98 pounds of sinew; the toughest woman I know.

Dear Aunt Alice,

This letter, this poem, is for you.

I was challenged to write about the toughest woman

I know, and you were it.

Why would I call you tough?

You’re not particularly big; you’re about five foot three with a slim build,

small boned.

A little wren of a woman.

You’re not particularly loud or argumentative.

Though you have your moments--when justice is on the line.

I remember very well your instructions about how to win a conflict with a store-owner.

"You go into the store, my dear, and speak quite loudly, but in the polite manner of a woman who is extremely refined, but is at her wits end

and is about to lose it.

They'll come around."

And indeed, they did.

You’ve gone through a lot of tragedy in your life, but you still greet each morning with joy and enthusiasm.

Where do you get all that energy?

I remember the stories about you as a hyper-active child. Grandma used to

talk about tying you to the clothesline when you were just two, to keep you safe,

because if she turned her back for an instant, you’d

be gone—high-tailing it down the middle of the busiest street in Vancouver.

You crumpled up on the ground and cried as if your heart would break,

until she finally relented.

Undid the harness, and let you free.

You’ve always been a free spirit.

You’ve been a mother to so many.

Six children by birth; six by adoption,

A hundred or so whom you fostered

over a period of thirty years.

Many of whom still keep in touch.

Remember the former bad boy,

who called just a few months ago? He said,

“Mom, that seed you planted forty years ago finally bloomed—I

Gave my life to Jesus, just this week.”

With twelve children, you have forty-five grand-children, and already

about seventy greats.

There’s been rivers of tragedy in your life.

A foster son, who, in the depths of despair, blew his face off with a rifle—

You were there--within a day--helping him find a reason to keep living.

Two of your daughters died before forty, leaving young children.

You took their children; travelled with them every summer;

kept them connected with the

rest of the family.

Uncle Jim died early, leaving you a widow

twenty years ago.

He left nothing in terms of material possessions,

But riches in the things that truly matter.

A family raised to love God and each other;

a multitude of friends.

Treasures in heaven, indeed.

Of course, a little income would have been nice.

A pension perhaps.

Even some real estate.

You were left, a widow, and destitute.

But you never complained.

You never whined.

You got creative-- starting a catering business

with your sister.

Baking cinnamon rolls, and selling them.

Festive meals for seniors' residences.

So now, you’re eighty five,

Your hearing is going,

You keep putting off cataract surgery…

But you can still outwork most young people

Less than half your age.

You run a boarding house,

Supplement your income with

A cleaning business.

You keep us all on our toes.

You haven’t given up.

You still work every day, every job with a servant attitude.

Each day, you're still striving, still trying your best,

to teach us

the things that truly matter.