Hope... better deemed... Expectation.

It would seem that Advent would be an odd time for a lost and wandering sheep to offer thoughts on this Advent journey through the desert, but whatevs... I'm all about oddness.

Can you believe that for 20-odd years, I lived my life not realizing there were "themes" to each one of the Advent weeks? It's sad, yet entirely true. I clearly was not paying enough attention during Sunday morning homilies to recognize and distinguish one week from the next. However, I must admit, I am a convert. I kind of like having a bit of direction... a bit of a theme to live that week within.

Hope.

A few years ago, our Diocese was fortunate enough to have a Brother from the Taize community in France come and lead a youth retreat. His theme for the weekend was none other than "hope" and for some reason, I got volunteered to give a testament of how I personally experienced and lived out "hope" in a tangible way. I'm pretty sure I blabbed on about something completely removed from what I should/could have said because in all honesty, I was not really the right person for the job and frankly, had nothing positive to contribute to the concept.

However, years later, I had a child teach me what it meant to hope in something... to place expectations in something and that is the story I feel compelled to share.

It was a cold and snowy December night in the final days before Christmas; the roads were icy, the temperature in the low 30's (C), and anyone in their sane mind would have been spending the Friday evening at home with the fireplace going and Christmas music playing. It was the night that the local "inner city parish" was hosting a musical/narrated production of "Touched by a Child" as a fundraiser for a local charity that works to find affordable housing for low income families. The show was sold out, the choir had met every Sunday afternoon for months to practice their four part harmonies, and people with "stories" to share had practiced their dramatic reading numerous times with the local clergy person who wrote the whole production.

The concept was that we, as a music/narrator team, were to tell the story of the Christ child from various perspectives. There was a story from the Inn Keeper, from the Dove, from one shepherd who saw a star in the night sky and followed it to the manger. A total of 5 "stories" were intertwined with music and congregation-inclusive Christmas carols.

Originally, I was to be part of the choir. My untrained alto voice, with enough rehearsals, had almost become acceptable to listen to. However, days before the 'big night', the writer approached me and asked if I might consider reading/sharing the story of the Shepherd because she felt that I could fit the part. It also meant that because I wasn't feeling very well, I could sit with the readers in the congregation rather than being up in the choir roster staring out at the crowd.

I spent that Friday running around to various appointments and late in the afternoon, laid down for a nap. Unfortunately, the nap went longer than expected and I found myself rushing to get out the door in time to battle the road conditions and frigid temperatures. Doing my hair took seconds, I threw on a decent looking outfit, and bolted. I probably sped the whole way, but I literally had to be there. I couldn't bring myself to call the clergy person and say, "sorry, I'm exhausted and it's a no-go".

Arriving at the neatly decorated church, I ran in, dropped my coat, stood in line with the other readers when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

There was one of the choir members I had grown to know over the practices and her 4-5 yr old grandson I had met once (because he was required to sit through a rehearsal). From behind his back, he pulled out a stuffed bear. His words were minimal, but the impact, lasting.

"This will make you better"... and off he ran. His grandmother, my fellow choir member, began to try and explain why I had received the bear. Apparently the funds from the bear were designated to the local children's hospital and when Connor saw the bear and knew that I wasn't feeling well, he insisted that they buy me a bear because his teddy bear always made him feel better.

The tears rolled my cheeks, because it all finally made sense. Conner had placed all of his hopes and expectations in that little stuffed bear... his hopes that it would make me feel better, the expectation that I would be better. He had no understanding of what was going on in my life, but he didn't need to. Because for him, none of the details mattered. All I would need... was in that little bear.

And, just as Conner had placed all of his hope for me in that little stuffed animal, I knew that I in turn, had to place all of my hopes and expectations in the Christ Child that would laying in that manger Christmas Eve... and that if I did that, I would allow myself to be Touched by a Child... Touched by a King.

It seems so stupid that I would need a tangible example of hope before I could physically and spiritually live in it and through it. But truth be told, there is not a Christmas that goes by where I don't pick up that little stuffed bear, give it a hug, and give thanks for a little guy named Connor... who taught what it means to hope and just how I can place all that hope in the birth of that Child, that Saviour, that King.

May we all, this hope-filled Advent week, find that tangible source of hope we seek.

Expectations

I've decided today that having expectations is one of thee most brutal things in the world.

Partly because it is inevitable that when you have expectations, you will be let down - whether by someone else or oneself, and partly because I was fortunate enough to live a small window of my life in which I was able to be expectation-free, and I kid you not, it was one of theeeeee most freeing feeling.

If you write someone a letter, you expect some kind of response...

If you ask someone a question, you expect some sort of an answer...

If you give of your finest gifts, you expect to radiate change in the world in some regard...

When you open the window and share a piece of yourself with someone else, you expect that they would do the same...

When you give it all you've got, you expect to be better than, "just not good enough"...

When you turn on the windshield wipers, you expect your vision to be cleared enough to see...

If you are being punished, you would expect it to one day end...

If you are lost in the middle of the valley, you would expect to eventually find your way...

If the answer to your question is, 'I don't know', you would expect to simply be told so...

When you apply SPF 30 sunscreen every 30 minutes, you would expect to not burn...

When you are humble enough to ask for help, you would expect some level of visible assistance...

When you are falling without a hope in hell in stopping, you would expect a friend to be there...

Among many (!) things that I wish I wouldn't have ruined, is the freedom that came in living expectation free. It was a much less frustrating and hurtful time in which it didn't matter if plans fell through or people did not follow through because there was this realization that ultimately, the only thing that mattered was being able to smile and take life in stride.

Maybe I ought to read, "The Simple Life" again...

I wish I had an internal GPS

I managed to get out to the lake this weekend for a bit to enjoy the sun, water, greenery, and quietness for what appears to be the last weekend before I must "clamp down" and devote the next two weeks to studying for the final exam that accompanies clinical. Drove up by myself and so before leaving, grabbed a handful of CD's for the road as my IPod is still fairly music-less.

The drive is a little under two hours and the road is paved the entire way. Rolling hills, flourishing crops, and plenty of animals tends to make the drive quite an enjoyable one. With about an hour left to go on the drive, I popped in a CD that had "E-Arrang't" scribbled on the top in green sharpie.

Moments into the first track, my heart did a bit of a flip as I remembered why this playlist was first created on my old computer and who the recipient of a burned CD was.

It was purchased, created, organized and burned for someone who was a very dear friend at a time who was in desperate need of some cheering. If I remember correctly, the CD was titled "Episcopal Arrangements", though, it was named so with my tongue secured firmly between my teeth. While I didn't make the CD for the bishop at the time, it was a CD that had a variety of discernment type songs in the voicing of Bryan Adams, Cat Stevens, Eric Clapton, and Cathedral choirs from abroad. And, if memory serves me right, my preamble to giving the CD to this individual was something to the effect of, "when you need a distraction from your day to day tasks, just crank it up and relax".

