The "Obstructive" Tree

         Do you ever experience that moment in life whereby you realize that something is not "quite right"?  It is the same feeling that nurse gets when their patient starts acting "funny" and the nurse proactively sends a urine spec and blood sample to the lab and puts the patient on a full monitor because "something" is going down; it is the same experience that one has when the car you are driving is going 100km/h in the wrong direction and while you do not quite know the right direction, you have that odd feeling, it is the opposite way that you are presently travelling.

          In fact, it seems soooo out of place, that you cannot help but stop your hurried journey to ponder the story behind it in hopes of being able to bring some degree of understanding as to how it got there.

          This picture is not as much of a mystery as one might initially believe; it was taken in the state of New York on a walk.  New York had experienced a massive storm whereby there was a lot of destruction: people's houses were flooded, damaging personal belongings, the intricate subway system was buried underwater, leaving people essentially stranded, and trees and fences uprooted, barricading beautiful walkways and ripping open the backyards of people who had previously had some degree of privacy.

         Despite knowing how it got there, I cannot help but wonder about the life the tree previously had.  Did it ever house a tire swing?  A tree fort?  Did anyone ever lay a blanket out at its feet for a picnic in great company?  Imagine what that tree had heard over the years.

         This was the image that stuck with me through the God-time over the last few days, and what a healing image it has been. Something I never would have anticipated when I stopped my walk a few weeks ago to capture this picture... and in doing so, try to capture my fascination with its beauty.

         Like the state of New York, I am being called to tidy up.  The subway system is now back and functional, people have dried out the majority of their keepsakes and sorted through what is no longer required.  It is not necessary for me to try and remove the trees that have fallen on the path, but instead, smile at them, thank them for their years of fresh air, and walk around - momentarily stepping off the path.  I recall a wise, collared friend saying something similar to this months ago, but I was overwhelmed by these fallen trees and did not think there was even a way around them.

         But now I know better!

          In going around the trees, I need to cut away those who have made my journey more about themselves than their own journey... those who put ultimatums on our "friendship" so that they might get the answers they "require"... those who claim they "are personally invested", but the minute they get the information they seek, the conversation is over immediately.  Those trees are dead, barricading a path, and potential hazards to an already, challenging journey.

         I cannot express how great it feels!  In fact, it is the same emotional confidence that comes from stopping the car, examining a map, and finally heading towards the goal destination; the same feeling that comes when a brewing infection is caught before sepsis occurs or lasting damage created!  It is the assurance that comes when God's own have confirmation that they are on the right path!! :)

        Look out world!  I am cleaning house and taking names! :)

Lenten Love

My earliest memory of Ash Wednesday was walking myself through the shelter belt that sat between our home and that of my grandparents.  I wanted to go to the Ash Wednesday service, but my family had something else going on and wouldn't be attending... so I phoned my grandma and went with her instead.  It was before I really even understood the meaning of the ashes, but from what the priest had mentioned on Sunday, it sounded like fun. 

I remember being confused that we were going "to the altar" twice that night... once, in a solemn procession for ashes to be imposed and once for the Eucharist.  And, while I wish I could say that I came home and read up about the ancient tradition of black marks on the forehead, it took me years to come to understand the true beauty and humility of the evening service. 

Perhaps it was the evening worship that kept drawing me back... something different from the regular Sunday morning at 9am; perhaps it was the "busyness" of getting to leave the pew more than once during the hour, or perhaps it was that feeling of "something more" that continued to pull me back, year after year. 

I recall attending a retreat as a young adult in which the organizational structure of the weekend was a compressed journey through Lent/Easter.  If I recall correctly, we walked through a live (people version) stations of the cross before returning to the common area for a service of ashes.  It was one of the most moving services to date.  Like in the hymn we sang every year at this service, "We offer You our failures, we offer You attempts; the gifts not fully given, the dreams not fully dreamt.  Give our stumblings direction, give our visions wider view, an offering of ashes... an offering to You", it was the first time I really felt God's gentle voice, calling me to follow.    I came away from that weekend knowing that I needed to leave the comfort of my childhood church to expand my horizons.  

While I don't regret this move in the slightest, I cannot help but feel that I am stumbling.  I am happy to trade shifts with coworkers so that they can have Sunday off with their family rather than ensuring I, myself, can attend church.  When asked a challenging question in bible study or an interactive sermon, I would rather reflect inward than process outwardly within that community.  

