Firm, Fair and Friendly

Constable McKechnie at Millgrove School

In front of our old house on Millgrove Drive

Some of you know my Dad as Sandy or Mr. McKechnie or maybe as Corporal McKechnie. Some of you might remember him as “Alexis’ and Cam’s dad” even. However, I think a lot of you might remember him as “Constable McKechnie”, the policeman who came and walked around the school during recess, chatting with you about staying safe, listening to you tell him about “this one time. . .” and maybe giving you a sticker or pencil or lapel pin.



I’m writing this for you today. Well, for you, and in honor of my dad. Today, June 26, my Dad, Corporal McKechnie, known by many as Constable McKechnie, is retiring from the RCMP after over 25 years of service.

I could write pages on being an RCMP family, about my dad’s stories, about how proud I am of him, my memories of him. Seriously, pages worth of memories. However, I’ve decided to try and impart a couple of things in this post in honor of dad’s retirement. The first is his policing philosophy.

I want you to know and be assured that the “nice policeman” who talked to you on the playground really was a truly kind and fair police officer throughout his career. It may seem biased coming from me, but I say this feeling confident that hundreds of people that have dealt with my dad through the years would back me up.

Dad’s policing philosophy has always been “Firm, Fair and Friendly”. He has a gift for speaking to people, understanding them and relating to them. Dad taught us that people end up in bad situations because they’ve made poor choices. This does not necessarily mean that they are “bad”, “rotten” or unworthy of kindness. He is a firm advocate that in day-to-day dealings police officers should be treating men and women the way that they would want their own mother or father, brother or sister treated. It was always noted that authority in the law did not give a police officer the right to act as though they were a “better breed” than the regular citizen.

In fact, when my dad came to Millgrove School to walk around and talk to us during recess it was because he wanted you to learn from a young age that he was not an enemy; that he was there to help you; that police officers can be trusted.

I can’t tell you how many times we would meet a client of my dad’s while we were grocery shopping who would tell me what a wonderful man my father was, about how much he had helped them in their situation. Even when dad was dealing with people who were on the wrong side of the law people thanked him! Some of these folks turned their lives around eventually and remembered dad from their more troubled youth. That’s another thing that I’m glad dad taught me - that people can change. Not every one does, but it is possible. People should not be considered write-offs.

Since being transferred to Red Deer, Dad has been the head of the Domestic Violence Unit. He’s been working with women who have been abused by the men in their lives and concurrently has also been encouraging those men who want to change their abusive behavior.

However, in all of the good work that my dad has been doing through the years we all  know that the world can be a dark and scary place. So I want to impart a second thought. I would like to talk about what it’s like to send your dad to work every day in this sometimes disparaged world. I want to write this too for all of my friends who now work in emergency services.

Dancing at his Depot Graduation

As a paramedic who grew up with a parent in emergency services I feel I have a view from both sides. I remember lying in bed as a little girl praying to God, bargaining with God, that I would be a good girl if only he would keep my daddy safe from the bad guys. I prayed to God that I would never hear the doorbell in the middle of the night. I knew that would mean my daddy was dead.
One morning, when I was about 10, I woke up and heard my parents laughing in the kitchen. I walked in and saw my dad, stitches in his head, a bloody bandage around his elbow. I distinctly remember the feeling of my heart dropping into my stomach and I sat down right there on the floor. But dad laughed at one of his own jokes before coming to give me a hug and assuring me that he was alright, that he had just gotten into a tumble with someone who had stopped taking their medications.
When I was 20 my mom and I woke up one morning to discover that Dad had never come home. He wasn’t answering the phone. Mom called the dispatch center and asked where he was. Again the feeling of dread returned when the dispatcher became panicky realizing that no one knew what had happened to him. Luckily this also had a happy ending as dad was at an emergency scene and had a miscommunication with dispatch. We all know that other police families have not been so blessed.

I have heard some of my coworkers discuss how they feel guilty when they have to miss their kid’s events due to shift schedules. I would say that although I’m sure there were times when I was disappointed that my dad couldn’t be there, I don’t have any actual memories of disappointment. I remember always being proud that my dad’s job was to help people. I remember the events that he did make it to, especially the ones that he came to in uniform. As long as you make the most of the time you spend with your children and as long as you don’t bring the job home with you, your profession will not wreck your children.