Well, I think I made it to the third track before I had to pull over. It was Bryan Adam's, "Here I Am" from the movie "Spirit".

"Here I am, this is me; I come into this world so wild and free

Here I am, so young and strong, right here in the place where I belong

It's a new world, it's a new start

It's a life with a beating of a young heart, it's a new day, in a new land,

And it's waiting for me...

Here I am

It's a new world, it's a new start, it's a life with a beating of a young heart

It's a new day and a new land,

It's waiting for me...

Here I am"

It's kind of a crapchute, or at least that is what it feels like. Here I am, young, strong, wild and free... and yet, I don't really feel like I'm in the place where I belong. Yes, nursing is great... I love the people, their stories, their willingness to share bits of themselves with an eager stranger... yes, it is a new world and a new start where each and everyday is new and different from the day before and the land is so new, I still get lost on a daily basis... yes, it is waiting for me - there are so many incredible opportunities...

... and yet, I am not where I belong.

Maybe I'm struggling because this song always used to be one of 'vocation' for me - one that I would sing loud and proud from my seat in church every Sunday... it didn't matter where the church was or who the people around me were, it felt "right". I felt at home, I felt as though I was truly living out my calling in sharing my faith and enthusiasm for God, spiritual journeys, and anything church-related, and most importantly, I felt as though my soul sang the words, "here I am..."

While some would wish to go back in time or for the ability to call a "mulligan" (aka, "do-over"), I find myself longing for an internal, spiritual compass that could articulate for this somewhat lost and wandering nursing student, "in 500m, turn right" or "when possible, make a u-turn", or could help me map out how I can best get from my distant detouring state, back onto the route that will most safely direct me to my destination, as the GPS in my car does routinely.

For even when I pulled off onto a gravel road where I could safely dry my eyes this weekend, my GPS sat on the dash and faithfully gave me the directions I needed to get from my tear-stained detour, back onto the highway and heading for the destination.

The Gift of Communication

At first I titled this entry, "the gift of language", but while thinking about it - language does not get us anywhere if we cannot communicate with someone else.

Take, for example, the adorable 85 year old Baba that will go down in the books as being my "first patient". Other health care professionals on the unit seem to dislike having "Baba" as a patient because every time they enter her room she either:

a) talks non-stop

or

b) only uses an English word for every 20 Italian words and even then, it is said with a very thick immigrant accent

In the short time that I have come to know her, I've learned a few incredibly valuable lessons regarding communication.

1) When 'pretending' to speak Italian, one must simply add "isimo" onto the end of every word. This way, even if the patient is confused by what you are asking them, they will laugh at your feeble attempt to try and meet them in the middle.

2) As much as I want it to be, "Crap-isimo" is not a word in the Italian language. If I had the opportunity to add it to the vocabulary of Italians, the definition I would attach to the word would be, "Wooooow, I screwed THAT up royally!" or alternatively, "DOH!"

3) If one truly does not understand what another is saying, a smile and a gentle hand on the shoulder go a very long way.

4) People prefer being spoken to directly and greatly detest having to use their adolescent grand daughter as a translator when trying to tell you that they are constipated.

5) Communication is so much more than simply the language we speak from our lips. It is about reading the pain in someone's face as they undergo an uncomfortable procedure or dressing change and reassuring them when it happens. It is about engaging their eyes as a sign of deep respect and admiration for the journey they have traveled and the experiences they have to share. It is about smiling as if to tell them that being in their presence has truly made your day. It is about holding their hand with a warm and gentle embrace as if to say, "I'm here, I'm with you, I want to help to lift you to your feet when you've fallen". It is about sitting in silence in their presence in place of saying, "I shall keep watch for you", reassuring them that they are not alone but very much loved and looked after. And finally, it is about a journey - a journey of two people towards a deeper sense of what the other means by their frantic, indiscernible speech or their playful twinkle in their eye. It is a journey that requires many steps, many detours, many bathroom breaks and many, many servings of patience, teamwork, and laughter.

She has taught me lessons that I hope to never forget and lessons that are applicable to so many various relationships in life outside the hospital walls. For even when we speak the same language as friends, acquaintances, and colleagues... we struggle immensely with communicating. We send virtual messages in place of phone calls, we neglect requests to respond, and we get overwhelmed by day-to-day responsibilities that before we know it, the day is done. Some lessons I wish I could write in a card and mail to people who have, for whatever reason, stopped communicating simply to remind them that I am still here - patiently waiting for the gift to communicate with them.

God's Altar Cloth

I had a very wise friend who loved to knit. She would knit tea cozy's, afghans, dish clothes, blankets... you name it, she could probably knit it. I remember watching her in a daze-like state wondering how someone could be so swift and gentle with their hands... never ceasing the loop, pull, crossover maneuvers that resulted in a glorious pattern of wool. I guess my watching her distracted her from what she was doing and she missed a stitch. Carefully pulling her needle out from the row she was working on, she began to tug the line of wool and watch as the stitches slowly undid themselves, one by one. And when she had reached the place where the mistake had happened, she gracefully slipped her needle back in and continued on.

I was astonished that she could do such a thing. I was under the impression that when a mistake happened, you had to go all the way back to the beginning and start fresh. When I built up enough courage to ask her why this was not the case, her response threw me for a loop and I've never really forgotten it.

She told me about how knitting was like life - it is a series of choices and movements we make as a human being. We all have the same starting point - we are all just a mere knot on a stick... but it's where we go from there and how we dance our dance that determines what our blanket will eventually look like. Regardless of how hard we try, we will occasionally drop a stitch or force a new one where there shouldn't be and sometimes we can go back and fix it. Other times, our "extra" move simply means that we end up with an extra stitch - an extra loop, an extra step to take each time.

This all seemed okay and made sense but then I asked her why she chose to go back and try and fix her mistake rather than just leaving it be. Surely one extra stitch was not going to make a world of difference.

She told me that when she made the mistake, it was because she lost a stitch. A loop fell off the needle and was laying limp in between two knitted stitches... and this couldn't be.

Sometimes in life, we miss a step. We are in a hurry to get from A to B or we don't feel that it's a step of crucial importance, but when we think like this, we are wrong. If that dropped stitch were to just be left alone, it may be okay, but alternatively, it may cause our creation to fall apart - to be pulled and unraveled and become nothing more than a heap of kinked wool. We must go back and pick it up and carry on because if we aren't careful, we will drop more stitches and there will just be more damage in the end.

Funny how, years later, her words are only now starting to make sense.

There are days in which I wish I could drop the past and leave it be. Days that I wish I could just start a new education and carry on with my life rather than going back all those rows to pick up that lost stitch... it would mean I would have to undo so many stitches...

But what I have only now realized is that I can't leave those dropped loops hanging in the middle of my afghan... they require my attention so as to one day, truly have the most beautiful blanket to lay upon the altar of God.

