I Remember My Dad

I remember my Dad teaching me to mow the grass at four years old. Well, maybe I was five or six. Not much older than seven. But he taught me how to check the gas and oil, how to start it, how to mow around the edges of the yard and house and garden, and then how to mow straight lines.

I remember the neighbor boy Jason saying his dad would only let him mow if he was wearing a suit of armor. I was glad my dad wasn't that paranoid.


I remember my Dad attending our high school soccer games, pacing back and forth behind the goal net, advising the goalie, encouraging the defense, and rallying our team to never give up.

Considering we didn't win a single game my senior year, my Dad's presence and belief in us became ever more valuable.


I remember my Dad coming in at night when I was in grade school, I slept in the top bunk, and he would lean over to give me a good night kiss. Except that it was more of a good night whisker rub. Which, as a boy, I kind of appreciated.

I remember Saturday nights with my Dad as a kid, watching Hockey Night in Canada on the TV, and us relaxing together a bit before bedtime. I remember Sunday nights with Mum and Dad and the family snuggled up on the coach watching the Wonderful World of Disney: Davey Crockett, Shaggy Dog D.A., and Herbie the Love Bug.

I remember going through a real dark period as a man, a husband, a pastor; my Dad and I started meeting for breakfast every Friday at Kahganns Korner, a little gas station restaurant on the corner of 69 and Highway 6. We'd walk out of that dingy place smelling like a smoke stack! But I cherished those times with my Dad, talking about gardening, the news, politics, ministry, marriage, life.

I remember dinner time, Dad at the head of the table, Mum at the other end, and us boys on both sides. Mum would have us help set the table, and then we'd sit down, Dad would pray, and then we would feast. It wasn't long before things got loud and obnoxious. Ben would sing a silly song he heard on a commercial - usually the most annoying one. Matt would be making odd sounds and comments. Jerm would be telling funny jokes, the punchline timed to when I would slurp up some soup or take a swig of milk.

I'm still impressed that Dad managed to grin even as I spewed the contents of my mouth all over the supper table. Every once in awhile, Dad would say, "Enough!" We'd quite down real quick, but then, as Ben would say, we were starting to get on our own nerves anyway.

I remember, soon after we moved to Montgomery Michigan, Dad was given an opportunity to start a second garden at the Ferrier's farm down the road. Dad dragged us boys along to help weed a large plot of neglected dirt. Dad set about his work with determination and diligence. It's almost as if he enjoyed transforming this unused piece of land into something productive and nourishing.

Though at the time we didn't quite appreciate the scope of Dad's vision, nor the hardiness of his work ethic, we did have fun trying to yank out weeds that were taller than us! It'd take three of us to pull them out of the ground! We wondered about what kind of country we had moved to that had weeds like this! Dad was undaunted, and by the end of the summer we were savoring sweet strawberries, feasting on fresh corn on the cob, harvesting cucumbers, potatoes, green beans, peas and watermelon. It was always impressive to me what Dad was able to grow.

I remember when we were real little, we went to go visit Grandpa and Grandma Hallman on the farm. It was a cold, snowy, blustery Canadian day. Thus, the four grown ups bundled up us four kids and shoved us outside into the blizzard to play while they sat around the fireplace sipping hot tea. We trudged over to the barn for shelter.

While huddled there we tried to think of something fun to do. We noticed that the snow drifts were so high and solid that we could walk right up onto the barn roof. Which is what we did. We then noticed that there was enough packed snow on the roof that if we climbed high enough, we could slide down the barn roof and land in the snow drift. Which is what we did. Now we were having some fun in the blizzard!

After awhile we noticed that the bottoms of our snow pants were shredded to pieces. We couldn't figure out why. Then we noticed little nail heads sticking up out of the roof. It was then that we realized that we were busted. We doubted that our parents would have approved us in climbing up a barn roof in the middle of a snow storm to use as a slide, and now we would have to tell them about it. It was a somber moment. So we decided to keep sliding, if we were going to get in trouble anyway.

After awhile, when we got really cold and there was nothing left on the bottom of our snow pants, we single-file headed back to the farmhouse, prepared for doom. You can imagine my mom's shock when we entered the kitchen with shredded snow pants. We timidly awaited my father's follow up comment of "You what?" But instead it was if the heavens openend, the angels started singing, and my father responded with a laugh, a huge grin, and: "Yeah, that's what I used to do when I was a kid!"

