Jam Busters in Heaven

I grew up on a farm in northern Manitoba, 16 miles from town. Every Saturday we would drive that 16 miles, 6.5 miles on gravel and 9.5 miles on pavement, for groceries. That would include a stop at the bakery for a week's worth of bread. The bakery probably had a name but in a town so small, it was always just "The Bakery". The owner had a strategic marketing plan - arrange the best sugary stuff at eye level for a 5 year old. That way while mothers bought bread, white of course, the children would stand with their faces pressed to a curved sheet of glass, the only thing separating them from sticky hands and an inevitable sugar rush. I was no exception and I was a creature of habit. I wanted a jam buster. My brother and sister were more experimental in their choices, one week selecting a cream puff, the next week perhaps opting for a long john with sprinkles. We never picked cookies. Mom made those for us. But for me, nothing could satisfy like that confection-coated, raspberry-filled wonder. I don't remember ever having to whine, plead or cajole my mother into making the purchase. She would just look down and nod and as the bakery clerk, appropriately clad in white, would lean over the counter slightly, I would point with silent conviction to that glorious tray of jam busters.

I don't eat jam busters anymore. I think they were better from "The Bakery" than anywhere else on earth. Besides, if you ask for a jam buster at Tim Horton's, the clerk (their uniforms aren't white!) meets your request with a confused gaze and then, like the dawning of a new day, understanding becomes these words: "Oh, you mean a jam-filled doughnut!" Yeah, whatever. Jam-filled doughnut. The name has no pizazz and the doughnut doesn't taste as good as the jam buster of my youth.

Gerry shared a jam buster story with me yesterday. He is in Ottawa for meetings this week but he also made some time to go to a tailoring shop that specializes in the fitting of RCMP officers' uniforms. He spent about two hours being measured and studied and measured some more for his new Inspector's kit. The tailor was a Vietnamese man named Huong and as he measured and pinned, he shared pieces of his life's journey with Gerry. He came to Canada as a young man of 25 to start a new life. That was twenty years ago. He worked hard and started a family and, like everyone else, worked his way through the peaks and valleys that are a part of life. Then in 2003, his 17-year old son drown. Huong's eyes filled with tears as he explained how guilty he feels about his young son's death. If only he had taught him to be a better swimmer. If only. Huong sighed and continued. He is a Buddhist and perhaps this accident was simply meant to happen.

The fitting complete, Gerry was about to leave the shop when Huong shyly asked if he would like to stay for coffee. He led Gerry through the shop into a small backroom where spools of thread lined shelves and industrial sewing machines took centre stage in the cramped quarters. Four other tailors broke from their duties and introductions were made. Someone plugged in the kettle and pulled up an extra stool as someone else cleared a space on the little lunch table. Coffee was served and conversations were shared. Not one of these men came from a similar background yet their lives had become woven together, thread by thread, much in the same manner as the fabric they make a living with. And now Gerry was a thread in their fabric. From a crumpled bag on the counter, Huong produced a jam buster and he carefully cut it in half, some of it's sweet red center finding it's way to the napkin below. It was the only one. He shared it with Gerry.

Last night as I lay in bed, I prayed for Huong and his family. I prayed that the seeds of salvation and hope that Gerry had been able to sow would one day take root and bear fruit. I don't know if we'll eat in heaven but I hope so and I think so because the Bible so often mentions feasts. I pictured Gerry and Huong meeting there one day, sitting down to share a jam buster and stories from the fabric of their lives.