I thought each stitch was independent of the stitch beside it, above it, rows beyond it... but it's not - they are all from the same pile of wool. The further I go on this journey of discernment and healing, the more I come to understand how the stitches from years ago are truly interconnected with the stitches I am stitching now. Kind of mind boggling, but oddly reassuring.

Ultimately, my goal is to knit the most elegant and incredibly awesome altar cloth with my pile of wool I was entrusted. And the reality is that in order to do so, it means going back and picking up those dropped stitches, and pulling them back into the fabric. Because if I don't, not only do I risk a catastrophic unraveling, but I risk a finished product that is truly not reflective of the gifts and dreams I was entrusted with at my baptism.

So, to those stitches who have been knit into my cloth recently, bear with me. Please remind me that you are still part of the wool and I will pick you up again when I get there. To those stitches who have been waiting patiently for our paths to cross, hang tight. They will some day soon. And to those stitches who were dropped along the way, take heart, cry out for I am coming back to pick you up and tie you into where you belong. You will not be lost for long, I am coming.

Forgive Me

Everyday, at 10:11pm, my phone goes off to indicate that I have an email message to attend to.

I realize that the timing is a bit odd and actually invades into personal time whereby I should not be attending to anything other than peaceful reading, studying or sleeping... however, in a lot of ways, I need for my phone to go off at 10:11pm every night.

The email that I get is always from the same place... it was something that I signed up for years ago and occassionally the message that comes through is one that I've read before. But, for the most part, the message is a new one - and one that I oddly... need to hear on that given day for some reason.

Today, I had to laugh. After a crazy busy day of errands that have accumulated while in school, I was racing to put clean laundry away while reflecting on the day when I phone did it's little "bleep bleep" sound.

This was today's message - a quote from Robert Frost:

"Forgive me my nonsense as I also forgive the nonsense of those who think they talk sense"

At first - seems kind of comical - a poet's take on the Lord's Prayer. But when you really stop to think about it... it's not a nonsense quote at all... just a different way of saying it. Huh... imagine that. :)

To some, it's a coincidence, but to me... it's a gentle whisper.

Having a degree in psychology, it always astounds me to people watch. I don't stare them down so that it becomes a creepy and awkward situation, but at the same time, I love watching people and how they react to different situations in life.

For example, take car-racing friend. For the first time in her life this week, she played hockey. Helmet, gloves, stick and runners - she is part of our new ball hockey team this summer. Following the 4-0 loss, there were glum faces in the dressing room. Car-racing friend threw her helmet off in frustration and began going on about how much she "sucked" at this sport.

For us as a team, it was our second ever game. The score did not reflect the effort and energy we had invested, but there were a lot of great things that happened. Defense learned about keeping the other team out of our goalie's way and forwards learned how to line up for an offense face-off. There were wonderful passes being made, great team spirit and 15 exhausted ladies who have invested an hour of exercise back into their life that they wouldn't have otherwise done.

15 pairs of eyes and I bet every pair saw that game in a different light.

Funny how that works, isn't it?

This week was my limit. Our program requires that we take 15 credits in 5 weeks and this translates to literally, 8-5 days packed with lectures, labs, seminars, and study hours into the wee morning when we get home.

One of our seminar topics this week was discussing a "patient" by the name of Katherine, a middle aged woman who is in our care after suffering her second heart attack. She has all the "risk factors" that make her high risk for suffering another one: morbidly obese, a smoker, suffers from Type II diabetes... you name it. If she doesn't change her ways, she will die of a heart attack. Our seminar group was discussing what we should do with her. She is not being compliant with the cardiac rehabilitation program and our choices include discharging her on account of non-compliance or "reading her the riot act" (essentially laying it out for her that she will die in short succession if she keeps her life on this track).

Out of 11 of us... 10 voted to discharge her. 1 fought to keep her in the program a little longer and try to elicit a change in her behaviour/lifestyle.

I was overruled and we discharged her. I was devastated.

When speaking with our prof the next day, I was told that "in the real world", she would have to be discharged. It comes down to funding, to making priorities and to realizing that our patients problems should never become "our" problem as her caregiver. And, because I couldn't rationalize this decision in my heart, my prof and I ended up talking at length about Ms. Katherine.

Wise-professor took off her reading glasses and set them on the table without breaking eye contact and after a lengthy silence asked if she could give me a piece of advice that has worked for her in her practice as a primary caregiver. She began to tell me about how important it was for her, to establish those boundaries. She preceded her metaphor by claiming that it was a bit "out there", but it would be good to try. She then told me that every morning before going to work, she would put on her armor. It was not "real", but a mere image that helped her immensely. "I put on a helmet, a body armor, a belt, and carry my shield..."

As far as she let on, for her... it was just an expression of imagery. A mere coincidence that this imagery can be found in various places within a thick, ancient manuscript of how to live one's life.

But for me, it was more than just a survival mechanism in clinical... for me, it was a gentle whisper that wherever I go, there God will go too. Long gone, but not forgotten.

What does it mean for me? For God?

It kind of bugs me when other people wish something for me and it ends up coming true in inconceivable ways. Let me unpack that sentence a little bit more. I was exchanging facebook messages with that person in my life who wonderfully drives me nuts. They are that person who understands my thoughts better than anyone else and because of that, they are both wonderful and annoying. For sometimes, having someone know what you're thinking is the most annoying thing in the world. Anywho, I digress. This individual sent a message along asking how my Easter was and I responded truthfully by saying that for the first time in 25 years, I had not more than a snipet of the Holy Triduum in a church... of any denomination.

When asked, I explained to her that I was providing relief for a young man whose parents were in Vancouver and he required 24 hour supervision. Thus, preventing me from attending more than the occasional church service. And, I continued on to say that frankly, I'm not sure church is where I'm meant to be. Her response was something along the lines of, "I hope you manage to find Easter in other avenues of life, whether it be in Brady or what's around you".

I am rather in awe to confess that I think her "hope" for me actually became manifest in ways that I will never fully comprehend.

Easter Monday coincided with my 25th birthday this year. I was actually born on Good Friday, but it's not uncommon for my early April birthday to fall somewhere within the most holy weekend in the church calendar. I didn't have any grandiose plans for the occasion because I would be living with Brady until that Wednesday. At some point in the morning, Brady came upstairs and asked if we could go public library. I tried to explain that we couldn't, because the library was closed for the holidays. He seemed to accept this answer and went back downstairs. Moments later, however, he came and asked again. So, once again, I tried to explain that the library was closed but that we could go tomorrow (Tuesday). He quickly became agitated and began biting his hand (as per usual when he becomes anxious) and jumping up and down. My feeble attempts to calm him down by saying, "Deep breath bud" didn't really work and so I got up to try and calm him down with gentle physical contact.

Before I knew it, my forearm was locked in his teeth.

When he finally opted to free my arm from his lovely bicuspid grip, it was worse than I had hoped and he managed to pierce the skin in three locations. My birthday afternoon was spent with icepacks, copious amounts of polysporin, and hours on the phone with local health links trying to figure out how to prevent infections as the human mouth is pooling with bacteria.