Oh, we were so happy, I had never been more thankful for my dad then in that moment.

So now, when I mow the yard, I remember my dad. When I cheer my kids on at soccer, I remember my dad. When I kiss my daughter and sons goodnight, and every once in awhile give them a whisker rub, I remember my dad. Sometimes I'll turn a hockey game on just as a way to remember being with my dad as a little kid. I doubt I'll every eat another meal at Kaghanns Korner, but every time we drive by on our way up to the Lake, I remember my dad.

Every time my kids get loud and obnoxious at the dinner table, I remember my dad. Every time I plant a bearded iris or marigolds, I think of my dad. When I plant huckleberries and asparagus, rhubarb, strawberries and pole beans, I think of my dad. And when my kids do something crazy dangerous, like climb to the tops of thirty foot trees, I remember my dad.



I remember my dad studying the Bible. I remember my dad preaching Scripture. But mostly what I remember is my dad living out his faith - as a dad, as a husband, as a friend. The first sermon of my dad's that I remember being interested in was about 1 Corinthians 13. Like my father, I've preached through that text many times. Like my father, I've meditated on those words of God for many hours.

Like the Apostle Paul, when reflecting on all the words of the Gospel, on the life, death and resurrection of Jesus, here was the conclusion that we have come to: without love, anything we attain is worth nothing. In imitating the life of Christ, we would, like Paul, describe love by first saying that love is patient, and that love is kind. And when I read those words, I remember my Dad.

And when I remember my Dad, I will remember his faith in Jesus, I will remember his hope in God, and most of all, I will always remember his love.

Fare Well, Dad, and God Speed

Off you go, Dad, on your next adventure.

You've had your share of unexpectedness, unasked for odysseys. And with grace, class, and quiet determination you would step through the opened door. That's how I see it, anyway, even if I wasn't there to observe the questioning conversations and pondering thoughts.

There was the adventure of becoming a pastor. You didn't see that one coming. Yes, you were a leader in your Roseville church, you served in Christian Endeavor, impacting a province for Christ. But when the invitation to consider serving God as a pastor was presented, that changed everything. You resisted it. You doubted it. You didn't believe you could do it. But you set off on the journey to do it.

There was the adventure of going to college in a different country. You didn't think it was possible. Sure, your younger sister had gone and done it - but could you? She believed in you, helped convince you it was possible. Your life of farming had it's routines and setbacks, predictability and dangers - should you leave it all behind? Would you succeed? There was only one way to find out.

You went, you worked, you studied, you got married, you graduated, then worked and studied more and graduated again, got ordained, got your first son, then your first church.... Almost 40, with a Master's degree, starting life over again, achieving what you didn't think was in your future, in ways that you didn't see coming.

There was the adventure of taking Rozanne Stucky as your beloved wife. Two quiet but kindred spirits, coming together from two different countries, two very different families, yet together facing a new future as one. She drove a Mustang, you drove tractors; you ate head cheese, she ate tenderloins. You the farming Canadian man, she the small-town American girl, but together you gave each other a new beginning, a new family, a new way to serve wherever God would send you.

There was the adventure of becoming a father to Tim, Jeremy, Matt, Ben. And Mike. And Willie. And Don. And other boys, other men who have flourished under your steady gaze, strong hands, gentle heart, wise words, nourishing convictions, hope-full faith, thought-full love. The seven of us boys are proud to have called you Dad.

There was the delightful adventures of welcoming Tara into the family, of welcoming Maria into the family, of welcoming Jana into the family. And more wonderful adventures with becoming a Grandpa! Savoring summers at Lake Pleasant, celebrating with birthday cakes and Christmas feasts with the chatter and laughter of all those adventurous grandkids: Emma, Levi, Isaac, Eli, Eva, Lydia, Cameron, Mia, Avery, Brooklyn.

We are your gifts to the world, adding more goodness and grace to the family and friends God has brought around us. As a Dad you made much possible for us, taking us along on your adventures to new places, new people, new experiences. You believed in us. You were proud of us. You served us. You sent us off on our adventures. You gave us your blessing. And then you continued to be a blessing to us.

And there were the adventures you had as a pastor in Toronto, North Bruce and Shiloh, Montgomery, and Fort Wayne. Also, the adventures you had in all the other jobs you worked to help provide for your family. Like being a bus driver. Or renting out the cottages at Lake Pleasant. Or, after you retired from pastoring, the adventure of working in Angola at the local Wal-mart as a bike-assembler. You assembled to the glory of God, serving every customer and fellow co-worker with dignity, kindness, extraordinary patience, and a joy-full attitude. What you poured into your pastoring - whether at a church or amongst the bike-racks, at the Lake, on the bus or in the garden - you took what God surprised you with and still served faithfully.