So, in returning to that hymn that has taken such a wonderful place in my journey, this Lenten season will be a season of offerings; a time in which I can offer attempts of prayer in the hope that over the coming 40 days, God will help my hindrances, ease my "awkwardnesses", and turn my failures into an eventual return to comfort and love through prayer/time with God.  

May these 40 days be a time of renewal and new life from the ashes.  

Yours in prayer, 

Young Seeker

God's Graces

...that moment when you realize that there is something greater than you could ever wrap your head around, happening to you...

...that slice of time in which the world stops spinning at record speeds and you are able to pay witness to some of life's greatest treasures, by utter chance rather than intention...

...that gasp of air that fills your lungs so full of fresh air, it makes you pause and wonder how you got by without a breath so big... 

...that hug of warmth in which there is no doubt, the administrator of the hug, is God himself.

That is the summary of my last 24 hours; I am presently sitting on the hard floor of an airport that I had no intention of passing through and wondering how I have managed to be so lucky. 

In a mere 24 hours, I was privy to a private mass (sorry Anglicans... Eucharist) in which the attendees were the priest and myself.  During which, I was asked to read the first reading from Nehemiah: "do not be grieved, for the joy of the Lord is your strength" and my heart actually started to warm.  Felt like a Grinch moment in which I could literally feel the warmth start in my heart and radiate to the very corner of my being.  A message from God to me... 'do not stress, panic, live in the past... for I am with you, and I am enough joy to override any emotion aside from joy.  I am here, not going anywhere, and holding your hand - you shall not fall.  I will be your strength and joy when you have none.'

Following that, arrived at the local, international airport to find out that the second half of my flight was cancelled; turns out that when the Eastern seaboard gets a bit of white, the flight gets cancelled.  

There were so many reactions that I could have had... so many responses I could have uttered.  Instead, I began chatting with the attendant about New York and what she might recommend as a tourist attraction in the great city while she worked to ensure I could get to New York for Monday morning's session.  After much deliberation, my boarding passes had me flying from home, to the very edge of the Western coast (State's side) before boarding a plane that would then fly me allllll the way to the other corner of the country in the wee hours of the morning. 

I ended up in row four (second row of economy) beside the window.  Clocked my head pretty good on the counsel, making my seat buddy laugh and my tea to spill all over her seat.  Quickly wiped it up, apologized profusely, and proceeded to sit in my seat with my seatbelt fastened.  To my surprise, when flying into San Fran, we flew right over the classic, Golden Gate bridge; the bridge that was integral to my childhood as it was a staple on the television series, "Full House" - something I watched every afternoon for 13 years with my sisters as our break before we started homework.  And I kid you not, the plane actually seemed to be flying in slow motion over the bridge; it was as if God himself was saying, "see? Detours can be rewarding if you stay awake" (metaphorically and literally).  

I then had a short layover in San Fran before boarding a lengthy flight to Newark; ended up in the very last row, kitty corner to the bathroom.  Had the man in front of me leaning his seat back the whole 5.5 hour flight without the ability to lean my chair back, and people pushing themselves into my bubble.  

Instead of freaking out, or digging my gangly long legs into the dork's seat, I curled up in the seat (there was a spare/empty one between me and the window buddy this time) and read the book for this program from start to finish (well, almost start to finish).  Ultimately confirming for me that I am not the only one dealing with this, the people I am going to see know what they are doing, and I am in for a life that is more fantastic than I could ever image or hope for if I stick out for the cure! 

Upon sitting in the (almost) vacated airport waiting for the decent hour to arrive when I could take the train to another train to a taxi/bus to the program... I met not only one, but two incredible people.  Heard their live stories (apparently I have a "tell me" face?) and managed to connect with them on a level that I would have ran away from previously.  

And now... now I am counting down the minutes until I can go to the bathroom, do my hair, change and head to the first of a series of transits to get me to Plainview, NY. 

Events that require open humility... that said, I think I am going to pack this show up and tour the airport a little bit before I change, brush my teeth, and text home to let the peeps know that I am about to head out on the second half of the trip. 