However, this is where I was taken aback and cursed my friend for her Easter message to me.

Moments after the incident occurred, he came back upstairs and into the kitchen. "Brady sorry Dreea (his attempt at saying my first name, which is not really close, but we have a mutual understanding that this is my name)", picked up my arm, kissed it, rubbed it a little, and then gave me a hug. He turned around and went back down to watching his movie.

It was at this point that I began to cry. Brady seemed to sum up every Easter lesson known to Christians because he demonstrated to me, what it meant to forgive. Of course I was hurting and bleeding and worrying about future infections and complications. Without a doubt, it was the most upset I have been with another human being in a very long time. I was confused - why couldn't he just be verbally upset that the library was closed? It was something completely out of my control and yet, I was the one who got hurt.

But, at the same time, of course I could never stay mad at him. My hurt and anger and pain seemed to melt away in the moments following his child-like apology and understanding. Did his kiss stop my arm from hurting? Not a chance. But to my surprise, his simple gestures stopped my heart from hurting. In a huge way. Of course I forgave him. How could I not? He said he was sorry. Will he ever do it again? That I don't know. I do know that next time I have bad news for him, I will keep my distance and let him work through his aggression on his own, but I can't guarantee that it will never happen again.

This has really boggled my brain as of late as I have spent the last 2 years punishing myself for the mistakes I've made, removing myself from contact with those who know the truth and those who want to tell me all about God's love and mercy and forgiveness. But Brady, in his childhood mentality, has made me feel like the Grinch on Christmas morning as my heart seems to be growing. I now must set out to discover whether this is the case with God. Whether God is open to letting me kiss the bleeding wound I caused, rub it better, and say the words, "Dreea sorry God" or if I have missed my window of opportunity or worse, bit too deep for a mere kiss, rub and apology to rectify.

I don't know the answer, nor really who to ask. However, in my quest to wholeness and interacting with those who carry the light in this rather dark journey, I shall keep this question close at heart should I find someone who is safe enough to ask.

In the meantime, shall continue to give thanks for individual who sent along a message of hope, and a young man who taught me a lesson that I never would have learned otherwise.

WWJD

Tonight is a strange night. Not because I am sleeping in a strange bed or because I am away from family for the Holy Triduum, nor is it because we lost the championship game and I have to hang the skates up for another season. Truth be told, I'm not sure why tonight is strange... but it is.

On the drive "home" from the arena tonight, I started thinking about how Christians everywhere had come together to be with our Lord tonight. To sit in his presence as he broke the bread, to pay witness to a king humbling himself for the lowest of the low, and to sit in the shadows of darkness and keep watch just like he asked.

The memory that came to mind was one from elementary school; I was having an extremely difficult time "sharing" my best friend with the new kid at our school who obviously didn't get the memo that Krystal was my best friend and there was no room for sharing as far as recess time went. One of the teachers, noticing my upset, asked me to try an exercise with her. All she said to me was, "what if the shoe was on the other foot? What if you were the new kid and had to make friends and no one was willing? What would you do?"

Although I refused to see the logic in her words until many years later, she had a point. One must always seek first to understand and once they understand, can seek to be understood. I have since learned that she was influenced by St. Francis and that the lesson is a wise one.

Tonight, as I lay here, I wonder what it might be like to be in Judas' shoes. What would Judas do if Jesus offered forgiveness? Would there still have been a suicide? Would there still have been a crucification? If Judas dropped to his knees in remorse and repentance for reporting, would the church be different? Would the course of events have lead to a happier ending? If Judas spent time in his "cell" contemplating his actions and the consequences they had in the lives of others, would the other disciples have let him back to the table? Or, would they have crucified him themselves? Is there ever any way that Judas could right the wrongs? Would his personal testimony of the man Jesus was be a tale of incredible love and mercy or would his story be one riddled with fear of what was to come?

The only thing that I understand about our dear and fearful friend Judas, is why he may of felt that the only punishment suitable, was death. The guilt one carries when they betray a friend, a colleague, a mentor, a prophet, a king is more powerful and draining than anything else in the whole world. Truly, I understand that in a very tangible way. But surely, with enough self-inflicted punishment and remorse, God allows u-turns for even Judas is first and foremost a child of God, isn't he?

Hm. While it will be a night of staying awake for me tonight, my heart shall ache for the lost disciple this year, in hopes that a piece of him finds God in that garden and rather than turning against Jesus, he may find the strength to drop to his knees at the side of his fearless leader and seek forgiveness and strength for his frail and tempted soul.

And the winner today... Dr. J

"How is the medication working?" (Dr. J)
"Yes, I think so, but... it seems to leave me with a really dry mouth" (YS)
"Does this bother you?"
"Well, yes. You see, I was playing saxophone the one morning in church and there were a subsequent number of squeaks that are not normally part of my music because I couldn't gather up enough saliva to keep my reed damp enough..."
"Oh, you play the saxophone?"
"Yup!"
"Where are you going to church?"
"Well, I don't really refer to it as 'going to church' because I am really and truly only there for the music"
"You aren't there for God?"
"Nope"
"Are you mad at God? Because as a Christian (pointing to themselves at this point), just know that you are never alone in that journey"
"Ok"
"I once had a patient call God a very, very, very, very, very, very, very bad name - one that would never come out of my lips... are you afraid of God?"
"Uhhh... (voice quivering slightly)..."
"We should work on that. Find someone that we can talk to about that. We can both do that and we will compare notes next time."

I no longer felt completely alone on this journey where judgment seems to come before acceptance and more importantly, really respect a health care professional who is up front with me and calls it like it is - even if it threw me for a loop initially.

Tonight, I give thanks for the gentle way in which the truth was sought about a touchy subject and the reassurance that was shared, reminding me that I am not alone, not an alien, and not forgotten.

Ms. Saxophone Sue

The person of today is Ms. Saxophone Sue, but in order to illustrate the quality of S.S., I need to go back a little ways to tell the story.

I started playing piano when I was five. When I got to grade seven (approx 12-13 yrs old), it was a no brainer that I would choose to study band over art. So, my parents paid the band fees (art had no associated/additional fees), and I showed up the first day to be given a piece of paper with three lines. On it, I was to write my first three choices for instruments. I wrote:

1) Alto saxophone

2) Tenor saxophone (only if the alto is really not possible)

3) Baritone saxophone (only if the alto AND tenor are unavailable)

and I handed it in. Well, our band teacher had a crappy method of assigning instruments and rather than giving an avid musician the instrument of choice, she opted to give the "cool" instrument to the "cool/sporty" kids that were in the grade seven band class. sigh. Apparently my fourth option was the flute. So, grade seven, I tried to learn to play the flute. When grade eight rolled around, the question on the first day of classes was a little different. "Does anyone want to change instruments to try and learn a new one?" Oooooo... pick me! Pick me! Nope. Shockingly, she didn't pick me. And so, by the time my turn came around, once again - all the saxophones were taken. Yup, so in a stage rebellion, I chose the oboe. Finally, in the ninth grade, the final year at the school, two things changed.