You also had to endure the unwanted, the heart-wrenching adventure of saying good-bye to Ben, and to Matt. Oh the fear, the weeping, the bewilderment, the crushing grief. These unexpected travails were thrust on your shoulders, shoulders that shuddered with weeping, shoulders that sagged under the weight of sorrow, but shoulders that we all leaned against, strong shoulders that led us through, shoulders that carried us along - in faith, in hope, and in love.

We can't stop the adventures from coming. But what we do with the adventures that God sends to us, that's the story of our life. And your life, your story, it inspires me, us, to keep believing in God, to keep loving one another, to be a servant to many, to stay a student, a follower of Jesus, until the last breath.

You were the kind of leader who led quietly, you were the kind of man who served behind the scenes. You were a hard worker, you were reliable and trustworthy, a man of your word, diligent in what you set your hand to. With the doubts and insecurities you carried around, with the fears and envy that every working man has to wrestle with, you did so such that you chose contentment and diligence. With where God called you, you went trusting, and teaching through your life. Thank you.


Fare well, Dad, and God speed. You fared well here, Dad. You provided for your wife well, for your children and grandchildren and future generations. You provided for your church, for other ministers and missionaries, other charities and good works. You fared well and paid attention to the welfare of many. Thank you.

Along your journey, you inspired many to trust God, to follow Jesus, to listen to the Spirit. May what you inspired in us be continued, may God continue what he started in you- through me, through us, through all your family, through my children, through all those you baptized and ministered to - for generations to come.

"What matters most to me is to finish what God started: the job the Master Jesus gave me of letting everyone I meet know all about this incredibly extravagant generosity of God. And so this is good-bye.

You're not going to see me again, nor I you, you whom I have gone among for so long proclaiming the news of God's inaugurated kingdom. I've done my best for you, given you my all, held back nothing of God's will for you. Now it's up to you.

I'm turning you over to God, our marvelous God whose gracious Word can make you into what he wants you to be and give you everything you could possibly need in this community of holy friends. I've never, as you so well know, had any taste for wealth or fashion. With these bare hands I took care of my own basic needs and those who worked with me.

In everything I've done, I have demonstrated to you how necessary it is to work on behalf of the weak and not exploit them. You'll not likely go wrong here if you keep remembering that our Master said, 'You're far happier giving than getting.'"

So: God speed on your next adventure, may you fare well there too. May it be full of the unexpected, may it be an odyssey of more happiness than what we could ever ask for or imagine. We turn you over to our marvelous God who is now making you into what he wants you to be...

Death after Life

Last night we kept vigil with Dad. We waited with him, praying our way through the darkness. Listening to his labored breathing, to the raspy silence. St. Paul poetically maps out the way of love: love is patient, love is kind. And thus it is in the coming death of Dad, we all are given moment after moment to extend loving patience and loving kindness. As we wait, so we love. 

Our life is put on hold, routine is disturbed, schedules are thrown into disarray as Dad dies. It's not a matter of resentment, but a reality to embrace. The capacity to rely on friends and family, to weather the mourning storm, it reveals the wisdom of how we've been trying to live. Death is a form of judgment, an unmasking of reality. Because it comes after life, death is the period which prompts us to look back on the sentence of our life.


The chaos of death can either be fueled by how we've been living, or it can be embraced. 

Dad's pending death has been prompting thankfulness. And perspective. How much grace is required to die well? The one that is dying, the ones that are mourning - we can give and receive grace, or resist it. I'm thankful for our family and friends who have poured out so much grace. Though we are sad, we are grateful. And it prompts me to consider: how much of life is preparation to die well? If I want to be well-loved as I die, if I want to be remembered for loving-well, then what must I sow now?

In sorting out what I think are my Dad's successes and failures, because I add grace to his life, I get a new understanding of his death and his life. The grace magnifies the successes and it transforms the failures. All that is good about Dad, I've tried to imitate; what I've judged in him, I've seek to overcome in myself. Death after life provides space to revisit my memories, to reconsider the gift I was given. Death after life is a moment to fill with grace and gratitude, or to sow it full of weedy bitterness and regrets.

