keep our languages alive - the ones whose names will never be spoken or remembered - and in honour of the countless Indigenous children who never made it home.. CHOOSE to love. CHOOSE to forgive. Choose to walk a path of harmony. Choose to take the time to learn your roots, your language, your identity, your history. Most importantly, CHOOSE LOVE. I am not the author of this...Please share I have worked with survivors of highly abusive residential schools. To the credit of our Indigenous relatives, it takes tremendous courage to heal and they are doing that, and more! Love, respect and gratitude All my relations -Author, the amazing Mary Black Miigwich for letting me share your words

God is getting good at creating. A little girl was with her grandfather as he read her a bedtime story. From time to time, she would take her eyes off the bo...ok and reach up to touch his wrinkled cheek. She was alternately stroking her own cheek, then his again. Finally she spoke up, Grandpa, did God make you?" "Yes, sweetheart," he answered, "God made me a long time ago." "Oh," she paused, "Grandpa, did God make me too?" "Yes, indeed, honey," he said, "God made you just a little while ago." Feeling their respective faces again, she observed, "God's getting better at it, isn't she?"

The Moderator, the Rev. Amanda Currie, has issued a heartfelt and encouraging message following the longest March break and in anticipation of school re-openi...ngs. Read her message here and pray with her for students, teachers, parents and administrators: https://presbyterian.ca//moderator-message-school-re-open/ #presbyterian #schools #church

FAMILY TREASURE It was a family treasure - that vase that golden vase The vase had belonged to my great-grandmother, To my grandmother, and now to my mo...ther. This special vase sat on the mantle out of reach of little fingers. However, I managed to reach it. I climbed to reach it. I broke it the family treasure. Golden pieces of once a family treasure Valueless that moments before was priceless. And I began to cry - then louder in sobs that brought my mother running. I could hardly get it out: I broke the vase the treasure. And then my mother gave to me a gift. A look of relief over her face and Oh, I thought you had been hurt! And then she hugged to her the one who had Just moments before broken the family treasure. She gave to me a gift: she made it very clear that: I was the family treasure. I was what was priceless and of great value. She also made it very clear where her heart was. Source Unknown

Often white people get defensive when the subject of white privilege arises, as if you are supposed to feel guilty. We don’t want your guilt. We need your awareness. The burden of ending racism is not ours alone.

One chilly spring morning, amateur bird photographer Kathrin Swoboda captured shots of a red-winged blackbird forming smoke rings with his Spring song. Kathrin Swoboda Photography

Bingo wa a hit!

Cracked pots serve a purpose The story is told of a house servant who used two large pots. They hung from each end of a pole that he carried across his ne...ck. One of the pots had a crack in it. At the end of the long walk from the stream to the master's house, the cracked pot arrived only half full. The other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water. For two years the servant delivered only one and a half pots full of water to his master's house each day. The perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, but the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection and miserable over accomplishing only half of what it felt was expected. After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, the cracked pot spoke to the servant one day by the stream. "I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you." "What are you ashamed of?" asked the servant. "For these past two years I’ve been able to deliver only half my load since this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way to your master's house. Because of my flaws, you don't get a full reward for your work. The servant gave this answer. "As we return to the master's house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path." As they went up the hill, the cracked pot noticed the beautiful wildflowers on his side of the path. When they reached the house the servant said to the pot, "Did you notice the flowers grew only on your side of the path? That's because knowing about your flaw, I took advantage of it." I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back from the well, you've watered them. For two years I have been able to pick beautiful flowers to decorate the master's table. Each of us has flaws that if we allow it, the Lord will use to grace his Father's table. We have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us. (2 Corinthians 4:7)

How do you reduce your risk of COVID-19 when going out to a restaurant, coffee shop, or bar? DO carry hand sanitizer & wash your hands often. DO avoid commonly ...touched surfaces. DON'T share drinks or utensils. DON'T be in close proximity (less than 2 metres) to others who aren't part of your social circle. Learn more: https://bit.ly/30rUhbr See more

Presbyterian Camps are offering virtual summer camps this summer. Treat your kids to fun games, silly songs, devotional activities and virtual campfires, all fr...om the comfort and safety of your home. Details can be found here: https://presbyterian.ca/2020/06/25/virtual-camp/ #presbyterian #summercamp #devotional #church