1) I had been asked to try out for the senior basketball team and thus, finally became a sporty/cool person myself

2) the rest of the truly cool/sporty people realized that our teacher knew very little and dropped out of band for the alternative... art.

It also helped that the first band class day of grade nine, I marched into the bandroom and said, "Look. My uncle is going to lend me his saxophone because clearly this school does not have enough. Just let me play it already!"... turns out, I was the ONLY alto saxophone player in the band. True story!

Well, the Christmas of grade nine came around and it was the last present to be opened. It was a small box and my mind was boggled... I had already gotten more than I needed... when I opened it up, it was a mouthpiece for an alto sax. Me, being dense, smiled and got all excited because it meant that I could take "my" mouthpiece to school and not have to use the chewed up ones that the school provided. My parents were dumbfounded. Finally, my dad walked around the corner with a familiar sized case... and lo and behold, inside - was an original Conn (one of the finest makes from the "good ol' days)... and it was mine. I loved it - played every day - literally. And when the year end concert came for our grade nine band, my band teacher stood up and introduced the closing song by saying, "I have waited years to be able to play this piece, but I never had a saxophone player capable of playing it. Now I do." It was a sax solo in which the band did nothing but support/chord behind me. My Conn made it sound like gold.

Shockingly, a similar story occurred at the end of grade 12, whereby we were on a band tour in the maritime provinces and playing in a huge festival. My band teacher stood up and said, "I introduce you to our soloist,.... "

I took my baby to church tonight to practice for the Easter Triduum music. (You learn that when you graduate, there are very few places one can play a band instrument...and so, although I am not a part of the church community by any means, I get to hang out and goof off with my Conn). I got all the way home from the church, went to grab her out of the car, and realized that she wasn't there. I panicked. Raced back into town, looking on the roads in case she fell out (of a closed window?! Don't know what I was thinking... or if I was thinking...). Nothing. The church is no doubt, locked up. Calling one of the guitar players, whilst completely out of breath, she tells me that she has a key and if I can swing by and pick it up, I can use it. Race over to her house, get the key, take the shortcut back through the graveyard, almost hit an elderly, retired priest on an evening stroll in the dark, unlock the doors, trip on the stairs, and finally... see the outline of the case - right where I left it.

You might think that the moral of the story is that one should never leave their beloved more than an arms reach away or in safe keeping, but in fact, the moral of the story is that one ought to be more like Saxophone Sue (the lady with the church key), who gives of herself (or belongings) to save another's evening entirely. Dear Saxophone Sue... tonight I give thanks for you and your heart of willing... open to sharing what you have, to enable another.

Rosalind A.

So, as per the previous post, the first person I wish to speak about is Ms. Rosalind A.

I started work at 8am this morning at a nearby college and in order to get there the required 15 minutes early, meant that I got there with exactly... 42 minutes to spare. Picking up a requisite steeped tea and a free copy of the newspaper, I checked in early and sat. And waited. At half past nine, the program organizer came in to inform the four of us that toddled in that due to a booking error, we were actually no longer needed. Yup, spent the paid three hours of work reading the paper, drinking tea, and attempting the two crossword puzzles in the paper.

On the ride from the local college to the University, we were at the last stop the bus makes before it crosses the river, and on got Ms. Rosalind A. Wearing pressed black slacks, black pointy shoes with lace up the front, and a red sweater zipped up to the level of the tucked in scarf, she was gorgeous. Not gorgeous in the "I wish she was 40 years younger", but more so in the, "silver hair, cut in a stylish manner, back sitting straight, leather gloves holding onto a leather folder, embossed with her name in gold in the bottom right hand corner" gorgeous.

When she got off the bus, she walked as someone in their 70's would walk: stiff legged, slightly bent at the waist, and with small steps. But, walking mannerisms aside, there was something about her that one couldn't help but be drawn to.

It wasn't her impecable sense of fashion, nor the hair perfectly styled with a small clip holding her bangs back, but rather - it was the way she carried herself. It was evident to anyone on that bus that she was flooded with both grace and self-confidence, neither one out of check. Her gently formed wrinkles and bent knuckles told a story of lived experience in which her hands were always very much a part of her work and her face, quick to show the emotion that sat underneath it.

We didn't speak, just acknowledged one another by that simple-stranger sort of smile one gives another as if to say, "I see you, have a nice day, thanks for holding the door".

So today, on this trying-to-be-spring like day, I give thanks for the quiet, graceful, aged lady on the bus... better known to the rest of the world as Rosalind A. ---------.

A New Start: Lent, as defined by my terms.

Well, it has been a jello week; you know, the kind of week that barely seems to hold together long enough for you to reach the end? The kind of week that, if you're not careful, will jiggle out of your control and stain the white carpeted floor? You get the point. Over the past week, I have been told in just about every way that someone could be told - that doing some reflective reading, quiet contemplation and attending a worship service - is simply "not enough" to mark a fresh start and a long journey back to the path of the righteous.

In lay men's terms, the message is this: "Look, you screwed up. It's going to take a lot more than miniscule efforts to make things right."

Rrrrrrright. Well, at first my thought was that the Lenten season would be the ideal time to start the process, however... I clearly got the start date wrong. It's what track athletes call the "false start". To be honest, I'm not sure if I got the timing wrong or the lane wrong. I'm thinking it was the lane. What I mean to say, is that maybe it was wrong of me to think that I could just quietly attend weekly, evening worship and slowly start to build up the courage to talk to people. I thought that my ducks were lined up and that after hiding in a hole for a year and bit, things would have blown over. Or, at least enough so that I would have a chance to let the roots grow into the ground before the wind decided to blow.

Uhhh... nope!

So, in true YoungSeeker fashion, I have opted to rebel. Not that this concept is novel one - it's something that has been a theme my entire life. Anyway, here's how.

Rather than trying to fit my path into the church seasonal calendar, I am starting my own Lenten season. And, rather than confining it to 40 days, the only upper daily limit on the season will be 364 1/4 days x 40 years. And, rather than giving something up or adding in a prayer practice, I shall instead, daily reflect on the people I meet and how I wish to emmulate a piece of them in my life so that I will once again, in the eyes of others (and hopefully God) be "good" again.

Some might jump to conclusions and say that this is a poor practice because I was made to be an individual - unique, Godly, and self-sufficient... Or, alternatively, may point out that this is not an "approved" spiritual practice and may distance me even further from the church I long to call home... however, to these people, I would simply raise my hands in exhaustion and share with them the comments/happenings/challenges over the last week and illustrate that I truly, do not have a better idea.

And, so begins the journey of finding something to aspire to in at least one person I meet, witness, or exchange pleasantries with every day from now, until... well, I don't know when it will be until... let's just wait and see.