My Dad is not dead yet. But we've been fully aware that he's been dying since a few days before Christmas Eve. As our life as ebbed and flowed these many weeks, we've thought a lot about the tides of dying. So fragile life is, so much is unguaranteed. How useless it is to rage against God at the unfairness of life. Death is what adds meaning to life. 


Ignorance of death prompts the wasting of life. Contemplation of death after life can add wisdom to your limited days and decades. Our reaction to death after life is often a paradox: we hate the death but savor the importance it adds to our life. It's often in death that we realize what we truly value, who we really are.

Death after life. Is a funeral something to avoid, for you? Is a death a tragedy to ignore or swiftly pass by? Or is the death of one you care about an opportunity for you to reinvest in your one life? What have I done with all the deaths of the ones I love? I'd like to think I've gained wisdom, wrestled with cynicism, struggled with despair, and embraced the uncertainty. And there is more yet to experience. I don't want to waste my Dad's death, or his life. Death after life, it's how our world works. So what work must I do now, and in the coming moments, to help my Dad die well-loved?

Why all this writing about my Dad, about death, life, love? Well, it's a way to sort out what's in my head and heart. And maybe a way to encourage others who have felt the sting of death. As one who follows in the way of Jesus, I work to live and love and prepare to die from a Gospel point of view. Jesus was a master wisdom-teacher, not only in his teachings but also in his life. To me, for my Dad, Jesus is believable, a trustworthy guide through reality. Death after life becomes good news.

In believing him, the crucified and resurrected Jesus, it plants new ideas about death after life. Death is to prompt mourning. But the promise of resurrection sparks hope. So it is with glad obedience to Jesus that I work to love my Dad well, both in living and dying. To choose love, in the way of Jesus, fuels my faith and hope in the resurrection, in the restoration of all things. Death after life: for me it has prompted and planted grace.


Thank you, Dad, for introducing me to Jesus, to living, and now dying.

Death and Seeds

With my Dad dying, I am obviously thinking about death a lot. I think about Dad's life, such as I remember it and know it, in light of his impending funeral. And I think about my life in connection with my Dad's life, and his dying. There is gratitude. There is respect. There is confusion. There are questions. And there is guilt.

My Dad was born to a farmer, probably a third, fourth, maybe even seventh or ninth generation farmer. Lots of seeds got planted by Hallmans. Lots of life was sustained by my family over the decades and centuries. Many seasons of summer, fall, spring and winter were endured. Accumulated wisdom on how to prepare, when to work, what to do amidst the unexpected. But at the core of farming is this finality: winter is coming. 

To the degree that we forgo cultivating a vegetable gardening, that we buy canned and boxed food at a grocery chain-store, we rarely ever get the reminder to prepare for winter. Or death. Sure there are signposts, funerals of friends, tragic snuffing of life on the nightly news or Redbox movies. But does it lead to our rumination of a life well lived, of seeds well planted, of ground well prepared? Do we take seriously that at the end of the harvest is the cessation of work?

My Dad has planted many seeds during his almost eighty years of life. As a farmer, as a gardner, as a husband, as a pastor. As a son, as fruit of his seed, I contemplate the gift of life he made possible for me. And what am I doing with it? What am I doing with his gift, my life, and the story of his life. The wondering prompts guilt.

It's too easy to plough through the seasons oblivious to the rhythms of the Earth. To miss moments of planting, to skip over the days of cultivating, to ignore the weeding, to resist the waiting, to be distracted during harvest-time, and to misuse the rest and repair that winter offers. I feel like I've missed too many moments with my Dad. With a heart that is already grieving, it seeps with guilt - the finality of death illuminates moments wasted, questions unasked, stories unearthed. 

With Dad's life slowly but surely diminishing, it makes me wish I would have made more of our time together. And so I feel guilty about there not being more when we've reached the point of there never being anymore. There are few more seeds for Dad to plant. Just a few more, and then Dad's spring, summer and fall have ceased. I will revisit the seeds Dad has planted in my life, and realize that it's uncountable. But I will try. 

And I will let the guilt prompt me to feel grace. Death has a way of causing us to grasp. And I feel it strongly. But...that for which I grasp, it was undeserved, a good gift from God. So while I feel guilty for not appreciating my Dad more, I take the next step of being thank-full for the gift of my Dad, that I could appreciate him and be blessed by him. Just another way my Dad's impending death helps me turn seeds of guilt into a basket of life-giving grace.