I challenge you today... I challenge you to find those relationships... those moments... those things in your life that could be a toss up between a horrible mess or heaping servings of grace on your plate of life.  I promise that you won't regret it.  It is such an incredibly light and wonderful feeling. 

Peace!

YS

When all else fails... hope

It is such a difficult, yet breath-taking place to be... in that place of hopeful anticipation.  Knowing that there are struggles ahead, yet, something great is coming!  Our Doctor-Deacon preached a sermon around the concept of challenging anticipation and being patient as we wait for the Christ child; the example he used was his son.  Sitting on mall-Santa's lap, the son asked for specific Christmas gifts and was quite put off when the mall-Santa did not give him what he asked for.  And as the child's parents, they were left trying to explain to him that he would need to wait another three weeks for this incredible present he dreamed of.  

While it brings a smile to my face to think of the conversation as it would have unfolded, I cannot help but feel like the child in so many ways.  For just like the child in Doctor-Deacon's sermon, I too am keenly waiting for requests to come to fruition and journeys to end in rejoicing celebrations.  

Here I am, trying to push the journeys along... I am keenly doing the work that I need to do (some days, "keen" isn't the correct term) and holding up my duties and responsibilities, but it doesn't seem to impact the speed at which we head to the finish line.  

Take for example, a holiday road trip.  If one is driving across prairie land, the road is usually straight and paved, well lit and fairly light in traffic.  It would seem to the driver, this is when they can push the speed limit a little, and reach the next pit stop/destination before dark.  Radically differs from the road trip through a mountain village where the roads are cross-backs, wildlife are everywhere, and one cannot see around the corner ahead.  

I am presently in that place where I have the road map and I know how to get from where I am, to our next destination, implying that the road is straight, dry, and fairly free of traffic or obstructions.  And yet, my car seems to have an override on it that is not allowing me to hurry it along, to push the limit a little bit, or even a lot.  

It's hard to be patient.  It's incredibly challenging to "wait it out" and enjoy the journey.  Just like the child, I want the end to come and I want it to come now.  

I started to ponder why this was the case... and I think I have figured it out!  In my case... at least. 

There is an insane fear of failure... that the longer this journey continues on, the increased chance there is that I will ultimately fail. I will undoubtedly get lost (road map or not), run out of gas, decide that I am not ready for the destination, or worse, that I need to turn the car around and head 100 miles an hour in the other direction because I am not ready for change.  A fear that I will let someone down, if not more than one someone, the destination is not all it is cracked up to be and the grass really isn't any greener, or that all this investment or travelling will be for nothing.  And a fear that if I fail, I shall never be successful.  

With the church journey through Advent, it's easy.  We know, by repetition of history for the last 2000 years, the Christ child will come... unless the Mayans are right and the world ends first this year.  That in some three-odd weeks, we will get all fancied up, have a grand feast with family and then head to a crowded church, among strangers who only come once a year, and all together, welcome this infant Christ into the world, the church, and our lives.  

But in our own journeys, this sense of assurance isn't there.  We don't know how or when the paths to healing and right relationships will happen... we cannot anticipate when we will once again be "whole" and embracing greatness.  If we knew it would happen at midnight on December 24th, that might make it less fearful.  And so instead of having a finite time to "grin and bear it", we charge forward - sometimes aimlessly - toward a finish line, trusting that when we are there, we will know.  

We cling to the sense of hope felt in this time of year, that just as sure as the winter bears snow and Christmas, the Christ child, we too - will successfully reach the end... whole, healed, and most importantly, hopeful.  

Everytime

I suck at the virtue of patience. 

There is truly no "gentler" way of putting it because any way that I cut it up, I end up coming out on the negative. 

For example, I will text or email or facebook someone a message.  I know for a fact that they have checked their phone, their inbox, and updated their facebook three times.  And yet, despite them still being "connected", they have failed to address my communication. 

Maybe it is a lack of understanding on my part. 

Perhaps their world is crumbling down
Perhaps they had 2500 other texts to respond to that, priority wise, needed to be dealt with first
Perhaps the computer died RIGHT before they clicked "Send" on their response to me
Perhaps the answer that they need to give is too hard or long to type and so rather than responding to say, "let's chat instead, when are you available?", they defer it, indefinitely
Perhaps they are on holidays and despite updates, have chosen to ignore any personalized messages
Perhaps they would just prefer to cease communication
Or... perhaps they are simply jerks and have opted to not do my communication an ounce of decency by responding in a timely fashion.