Directions

I don't know about anyone else, but as a directionally impaired individual, I often find myself wishing that every highway between here and my destination - would be riddled with the "exit right overpass" option. You know - the road that safely takes you off to the right, over top the rest of the speeding traffic, and lets you go back to the turn you were "supposed" to make in the first place. Often the case with me is that I am too busy pondering life and forget that I was supposed to take the exit 23A and now... sadly, I am at exit 30B and I can't just pull a u-turn in the middle of a busy road.

The question of the day: if I am lost and wish to be found on my way to large family gathering off the interstate, is it necessary that I explain the wrong turns I took that got me lost? If I were asking the gas station attendant for directions to the celebration, would I not simply ask for the most direct set of directions from where I was currently located to get to the party?

This is the question that is weighing heavy on my heart today; I do not understand why someone would be defined by the sum of the wrong turns they took. I do not understand why the gas station attendant must first know where I went wrong in the first part of my drive in order to help me get to where I am going. It is this question that makes it hard for me to understand why the visiting Gabriel decided to tell the UC only of the wrong turns I have made and opted to leave out the joys, the straight and narrow travel, and the bigger picture of what makes me who I am today.

Well, all the same, today is a new day and although there is still the guilt of yesterday to deal with, I intend to do all I can to make sure I can make a positive difference in the world of today. Because realistically, that is all that I can do.

St. Benedict on Stability

Tonight... was a challenge. Not the "I see you are out of shape, I challenge you to a game of basketball", nor the "I challenge you to keep silence for 40 days"... but more so the, "I can see into your heart and if you don't want to talk to me, than at least sit there and listen to what I have to say" challenge.

Perhaps it was because I was tired after a week in which two massive midterms were written and a term paper submitted, or perhaps it was because the antibiotics for a sinus infection have finally started to kick in, but I cannot help but feel... slightly overwhelmed. There was an additional cleric visiting the WR this evening, one of incredible wisdom and lived experience; the topic was stability and the effect was profound. She spoke about the meaning of spirituality and how Benedict gives one expression of it. She spoke about well-versed authors and finely written pieces of work. And although I dare not comment on the entirety of her message this evening, there is one subsection of that message that I shall continue to ponder into the wee hours of the morning.

"Get in your cell and stay there... stability is to stay put... stability is to prevent self deception. For only when we stay in one place long after our community can see what we choose to ignore about ourselves and confront us, can we truly experience the grace of God."

I understand very little of this and unfortunately, the more I try and think through it as it pertains to my life in the here and now, the more confused I get. I do not understand where I went wrong... was it when I first left the birth church? Was it leaving the seminary community? Leaving one parish to join another for health/personal/job reasons? What is my cell? Do I need to go back to one of these two church communities to work through this desert with God/belief/trust/fear or can I work these out and then seek peace and reconciliation?

My heart longs to be with my cassock sister, laying on the grass in a long, black robe on the lawns of the Diocesan supported seminary as we read and tried to grapple with the depth of such writings as Benedict and his rule and the always lovely Desert Fathers. For everything that we read made life seem simple and genuine while making faith seem personal and constant. I am learning that this is not the case and more often than not, one's heart is conflicted with one's intelligence.

I have a sinking feeling that the work I started this Ash Wednesday will work on preparing me for the following Easter - like Easter of 2011. In the meantime, I shall continue to read "Girl Meets God" as recommended by UC and maybe pull out the books from the Desert Fathers for a read through. And, as hard as it may be, trust that this darkness too, will end and the questions will resolve.

I Learned

Yup. While I am no genius, I did learn one thing on my Together Encountering Christ weekend four years ago: do not (NOT!) give God an ultimatum. I learned the hard way that God is slightly more stubborn than I am and when presented with a decision of "do this or this"... there is really no way to brace oneself for the oncoming dose of "this". Preeee much knocks ya on your... well, you get the picture...

Tonight, I tried to find every excuse not to go to the university chaplaincy service. Seriously. At one point, when I drove by, I decided that the lone parking spot was not big enough for my little car. I did not try to get into it, simply drove down to the end of the lane and back onto the main road. The next time around, when a larger spot had become available, I began freaking out that I recognized another car parked in the lane in front of the church. Frantically texting/calling common contacts that might know whose car this was, the dash board clock read "6:58" when I was firmly informed that the person in question (whose car I *thought* it was) was actually present at another location for another service altogether.

My excuses had been exhausted.

Quietly taking to a pew to wait the rest of the group, there may have been an uttering upwards to the extent of, "I know I'm not ready to sit down and talk with you beyond the superficial, I am only taking small steps. I trust that if this is the right step, you will make that clear. Please do not make it painfully clear... in fact, clear "lite" will suffice".

How much "clearer" can it get when the reflection/sermon/hammered home point is, "in order to be humble before God and to therefore open ourselves to God's grace, we must stay put - stick it out - hang in there. Church hopping, while tempting, will never allow us to live authentically true to ourselves and to God because we never really get a chance to let go of the mask. Let us emulate the monks of St. Benedict, and stay put - where we can strive to be authentic and humble together before God".

Right. Point taken.

Allo? Anyone home?

I, just like any other 'big sister', older cousin, or youth minister, have heard my fair share of knock knock jokes. And, although I don't admit it very often, I'm sure I went through a stage where I was annoying everyone within a 10 foot radius with the not-funny, annoying jokes. That was exactly what I was thinking about as we played music this morning.

After attending the Ash Wednesday service this week, I left with the feeling that the Holy Spirit is very much at work in a heart that is cracked, worn, and fighting off an infection. And slowly, as the service progressed, it became all the more apparent that little by little, the HS was beginning to pull the dead layers off to give air and light to the young seeds, hoping they will take hold of the soil and grow. Painfully necessary for new life to take up residence.

Today, I was part of a music ministry that really made me pause, stop playing (thank goodness others continued on), and question whether I am actually in control of this journey back or not. We sang a relatively newer worship song entitled, "Somebody's Knockin at Your Door"

"Somebody's knockin' at your door; somebody's knockin at your door.

Oh sinner, why don't you answer? Somebody's knockin' at your door.

Knocks like Jesus... somebody's knockin' at your door (2)

Can't you hear him.... somebody's knockin' at your door (2)

Jesus calls you... somebody's knockin' at your door (2)

Can't you trust him... somebody's knockin at your door (2)

Oh sinner, why don't you answer? Somebody's knockin' at your door"

So, taking this as a prompting, my reflection time for the next little while will be in tackling the big question: why can't I answer the door? Why did I opt for the comfortable music playing role today rather than attending an Anglican service? Why can't I get myself to go to the student 'Worship Room' tonight with other post secondary students?

Advice on why sinners are more likely to ignore or be too scared to open the door?

The Little Anglican Piggy

No, I did not over eat the Eucharist tonight and I certainly did not eat too many egg-less pancakes last night, but rather, I feel like the little Anglican piggy who cried all the way home. You know that childhood poem where your Grandma grabs each one of your toes in turn and says, "this little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home; this little piggy ate roast beef while this little piggy had none... and this little piggy, cried all the way home"? While I am not sure who the other four Anglican piggies are in this life-sized scenario, I am certain that I am that last little piggy.