Death as Winter

It's a beautiful Spring morning. Shadows and sunlight mingle on the green, sloped backyard. A partially planted garden, empty swings, fading daffodils, and a mess of sticks and uncut logs ready for a campfire. This is a good time of year to be alive. Full of potential, of freshness, of possibility, of seedlings and tree buds.

And yet for our family, like too many others, it is a season of Winter in our soul. If life is like seasons, then my Dad is somewhere past Winter solstice and... we don't know. The brain tumor has brought about a bleakness, the cancer has stirred up a flurry of uncertainty and immobility. The prognosis of death, the onset of Winter is very real in this season of Springtime.

Everyone has their own story of Winter, of Death, of a season of fading life, of a tale coming to an end. In my own story with my Dad, I'm searching, reflecting, accepting, discovering, realizing, and mourning.

I'm sad that my Dad is dying, that he has been dying while still living these past seventeen weeks. I'm sad that we didn't have more notice prior to the brain tumor and surgery - the debilitation that followed the procedure robbed us of: that final getaway, the one last family event, the beloved Christmas feast. I'm sad.

The thousand thoughts in my mind, they need to get sorted out. Conversations with family and friends has been helpful. But to write, to filter, to get the right phrase, to write out the ideas, it's needed.

How many billions of people have watched their Dad die? Nothing unique about my experience in the grand and tragic tale of humanity. Except it is for me. And with all the accumulated wisdom out there, I want to help my Dad die well loved. And when my day comes, I want to die well.

So I write in preparation, as a form of action, as a way of healing, of serving, of loving.

"A good reputation is better than a fat bank account.

Your death date tells you more than your birth date.

You learn more at a funeral than at a feast - 

After all, that's where we all end up. 

We might discover something from it.

Crying is better than laughing.

It blotches the face but it scours the heart.

Sages invest themselves in hurt and grieving.

Fools waste their lives in fun and games.

Endings are better than beginnings."

Remember One Dead

Thus death is the briefest summary of life or life reduced to its briefest form.

What is the benefit of pondering the deaths of those you love? Yes it is painful, yes it is sorrowful, yes it is difficult. And yet much wisdom in life can be gleaned from reflecting upon the deaths of those you love.

Yes, once again go out to the dead in order there to get a look at life.

Our family goes out to visit Ben and Matt's grave each year on their deathday. We've been going to Ben's graveside since 1994. It's hard to put into words why we make the trek. Every couple of years we wonder whether we should still head out to Huntington on this evening. But we do. And Kierkegaard teaches me why we ought to continue the tradition.

In truth, if you really want to make sure about love in yourself or in another person, then note how he relates himself to one who is dead.

In our Western civilization, we turn our backs on our ancestors. Maybe it is the Western Christian aversion to pagan and Eastern veneration of our elders. Either way, we have an uneasy relationship with our dead. It causes angst, confusion, rage, despair, helplessness - but love?

How we express love to our dead reflects our ability to love the ones who live. But, you ask, am I to still love the dead? As Kierkegaard writes in Works of Love: But we do have duties towards the dead. If we are to love the men we see, then we are also to love those whom we have seen but no more because death took them away. No, one must remember the dead; weep softly but grieve long.

In this chapter on the work of love in remembering one dead, Kierkegaard asserts three things: the work of love in remembering one who is dead is a work of the most unselfish love, of the freest love, and the most faithful love.

He comments that for the living, our understanding of love is often based on repayment. Love is strengthened when it is rewarded with a thank you, with a gift, with kindness, with devotion, and so on. But the dead cannot repay you for your love. If, therefore, you wish to test for yourself whether or not you love disinterestedly, note sometimes how you relate yourself to one who is dead. Do you weep softly and grieve long over the dead you love because of what it does for you, or for how you continue to express your love to them. That you give the love is more important then that they acknowledge the love.

Not only is the work of love in remembering one dead the most unselfish love, it is the freest love. The stronger the compulsion, the less free is the love. A baby's piercing cry compels you to come care for it. The dead utter not. Your husband complains, a wife nags, a child whines, a neighbor or coworker comments... and so you adjust your works of love. But the dead you do not hear, they can't compel you to give your time, your attention, your devotion. And so if you give love to the dead, it is the most free. If, therefore, you want to test whether you love freely, observe some time how over a period of time you relate yourself to one who is dead.

The work of love in remembering one dead is unselfish, it is free, and it is the most faithful.