But then just tell me. 

Instead of asking you whether you have enough staff to properly fill your event, I will assume that you are okay until you specify otherwise.
Instead of texting/facebooking to find out that you are transitioning well in your new vocational path, I will trust that if I can be of support to you, you will seek me out.
Instead of emailing you weekly, as you requested, numerous times, I will email you biweekly or triweekly.
Instead of requesting some time in your wonderful presence, I will go ahead and fill my spare time with people who respond or donating my time to further developing the youth of our community through coaching or volunteering.
Instead of doing you the service of requesting your lived wisdom, I will become more resourceful in seeking such information for myself. 

In a society where all our of closest contacts are truly at our fingertips, I think a lesson needs to be taken in proper etiquette around such mediums.  Or perhaps some education on how silence sometimes does or says more - even if that is not the message we want to be sending to others. 

Everytime someone fails to respond in a timely manner, I promise myself that I am just not going to approach them in the future - leave it in their court, wait for them to contact me, or return the favour when they have requested time sensitive information from me.  I promise myself that for as many rude individuals there are out there, there are just as many who have communication manners.

But then I get the frantic email asking for my presence or help with something, and I jump to assist or a request to do something as a third party request and I realize that my frustration or hurt must have been unwawrrented or I was too impatient. 

And everytime... I end up giving in and persisting in my communication with them.  Trusting that if nothing else, they might notice and start to respond in a timely fashion. 

In The Silence

For some reason, this song title has been stuck in my head all night. 

Perhaps it is because rather than running around on the floor tonight, I am sitting in a quiet room with only the sound of this patient's oxygen blowing... no other responsibilities but to ensure his health and wellness overnight.

Perhaps it is because I am subconsciously longing for a secret, quiet moment in which I am not trying to plan out a hundred things and my lengthy "to-do" list.

Perhaps it is because I was meant to listen to this song... dig it out of the archives of praise music and really listen to it.

Or, perhaps it is a culmination of all three. 

While it's not the best rendition of their recording, it will do for the purposes of this blog.

Here's the thing...

As of late, I've been feeling that calling... that urge to step up to the plate and truly go to bat for my relationship with God.  To stop making up reasons why I can't bat... can't run the bases... can't secure a home run and to just 'get 'er done'; ultimately, I recognize that the ownership is on me and God is ready to put me in, throw the perfect pitch, and then stand on home plate, eager to celebrate and rejoice with me in the successful run scored for the team.  However, my own insecurities and doubts are triumphing and so instead of donning my crisp uniform and lucky bat... I am hanging out in the back of the dugout.  Just chilling and cheering on my team.

Then, I got an email. And I swear, if God is anything like the goof in Bruce Almighty who types prayer responses on a keyboard... it's clear that this email was from God himself.

I have been worrying about my trip to New York.  Worrying about my passport, the flights, the taxi ride from the airport to my friend's place... worrying about what to expect when I meet the people I am going to see, worrying that I am not prepared or ready enough for the journey, worrying that I will get completely lost in the middle of a huge city, and become a missing person.  Granted, I am staying with a friend so hopefully she won't let me get 'too' lost... but still.

Today I received an email from two wonderful friends... they are two individuals that I grew up idolizing when they sang music on Sunday morning in church.  When I finally had the opportunity to actually PLAY music with them, I was in shock and choked on my own words.  Two very incredible people and friends. 

She emailed to say that they would both be in New York overlapping my stay there and wouldn't it be great to meet for tea?  Three Canadians drinking tea in a fancy city like New York together?

And while none of her words stated it directly, there was this immense sense of peace that came over me; it was so incredibly articulate - as if to say, "I will never leave you alone, lost, or in a desert of 'new' beginnings and healthy journeys.  I know you are not ready to take my hand, so instead I shall send my angels to watch over you, journey alongside you, and be available for a cup of tea should you need to". 

In the words of Hillsong:

In the silence of Your majesty,
In the splendor of Your holiness,
In the stillness of Your glory,
Let me hear Your voice,
The gentle whisper of Your voice.