I would like to end with a request. Likely, many of us have had an unpleasant experience with a police officer, I know I have. On top of that the news pelts us with stories of police shootings, brutality, and unprofessional conduct. Before you paint all police officers with the same brush, before you find a police officer guilty in your own judgement, before you post some story about police brutality in a mob situation and especially before you talk disparagingly about the police in the presence of your children, remember the little children who are praying that their daddy comes home safe. Consider that for every police officer who is rude, impatient and arrogant there is one good one like my dad.

I would ask you to stop and remember Constable McKechnie, that kind policeman that talked to you at recess.

God Brought Me Winter Tires

I'm not half-bad at playing house. I say playing house because that's what it feels like. Like not that long ago I was three feet tall and baking an imaginary cake in my imaginary kitchen and now I bake real cakes in my real kitchen in my beautiful house while throwing in a load of laundry, paying the bills, determining the most efficient heating strategy for the winter and trying to dust the living room before the timer on the cake goes off. I enjoy it. And like I said, I'm not half bad at it. I'm only around a 7 on the scale organizational awesomeness but when it comes to domestic ability it seems to do the trick most of the time.

The rest of the time it's not enough. Playing "real" house is hard work sometimes. Staying on top of everything requires vigilance, money and motivation. There are some parts of playing house that escape me at times, like changing the batteries in the smoke detector (whoops), keeping track of which week the town graces us with the favour of disposing of our garbage as it seems to change every month, shovelling my driveway and most sadly, keeping up with my car maintenance.

My poor car. I love it dearly though you would never know by looking at it. You'd think I'd be nicer to it considering its the only thing that's gotten me safely from point A to point B in the crazy-insane amount of driving I do. However, I usually take it completely for granted, that is until I start to feel that familiar vibration. You see, much like its owner, my sweet little car has a bit of an autoimmune disease that causes it to prematurely wreck its own tires. It can't be fixed. So my car and I, we go through a lot of tires. That's downright pricey.

I think any home owner would agree that home-owning in general is pricey and that when it comes to finances some months are better than others. This is not a particularly stellar month in the cheque book. In fact, I would describe this month as being a traumatic hemorrhage of money. Not a AAA per say, but not a paper cut by any means either. But what's a gal to do? I guess I'd rather have a financial hemorrhage than an ITLS case study with my name in it because I drove with bald tires through an early October snow storm (oh wait, that's exactly what I did). So I set out to my local OK Tire shop to get a quote.

One of the many great things about living in a small town is the local business owners. I walked in to OK Tire and my tire guy knows me by name and he knows the make and year of my vehicle off the top of his head. He's the only mechanic I actually trust when he says he knows what's wrong with my ambulance - so my tire issue, he's got that covered. Unfortunately, even with a good deal, the price of winter rims and tires, along with the knowledge that I'd need to buy new summer tires in a few bitterly cold months was enough to make my eyes water. So as I stood there, comprehending which route of credit debt I wanted to take, God intervened.

Seriously! Groan or shake your head or do what you will but its the truth. Sometimes we wait a long time for an answer to our prayers and sometimes the answer is "no". However, every once in awhile God answers our prayers in such a way that we can not even consider denying his absolute presence in our lives. In this case God answered my prayer lickety-split and my eyes were then watery from the awe of His goodness.

What happened? Well, my tire guy looked up from his paperwork and paused as he stared blankly for a moment before saying, "Wait a sec, there was a guy in here earlier who mentioned he needed to get rid of some winter tires for your model of car. Should I make a call for you?" My head was nodding faster than a bobble-head doll on a grader. Within 24 hours my amazing tire guy had contacted the seller, inspected the tires and negotiated a price for me. This intervention cut my cost in half. On top of that, the seller also had summer tires that had barely been used that he also sold to me for an awesome price.