When two living persons are joined in love, each holds on to the other and the relationship holds on to both of them. But no holding together is possible with one who is dead. Immediately after death it perhaps can be said that he holds on to one, a consequence of the relationship together, and therefore it is also the more frequent occurrence, the customary thing, that he is remembered during this time. However, in the course of time he does not hold on to the one living, and the relationship is broken if the one living does not hold on to him. But what is faithfulness? Is it faithfulness that the other holds on to me?

Kierkegaard goes on to say: One who is dead does not change; there is not the slightest possibility of excuse by putting the blame on him; he is faithful. Yes, it is true. But he is nothing actual, and therefore he does nothing, nothing at all, to hold on to you, except that he is unchanged. If, then, a change takes place between one living and one dead, it is very clear that it must be the one living who has changed.

In our fast paced, pleasure-obsessed culture, who has time to love the dead? And who has time to love the living? How does one cultivate unselfish, free, faithful love these days? It was difficult in the 1840's, and it still is today. We honor the dead when we remember them, yes. But Kierkegaard presses us to love the one dead. Love is love is love. Love to God, love to the living, love to the dead.

He concludes: The work of love in remembering one who is dead is thus a work of the most disinterested, the freest, the most faithful love. Therefore go out and practice it; remember one dead and learn in just this way to love the living disinterestedly, freely, faithfully.

If you fail to love the dead, you can't blame the dead. And thus you are given the opportunity to consider why you fail to fully love the living around you. Maybe you should quit blaming them for your failure to fully love them.

Remember one who is dead, and in addition to the blessing which is inseparable from this work of love, you will also have the best guidance to rightly understanding life: that it is one's duty to love the men we do not see, but also those we do see.

I'm thankful my family makes the yearly trip to the cemetery. And now I more fully appreciate this work of love. I am more aware of how selfish, unfree, and faithless is my love to God, the living, and the dead. Yet with this confession comes the opportunity to learn to love in a new way. While I am alive, I will always have more to learn about the work of love. And when I am dead and join Ben, and Matt, may those I loved weep softly and mourn long.

[Soren Kierkegaard, Works of Love, pgs 317-329]

Happy Birthday to My Mum!

An ode to my Mum:

I am thankful to God for my Mum,
even though she made us drink cod-flavored oily stuff for our health.
I remember with fondness the never-ending supply
of strawberries on our Shreddies. And muffins for breakfast.

I thank my God often for my Mum, 
especially since she has always believed in me,
inviting me to dream big, and introducing me to classical music.
She encouraged me to read. A lot. Narnia. Middle-earth. Scout.

I am grateful for my Mum,
making summer vacations at the lake so memorable.
And for sending me to church camp. Including Summit.
She took lots of pictures of us kids as we grew up. Lots!

The gratitude grows over the years, 
So helpful, available to listen, to love, to change diapers.
Patient, understanding, praying. Laughing at ridiculously inane jokes!
Spending so many hours playing with the grandchildren

Happy Birthday Mum! You are the gift we celebrate today.

Another Fat Tuesday

"I love Fat Tuesday!" That's Eli's summary of the day as he was watching me upload pictures for this post.

Our family has become fond of the day - feasting on the pancakes for dinner has become a great tradition. Not only do we enjoy adding all the extra-rich stuff to the feast, but it also is a great prompter to discuss what Lent is all about. As we're digging into our pudding-laden pancakes, we go around the table and share what we're going to give up for Lent. It becomes a family event, a spiritual collaboration.

If you're not familiar with Fat Tuesday, here are some posts from the past with info and links to bring you up to speed on the Christian holy day. Click here and here and here!

For breakfast we initiated the day with Paczki. They look a lot like a donut, but better (or worse... :) According to tradition - as printed on the box - this Polish treat comes from all the extra fattening stuff and sweet stuff that has to be disposed of before the beginning of Lent. The housewives would make a donut-like treat that became known as a Paczki. In Romania they are known as Gogosi, and in Ukraine they are called Pampushky.

Here we are in the evening getting the pudding ready for dinner! We mixed up some butterscotch and some lemon pudding to go along with the tapioca we bought at the grocery store.

Some of the other toppings to go on the pancakes...

Here we are feasting on a table laden with puddings and chocolate bars and whip cream and peanut butter and blueberry pie filling and fake maple syrup.

This was my second serving: fluffy-rich pancake with peanut butter, butterscotch pudding, whip cream, chocolate syrup with Twix bars. Mmmmmm...

