My childhood/early adult memories of Christmas are centred around family, in particular my Omie and Oma. They serve as a reminder that I have strength in my DNA.
My paternal grandmother, Else Nikolai (Oma) travelled with 3 of her sons from the Ukraine to Canada leaving her eldest son, Arnold, and husband, Adolf, behind. Arnold died in his late teens having been drafted into the army. Her husband was arrested and Oma never saw him again. How similar to the atrocities happening in that same region today. Reports of women fleeing with their children have me in awe of their strength; their commitment to survive.
Oma was a hard worker. She helped in the kitchen at all the church dinners, was a cook at Green Bay Bible camp, and made the best pickles ever. Oma definitely had opinions and wasn’t afraid to share them. She had no qualms about telling pastors and politicians what she really thought! I may have got that trait from her. Oma never remarried. She devoted her life to her children, grandchildren, and her beloved church, Bethany Baptist in Vancouver, BC.
My maternal grandmother, Gerda Zindler (Omie) travelled to Canada alone in her early twenties to get married to a man she’d never met in person. She told us of getting off the train and meeting August Zindler. They wed soon after her arrival. They had 4 children, one died at age 2. August was quite a bit older than my Omie. He passed away when my mom was only 19. Omie never remarried and lived in her Chester Street house until a week before she died at age 89.
Omie was devoted to her children and grandchildren. I spent a lot of time with her. She taught me how to sew and to cross stitch. She tried to teach me a little bit of baking which did not interest me at all at the time. Now I love baking and cherish using some of her old handwritten recipes. Omie could be quiet and kept her opinions largely to herself. I have fond memories of spending many a Friday night at her place, sitting beside her on her comfy red velvet couch watching TV. I never doubted how much Omie loved me. I miss her to this day.
In the midst of my own grief, my thoughts are on my grandmas. Two strong women. Each experienced loss. Each knew grief. They’d both lost a spouse, a child, a homeland. Both came to Canada alone, or in Oma’s case with 3 youngish boys. Both were generous with all they had. They set the bar high.
Omie and Oma were prayer warriors, not in a loud bombastic way, but in a silent, head bowed, bible in hand, apron on, loving way. They both prayed continually for their families. Their faith sustained them through unimaginable difficulties yet they remained matter of fact about their experiences. Neither talked about things being particularly difficult. As I look back through my own aging lens, I marvel at their enduring strength.
These memories remind me of the importance of living. The importance of enduring, of finishing well. They would have been proud of how Tim finished his life. Working, playing, loving, and ultimately embracing his faith. My grandmas showed me what strength, humility, and faith looks like. It’s still hard for me to find comfort in Tim being reunited with them. Not knowing what heaven is really like from this limited earthly view, I sometimes try to picture them talking, laughing, baking, cooking, with Tim (of course) making his special sauces.
So then, Oma and Omie, I know I don’t need to ask you this, but please take care of my Timmy. Introduce him to your friends, he likes to have lots of attention. He loves getting lots of presents. He’s about quantity over quality. If you do Christmas up there, make sure his first one is super special. I know I can count on you.
Until we meet again,
Carol
I’d love to hear the stories of your grandmothers. Feel free to share.
Better is Possible 