I'm thankful that my tire-guy was willing to go out of his way to help me and that there just happened to be a man in the store earlier that day looking to sell some tires from a vehicle just like mine. Most of all, I'm happy and eternally excited that I have a Lord for whom no issue is too big or small for Him to care about and that He is teaching me to see Him in the little things, call for Him during the little things and trust Him in the little things.

Even if it's just a set of winter tires.

Stumbling on a Blessing (a.k.a Remy the Really, Really Good Painter)

Blessings are good right? That's a dumb question. Of course blessings are good. Just the word carries positive connotations. I'd even say that most of us are fairly grateful for the blessings we've already received. After some discussion at Sunday school today however, I'm wondering if we can begin to stumble over our blessings. I'm thinking that we can let our blessings alter our attitude, prevent us from participating in open fellowship and prevent us from fully communing with the Lord.

To better illustrate my thoughts (and mostly for my own amusement) I'm going to use a fictional story about "Remy, the Really, Really Good Painter".

Remy lived in a community of painters. Some were admittedly really poor painters, some were average painters and some were pretty good painters. There were a couple that were really good painters. However, God blessed Remy and made him a really, really good painter.

Remy knew that God had blessed him with this gift. He was thankful for it too. People paid more money for his paintings and so he had a nicer house. He got a lot of publicity for his paintings and so everyone knew his name and complimented him on his work. He also had a number of beautiful paintings to decorate his home and to give to people as gifts. Yup, Remy was one blessed dude. However, Remy didn't always know what to do with such a big blessing. He didn't always know it, but sometimes it caused him problems.

 Remy was a genuinely good guy, so he had lots of friends. One day he was painting with his friends. Some of his friends had finger paintings, some had paintings made for calendars, but Remy - his painting was fit for the Louvre. Everyone gathered around it. "Wow, Remy, that's a really, really, good painting! That's incredible!" Remy knew that it was a really, really good painting but like most people in the community Remy valued humility and he didn't want to seem boastful so he contained his smile and just said, "thanks, but it's not a big deal, I don't really care about this one". His friends turned to sheepishly put their only half-decent paintings away.

Remy's friends would often ask him to help them with their paintings. After he helped them perfect a certain brush stroke or get the shadowing just right his friends would say "Remy, thanks very much for helping me. I really appreciate it." Again, Remy didn't want to seem prideful so instead of saying "you're welcome" or "glad I could help" he got into the habit of saying "no worries" or "not a problem". A few of his friends became more hesitant to ask for his help.

One day, Remy and his friends were sitting in the coffee shop discussing painting. His friends were lamenting about how they often had difficulties mixing the colour hyacinth purple. Sometimes they used too much red or other times not enough blue. Remy didn't have any trouble mixing hyacinth. He was having trouble lately mixing lagoon green though. It was becoming troublesome that he couldn't quite get it the way he wanted. He figured he couldn't really complain though - after all he wasn't having the issues with hyacinth that the others were having. So when his buddy asked, "Remy, are you having any problems with your painting?" Remy answered, "I can't complain, I'm very blessed." Soon his friends began to worry that maybe they couldn't relate to Remy anymore or maybe he didn't trust them with his problems anymore.

Remy was excited when he read the tender for the commission of a painting for a The Snazzy Yacht Club. If he was chosen it would bring in enough money to pay off the mortgage on his parents house and have a enough left over for him to build a studio, or maybe a painting school! He put in his application. However, when he knelt to pray before bed that night he decided not to ask God for the blessing of receiving the commission. He felt that would be selfish. God had already blessed him soooo much, especially with his talent for painting. Remy didn't get the commission.

The next day Remy ran into his church pastor at the local Art Gallery. "Hey Remy, how did you ever get that commission for The Snazzy Yacht Club?"
"No I didn't actually," said Remy.
"Oh, that's too bad. I supposed God decided to answer that prayer with a 'no' then eh?" Said the pastor who was a bit odd and had a habit of making awkward statements.
"I didn't talk to God about it," admitted Remy. "I thought it would be selfish to ask God for more blessings on top of the ones he's already given me."
"Hmmm," the pastor paused. "Well Remy, let me ask you this - If you heard a child asking their parent to feed them supper, even though the parent fed them supper the night before, and the night before that - would you think that child was selfish?"
"No, of course not," said Remy.
"Well Remy, remember you are a child of God."
Remy raised his eyebrows and nodded as he considered what the pastor's reminder. "I've never thought of it that way. I never considered that I could let my blessing get in the way with talking to God."