I intentionally waited out in the car until 3 minutes before the service; figured that this would save me from talking to anyone, or worse, seeing someone I knew and bolting. It's not that I want to play hide and go seek with the familiar faces, but after having gone through everything that I have, I don't want my journey to be a public thing. Not yet, anyway. So, having chosen a church in which there is a "university students worship" and a rector that came to the Diocese after I left, I thought I was ready to embark upon a deliberate journey back into good standing with the church - whatever that looks like. No one would be watching me with thoughts of, "wasn't she in seminary" or "she worked at the Synod Office" or anything else... it would be a journey that at first, could be just about God and I.

While I will refrain from commenting on the one or two familiar faces that were present, let me simply say this: the Holy Spirit was wholly, incredibly, and most definitely present.

Although there were tears shed here and there prior to her sermon, they were negligible compared to those that were on the way. The metaphor that University-Chaplain used was that of a palm cross that hung in her front entryway of her house. She spoke of how that little palm cross witnessed her coming in from the world, carrying anger, hurt, resentment, ..... and that same palm cross had seen her enter the world each day with pride, jealousy, ..... and now, tonight, that palm cross was burnt. The last year of wrong doings was forgotten and forgiven, by a Father who wished to create a clean heart in each one of us there. She referenced the movie, "The Bucket List" (which I have yet to see) and how Jack Nickelson realized before it was too late that he had relationships to mend and forgiveness to seek.

And, silently, inside my head (and my heart), I began to shout, "please stop U-C, please stop U-C, please stop U-C" (although I did not say University Chaplain, but rather her name). It was a sermon that my intellect most certainly needed to hear, but my heart felt as though it was slowly being ripped into tiny. little. pieces. It's not necessarily a bad thing - just an incredibly challenging thing.

The sermon was followed by the commonly sung hymn, "Take my Life" - one that holds a lot of personal meaning and has an incredible story and place thus far in my journey - tonight, being no exception.

I think I anticipated going to this service as a mere "next step" - thinking that it would be as easy and jovial as the movie night a week ago. I seemed to have forgotten what this day and this night are really all about. I thought that attending this service would be like playing music at the church on the hill in which I could sit there, completely disengaged from what was being said, and being done.

I think I forgot how much my heart truly felt at home in that Eucharist, that place of worship, that place of holiness, in which the presence of God and the words of the Holy Spirit and the elements of the Son come together in the most perfect song of harmony that could ever fill one's soul.

And so, all throughout the Eucharist, and allllll the way home (about a 45 minute drive), I cried.

I cried a tear for the time I've stayed away because of anger, hurt, and guilt

I cried a tear for the people I have hurt and the way in which I have hurt them

I cried a tear for the life that I left more than a year ago

I cried a tear for the people who believed just as strongly as I did, that I had a call to serve the church

I cried a tear for the desert in which I stand, not sure where to go or how to get there

I cried a tear for the relationships I have broken, the trust I have stolen, and the pain I have

caused

I cried a tear for the one who saw my burdens the moment she met me, but was denied access to my truckwagon because I did not want it unloaded by a stranger

I cried a tear for the way in which I have closed my life off to those who want to see my light shine

I cried a tear for the many experiences that will be no more

I cried a tear in fear of those that still lay ahead

I cried a tear for the pain that was caused by another's words, and the impact it has on my life

I cried a tear in disbelief at the words of the sermon that my heart simply cannot believe in

I cried a tear at how much my palm cross has seen

I cried a tear in stillness and surrender - in awe of how very articulate the experience of returning home can be and how incredibly powerful it is when the spoken word resonates with the sung word to give the reassurance that this lost sheep *will* be found.

Picking up the Pieces

After spending a weekend away, I came home to a room that needed some TLC before the upcoming week got too crazy to give it some proper attention. I unfortunately discovered this the painful way.

When I stepped off my bed to be able to sort through the laundry from the weekend, there was a sharp, shattering noise and a few seconds later, an immensely sharp pain on the bottom of my foot. Without even looking down, I knew what had happened.

Last week, in the flurry to pack and leave as early as possible, I accidently dropped a Christmas ball (like the ones you hang on your tree) that I received from a lady at work. It had shattered and while I thought that I should clean up the pieces at that very moment, I didn't. I simply promised myself that it would be the first thing I did when I got home.

But I forgot.

And now, I was paying for it. As I tried to pull the shattered glass out of my heel to bandage it up, I realized yet again - just how relevant this life moment was symbolizing something more; it was reflecting the current state of my spiritual life. Symbolically, it was not my foot that was hurting, it was my heart.

I kept telling myself that I would tend to an important relationship later. Tomorrow turned into the next day, which turned into the next major feast, which quickly slid into the next month, and then the next year. And, here I am - on the Sunday night - realizing that I have waited too long to pick up the pieces. Broken, lost, tired, sore, and now bleeding... I am faced with an extended healing period that will require more effort and TLC than if I would have just picked up the pieces over a year ago.

A year ago, the pieces were manageable - they were large in size, and low in number. And now, having walked on them, they are tiny shards that will require a careful eye and gentle fingers and probably a vacuum and a whoooooole lot of patience and perseverance.

But, I learn the hard way.

At least I learn.... kinda.... sorta....

That said, I am about to drop to my hands and knees to start a long and tedious healing process. As soon as I get a bandaid and some polysporin, that is.

The Need to Feel Loved

There we were... four sisters sitting at supper in a strange country, trying to argue and rationalize a mute point with my wise father. He is an incredible man that, until a month ago, we collectively thought that he was just "behind the times" in converting to technology like facebook or myspace or blogs. This thought could not be further from the truth. In fact, reality is the opposite. These technology driven dumping places pose an interesting dilemma: whether people use these as methods to stay in touch with long lost family or friends or they are used as means for feeling loved.

So, to test out the theory, I began to watch friend's status' on facebook and how they reflect the broken human condition of feeling unwanted, unloved, unneeded rather than conveying general updates to keep people that are distant, closer to the happenings.

Each and every day that passes, being on campus and interacting with people who have signed on to eventually work towards the healing of others, I have become increasingly aware of the need for people to plug themselves into a sustainable resource. It is easier said than done, I get that. But would it not be worth the effort and hard work now so that when you need the resource the most, it is within one's grasp? In my short-lived experience, I swear, the well that distributes water without the effort of lowering the pail, is not the water that will save you from thirst. Rather, when we journey to the well of value and go through the effort... we will not only get the water we need to live (long term!), but perhaps, just like the mysterious lady in the Bible, we may meet the true source of life while we wait.

Wouldn't that be worth it in the end?

Instead, people seek the immediate, the quick source of "feeling good" about what they have done or said or written. These are the people I shall pray for this week... that they may find the strength to battle that inner temptation to stop at the mirage for water rather than enduring on for the well of fresh water.