Hey Matt!

After we get flu shots for the kids (oh joy!) we'll head to Huntington, to Pilgrim's Rest Cemetery. For the past eight years we've headed there on 12/30 to visit my brother Matt's gravesite. In 2001 he was killed by a drunk driver.

As a side note, if you drink and drive, and you are my friend, KNOCK IT OFF!

My brother Matt is buried next to my brother Ben, who was died in August 1994. Ben was almost 14 when he died of a brain tumor, Matt was almost 24 when he was killed. It's not like we enjoy going to the cemetery twice a year, but it's a way for us to remember them, their life, and that we miss them. They've never met any of their nephews and nieces, unfortunately. Which is why we value the visits, the times to tell stories, to laugh and wince and remember.


Tara and I hosted on Sunday the Hallman Christmas - twenty of us packed into our home for a feast and gift unwrapping festivities. It was a long string of tables, what with my Dad and Mum, Mike & Jana and their four kiddos, Jerm & Maria and their two, and then our four.

Dad sat at one end of the tables, I at the other. As I chewed my ham and gulped my "Can we drink this yet" punch, I looked down at the table and wondered how we would've fit Matt's family and Ben's family into the arrangement.

Ben wanted to become a preacher. Would he have gone to Huntington College like his brothers and parents and aunts and other family members? Would he have found someone to marry at HC like his brothers and father? What kind of church would he have pastored? How many kids would he have had?

What about Matt? Would he have found a cute Mexican girl while stationed in Fort Bliss, Texas? As a cook in the Army, how would his service in Iraq affected him? Would he have survived? What restaurant would he be working in now, all these years later? Would his kids be as sweet and stubborn as him?

So: hey Matt, we miss ya! Miss you to, Ben.

Hallman Family Christmas Letter - 2010

Merry Christmas Friends!

It's been a great year for our family. We're thankful for all the friends and family we were able spend time with this past year.

Eli turned three in March and started preschool this fall. He loves playing with his older brothers - together they run through the house pretending to be Clone Troopers or one of the Skywalker guys, or Han Solo. He enjoys the special time he gets with Mom on Mondays before heading to lunch bunch, Grandma Rozer every Tuesday and Wednesday and with Aunt Shirley and Faye on Thursdays. Eli's gotten pretty good at helping Dad with laundry on Fridays - it's a lot more fun to throw all the clothes down the stairs then to sort seven baskets. His big adventure this fall was to get a big gash on his head that required staples. Scars are good, right?

Levi and Isaac turned five in January and started kindergarten in August. They get along with each other very well, and are learning how to gang up on Eli when he gets a little too rough. They look a lot alike, and they like to dress alike, but they don't want to be called the wrong name. They played soccer this spring and fall with TRYSA, with Dad as their coach and Emma as their assistant coach, and Eli as her assistant. The fall session included quite a few goals for each of them, and fun times playing with and against their classmates. They have gotten into Dad's Legos, building lots of spaceships and other creative stuff. This year Dad even let them watch Star Wars! Tara is the kindergarten teacher in the room right next to them, so they get a kick out of waving to her in the hallway every afternoon, and hanging out in her room with Emma for an hour or two after school.

Emma turned seven in March and started second grade this year. She loves to read! Junie B. Jones, Nancy Drew, Laura Ingalls, American Girl stories, and more! Emma is also very crafty like her Mom, she loves to scrapbook, make fancy notepaper, and draw. She got a pottery wheel and a sewing machine for Christmas, so we'll see what else she can design! Emma's been involved in Girl Scouts this year, she also tried cheerleading and guitar. A highlight for Emma and I was to attend the Daddy/Daughter Dance for the area Girl Scouts at the Coliseum. She loved getting dressed up all fancy, and she really liked the corsage I got for her wrist. We went with our neighbor Phil and his daughter Illyanna, we had a great time dancing together and eating lots of Girl Scout cookies!

This summer included time at the lake for Memorial Day and Labor Day, as well as lots of days and weeks in between. During our two week vacation at the lake, Levi and Isaac learned to ride their bike! Tara got some scrapbooking in, I got a lot of reading in, and we all got lots of sun and plenty of time to play soccer and swim together. In late June and early July we headed up north to Canada. We visited my Dad's homestead in the Kitchener area. This included trips to Roseville and New Dundee, visiting the Poths, checking out some cemeteries, and old family sites. Then we headed over to where I grew up in North Bruce and Port Elgin area. While there we hung out at the beach with our friends: Debbie Vanderklyn, the Mandigo's, and the Kelley's. We spent our last night there on July 1st, watching splendid fireworks on the sandy Saugeen shores of Southampton.