Remy began to consider where else his blessings were causing him to stumble. . .

~***~

So that's Remy the Really, Really Good Painter. Like I said I was thinking about this today as a few of us were discussing how sometimes we don't ask God for something, or we feel bad about asking God for something because we've already received so many blessings. We forget that God wants us to tell Him everything and that he wants to give us good things. Later on I began to think on what other issues could arise from our blessings.

The first and most obvious one I thought of was pride. It begins when we forget that we are nothing without God and start taking the credit for ourselves. However, we all know that arrogance and boasting is bad, so I moved on to thinking about things that might not be so obvious.

If feeling we're overly blessed could keep us from talking to God and keeping fellowship with Him then it could probably keep us from open fellowship with our friends. We don't want to sound like we're ungrateful and complaining so we don't open up to our friends about our day-to-day trials. We forget that there's a difference between complaining to our friends and open discussion and mutual support from our friends - especially when we face the same or similar issues. There can also be more humility in accepting a compliment with a simple thank you or accepting a thank you with a simple "you're welcome" than there is with trivializing it.

It was a new thought to me that even when God gives us a great blessing we run the possibility of stumbling while we strive to be humble and grateful for that same blessing. Just thought I'd share my thoughts. What do you think?

A Field of Glory

She was a rolling meadow small, skirts of grasses, but weeds as tall
Her wild flowers, untamed and fair led her to ignore the patches bare
Where not a green thing grew at all
And the sun, why she basked in its bliss, unaware
She was burning from its hot, dry kiss.

Then, one ragged day He came,
Plan in place He began to toil
His work, it ripped through and overturned her soil
Crushed her wild flowers down,
Uprooted the grasses of her gown
She cried in pain, "Just leave me be,
Can't you see you're hurting me?"

He did not stop but worked harder still,
He pulled the weeds that had grown so tall
All burrows were filled, so as not to fall
He broke the ground so dry and cracked
He was not discouraged by what she lacked

Horrified she looked around and all she saw was broken ground
Dusty field of brown and black, spread with muck on top of that
But now He whispered as He sowed
A promise of new life with every throw

"Shhh, small one, do not weep
My plans for you may seem but meek
But trust me and you won't be sorry,
I'll make you into a field of glory"

She ceased to cry and when she did
Tears from Heaven flowed instead
Rain immersed her ground and washed her clean
New growth, new life, she was redeemed

She loved Him now and bore His work
A meadow small she could not be
"I'll be His field of glory!"
She spoke determinedly

And where she had been stripped to dirt and dust
She grew straight and tall, leaving Him her trust
So now she wears an emerald gown
Her hair bright gold and eyes of sky
She dances in joy as the wind blows by

Because He's making her a field of glory
Fulfilling the promise that she won't be sorry
A song of courage and truth she hums
She knows she'll be with Him when the harvest comes.

~L.L.M.

Painting Words

It's already April 20 and I haven't posted anything this month. It's not because I've lost interest, not in the least. I have stared at this blog nearly every day this month and I have a few rough drafts sitting on my desktop as we speak. The thing is, they're really big thoughts. Big thoughts need time to mature or they can get out of control. They require discussion with friends, prayers with God and a big dose of "what am I trying to say?" reflection before they are put to paper, or keyboard, or what have you.

 I'm a big believer that words are powerful, that they have the potential to hold an almost magical quality and as such should be handled with responsibility.  I also believe that writing is a form of art. If you saw a painting with a cow in the foreground, with a bottle of laundry detergent, while a British soldier played with a hula hoop and in the background was a row of adobe houses and a Christmas tree you'd probably be confused. You'd likely have no idea what the artist was trying to evoke. Plus it would be ugly. Very ugly.

So until I produce a Monet, here are a couple of big thoughts wrapped in small packages.