Peace.

Would God Ever Say, "I Told You So"?

I don't know the exact date of the last time I had communion. For some reason, there are other dates popping in my head like the date of my last day as a theology student... the date that I got a phone call from the other side of the country that snapped me back into reality... the date that I packed up and drove 45 hours back "home" to face that reality... and even the date that I met with a bishop back home who tried her best to help me back on the path of the straight and narrow.

I do know that somewhere following all of these dates, I essentially tried to cut my losses and walk away from the church all together. I had reached a point of spiritual exhaustion. Being realistic, 5 years ago, I was a happy, church going youth who believed that nothing was more precious than my relationship with God. In those 5 short years, I went from being a boisterous youth minister responsible for getting teenagers excited to live a life of faith to deciding that what I was hearing in my heart were the whispers of the Holy Spirit calling me elsewhere. Packing up, I pronounced my faith in a different denomination - putting myself at odds with my cradle faith and the family that came with it. Within the following three years, I would not only convince myself that I was called to some form of servant ministry, but anyone I met. Literally. Three separate interviewing committees, new friends, and national contacts all were equally on board with the idea that I was "called to serve" as I was. It's no surprise that when things blew up, I personally decided that I was better off without any of it.

Now... I'm not so sure that I was right.

I was in the process of closing up the grand piano, tidying up the sheet music I had acquired, and fixing the piano bench when a man from choir approached me.

"We never know what to do with you and Communion"

"Um... pardon me?"

"Well, you don't go up to the altar to receive communion with the rest of the musicians, but you also don't take communion with the choir when we all receive. We never really know what do with you during communion"

"Oh. I see. Well, it's not a big deal. But thank you for thinking of me!"

"Would you like us to bring back a host for you?"

"No thank you."

"Why do you play in a church if you don't take communion... are you baptized?"

"Yes, I have completed all my sacraments, some more frequently than others. I do not take communion because I am at a weird place in my journey right now." (Which is easier to explain than trying to explain the process of what I would need to do to participate in the Eucharistic feast)

"My wife and I will pray for you"

I wanted to stop him and clarify that there are more important things to pray for, but he was gone. I wanted to tell him that I am just there for the musical outlet... I can survive without communion... really and truly...

On the drive home, I opted for silence. Just like the feeling that overcomes a composer when there is a song to be written, music streamed from somewhere deep within. The tune sounded familiar to me, but the words and context just wouldn't come. Once I got home, still puzzled, I pulled out my guitar and began trying to figure out what this song that I kept hearing was. About three strums in, I broke into tears.

It was a song that I was asked to sing at the Cathedral in town because it spoke about the woman at the well (which were those Sunday's readings). I don't remember whether we did the music for the whole service, or just that song, but I was on the guitar, there was someone else singing, and we had a violinist as well. The song was not really relevant to me back then... but now... sitting on the couch in tears... I get it. (Nothing slow 'bout me, I promise!)

It is a song sung by country artist, Martina McBride and it's called "Reluctant Daughter"

Jesus, tell my Father I wanna be his child again

Tell him, what my name is, incase he's forgotten.

Tell him I'm the woman at the well, drawing water

And I'm sorry if I've been his reluctant daughter.

Jesus, tell my angels to keep me in their prayers

Remind them how I need

To feel them everywhere

Tell 'em I'm ready to drink the living water

I don't want my angels to think I'm his reluctant daughter.

Jesus, tell my Father I wanna come to heaven

Tell him, to shout my name out

So I won't be forgotten.

I cannot make any promises for the date that I will kneel in prayer and sing this song upwards, nor can I know where that will be, with whom, and what will precipitate from doing so. I cannot know whether I will hear the whisper of "I told you so", nor can I assume that singing it will be effortless. However, I will simply continue to trust in what I do know... that reluctant or not, I have most definitely not been forgotten yet. Apparently I just needed the reminder.

The Tides are Changing

This time yesterday morning (almost exactly to the minute), I was standing on a Bahama beach in sandals, a pair of long shorts, and a very light jacket. We had just finished eating our last meal on the island as a family and when the rest of the six went upstairs to pack, I snagged my youngest sister and made her come down to the water to take pictures with me. I had missed a friend's birthday back home and just to prove that I was thinking about her while away, I wanted to get a lovely picture of "Happy Birthday (Friend)" written in the sand with the ocean in the background for a half decent birthday card.

And what seemed like a 30 second task to find the "perfect spot", write the message in the grains, and snap the picture... turned out to be incredibly and deceivingly challenging. The tide was not quite out all the way and it took a number (higher than 10) of attempts to time the writing in between the big waves and get the picture taken. So much so, that I nearly lost a sandal to the undertow and managed to provide quite the comedy to the security guard further up.

And now, 24 hours later, exhausted and wide awake, I find myself chuckling at how beautiful of an image yesterday's adventures were in illustrating life itself.

In about an hours time, I will drag my jet-lagged, sleep-lagged body out of bed, shower, and drive to the local university where I will embark upon a two year, professional degree of studies to hopefully graduate as a Registered Nurse - fully certified, trained, and health conscious. The logical part of my brain keeps telling me that these are just courses... they are no different than the six years of undergrad courses I just finished taking. But that middle section of my body that houses the digestive system seems to be saying something else. My stomach is churning, I feel like I'm going to either pass out or puke, and although nerves are not a horrible thing - I cannot remember feeling like this when I attempted to start theological studies a little over a year ago.

I am pondering the whole concept of the tides changing and what that means for me: a single soul standing on the edge of something so deep and profound as the ocean having the waves wipe out the message I try to write each time.

Maybe pondering the journey as a whole is too overwhelming and impossible to do, but I cannot help but ask the question of whether this journey is going to the "thing" that leaves my mark in the sand or whether this is something I am embarking upon as an attempt to run away from facing God's call once again. On the flip side, perhaps the tides have indeed changed as has God's call on my life, morphing the expression of discipleship that I am called to live and breathe and emulate.

Makes me wish that I could have a brief cup of tea with one of three wise spiritual mentors. One, because she would ask the hard questions in a way that would make sense and then share her intuitive opinion on what she believed the answers to be. Two, because although I only recently met him, he is a truly incredible young man who frankly - hates change and transition as much as I do and although he couldn't offer tips on how to cope, just sitting in his presence and sharing the hate of transition moments would be enough. And three, because although I detest green tea, she steeps a wonderful cup and whether via custard and bananas or curry or simply a peaceful accent... the world always seems alright from her viewpoint; she always has a plan B, even when having done something completely backwards or downright wrong - scolding and shaping is done in and through love - always, and frankly/finally - I miss her.

But, as these three individuals either live on the other side of the world, are in school themselves, or unreachable - I guess I am left to ponder these waves as any brave soul has done in years gone by: experimentally. Here is to hoping that I do not get sucked under by the pull of the ocean, wiped out by a massive tidal wave, or get lost wandering aimlessly along the beach front of life.

Cheers!