The highlight of the fall was the Fort Wayne Fort 4 Fitness. This was the third year for the event, Tara had run the four mile race in the first year, and the half-marathon the second year. This year we both ran the half-marathon. It was a lot of fun training for it over the summer, and even more fun preparing for it and talking about it together. The day of the race had beautiful weather, about seven-thousand participants, including lots of our family. My Dad did the four mile walk, along with Tara's Mom and Aunt Carol, her sister Amy, and cousin Julie and Michael and their parents Dan and Lauretta. We both had lots of friends who raced, which made for a festive occasion.

Tara started her fifteenth year of teaching this autumn; she's enjoying afternoon kindergarten at Covington Elementary. It's a short drive away - between Tara and I we drive the kids to school each morning. When Tara's not at school (or doing schoolwork at home), she stays busy staying in touch with her many friends through Facebook or email or the phone. She also stays in touch with her friends through scrapbooking - hosting several events throughout the year. Like any good mom, she never has enough time to scrapbook the hundreds and hundreds of pictures piling up in "boxes" on her computer. But she makes a good effort to keep at it, especially during the summer and some retreats. Tara is also leading the Kids Sunday School at Anchor Community Church. She enjoys teaching with her sister Amy and friends Khara, Jen and Donni. There are sometimes over thirty kids that show up on a Sunday morning, which can make for quite an exciting event!

Tim is in his twelfth year pastoring Anchor Community Church. It's been a great year there, especially with the twelve baptisms we had this summer at Stillwater and adding Carla Castro to our great staff.  On Mondays during the schoolyear I volunteer with Big Brothers/Big Sisters in their Lunch Buddy program at Nebraska Elementary School. A fellow pastor from the neighborhood, Peter Janzen, and I agreed to serve there three years ago. I'm always looking for more friends to join me there!

When home in the evenings and weekends, there's always yardwork and landscaping to do, books to read, blogging, and playing with the kids. We took lots of long walks around the block or through the woods - especially when they were part of the Kids Marathon with the Fort 4 Fitness. I was happy to take my family to a Toronto Blue Jays game in July - they won against the Twins, with lots of homeruns! This led to a few afternoons practicing our pitching and hitting in the backyard. In August Tara and I celebrated fifteen years together as husband and wife!

We are looking forward to a great 2011 - especially when we get to spend time with our family and friends, at home, at school, at work, at church, at the lake and around the city! Our prayer is that you will have a Happy New Year with the great people God brings into your life. Merry Christmas!

Emma the Evangelist

Tonight on our way to Emmanuel Community Church for their Christmas Edition of Catalyst, we were listening to Trans-Siberian Orchestra (pretty much the only thing we listen to in the van). There is a song - #10 I believe - which starts off with the word "carolize." Earlier in the season the kids wanted to know what "carolize" meant. I explained that it means to make up a song about the Christmas story.

While traveling, listening to the melodic guitars of TSO, Emma declared, "Nicholas in my class thinks that Jingle Bell Rock is a Christmas Carol, but I told him that it's not."

"Oh really," I replied. "Did you explain to him what a Christmas carol is?"

"I told him that a Christmas carol is a song about the Christmas story."

"Good for you, Emma!"

"I had to tell the whole class the Christmas story."

"You did?" I exclaimed? "Why?"

"They didn't know what it was," Emma responded.

"Which class was this that you shared the Christmas story?" I wanted to know.

"Music class," Emma answered.

I was curious. "What did you tell them?"

"That Christmas is about Jesus being born," Emma declared.

"Well said, Emma. I'm proud of you. I'm glad you shared the Christmas story with your music class! And you taught them what a carol is. Good job!"

Summer Sand

With the snow outside, it seemed appropriate to remember all the fun in the sun and sand we had this summer at the lake. We spent a lot of time in the sand. We built little rivers, deep holes, big, big piles, and little castles. Lotsa sand makes for a great summer!

Of course at some time a kid has to jump into the big tub of muddy sand and get extra filthy. Leave it to Levi to go first!

Whose King of the Castle? :)

Giants gazing down upon a doomed castle.

One of the gangs hanging around the beach.

Living sand-art! 

Jabba the Hutt on the left, Anakin in his fighter on the right.