So if you are sitting over my shoulder and reading this, let me say this... Thank you.  Thank you for recognizing what I need and providing it before I can even form the words to ask.  Thank you for understanding that while I am not ready to step out of the boat or into the game yet, I am truly grateful for your Fatherly love and concern for my well being this next week.  And thank you for doing all this is a quiet and subtle way... I'm not one for flashing lights, frying pan headaches, or fire and brimstone; the gentle whisper of Your voice resonates in ways words cannot describe. 

Signed, 

Your Reluctant and Journeying Daughter

I'm Ready

Years ago, I had a very dear friend and mentor who was considering a huge decision in her life.  She was also a huuuuge Bryan Adams fan. So, being the typical, encouraging friend that I was, I made her a CD of "Vocational Songs" in which it included some of her favorites... some common title songs that could very easily be vocational songs... and some just hilarious and awesome songs that were sure to make her smile.  The title track was Bryan Adam's "I'm Ready".  


While the song appears to be most relevant to a relationship of some kind, it doesn't entirely apply to my situation, and yet, I can't help but feel that same sense of "readiness" that he sings about so confidently. 


My day started by reading one of those generic emails that sends a quote to my inbox every morning.  This morning, the quote of the day read:
      "Don't prepare.  Begin.  Our enemy is not lack of preparation; the enemy is resistance, our chattering brain producing excuses.  Start before you are ready" (Steven Pressfield)


This really set the stage for the remainder of my day.  I spent 12 hours on the unit whereby two of three of my patient's were cleft palate repairs.  While these are *usually* the patients that I dislike the most, it's because it's such a difficult hospital stay for the patient, the family, and the family's support system.  Imagine being 9 months old (the child is most successful if they are a certain size and developmental stage for surgery, typically around the 9month mark) and "set in your ways".  Because you were born with the condition, you have adapted and learned to bottle, suck, play, LIVE with a cleft palate (of varying degrees). 


And then, someone tells you that you can fix it!


The infant comes back from surgery with arm splints (from their armpit to their wrist) that prevents them from lifting their hand to their mouth and playing with stitches, etc) on both arms, and having to relearn how to eat and drink.  The pain is manageable.  Honestly, you could rotate between tylenol and advil and the child would probably be okay... it's the same sensation as having braces on... there is movement, there is "newness" and there is bone altering.  It's uncomfortable.  


However, the most distressing things to the child seem to be that re-training of how to drink a bottle, how to get through life without being able to really move their arms in a functional manner. 


After spending a solid 45 minutes with new parents who were distressed by their son's inability to soothe, I went on break and read an email from the program south of the border. 


They had emailed responses to my questions and somewhere along the line, I made the comment, "Recognizing that I am over reacting/worrying about something I need not...."; their response made me fall flat on my back.  "You diagnosed it right, do not worry/overthink...We do it for a living all day long"


All. Day. Long.  


It made me smile.  And realize that really, I was no different than the parents.  As the nurse in the situation above, I know what the typical stay for a cleft palate looks like... I can describe any aspect of the experience, assure family, and really... when it comes down to it, it is my responsibility to keep their child safe and healthy for that 12 hour day.  I know what I'm doing.  I've gone to school, I've passed exams, I've done this before... more than once. 


My situation with this program was more similar than I was willing to believe initially.  They are professionals.  They not only know what they are doing, have not only gone to school and written exams, but they come highly recommended.  It is clear that they are just as vested in my well-being as I am.  


There was a huge sigh of relief.  Now I feel that I'm ready to trust the process, trust the professionals to lead the way, and trust the outcome that is mine for the taking in the next year. 


And besides, if I'm not 100% ready, I just need to start.  Stop overthinking, stop my brain from running resistance and unhelpful commentary, and just start.  


Just. 


Start. 


Why?


I'm ready!

Just one of those days...

I am writing in purple becaue it really seems to be the most neutral and peaceful colour in the whole array that blogspot lets me choose from in order to write this blog.

I am having 'one of those days'.

Metaphorically speaking, it's like... well... hmm...

Imagine, if you will, a young bride who is preparing for her wedding in a year's time.  (Let me interject to say that I am neither a bride or discussing weight, but my sister recently got married so I am going to use this analogy anyway.

Imagine a bride whose wedding is to take place in one year. 

The first few months of the twelve are spent working on a guest list, choosing bridesmaids (and their dresses), and getting your name on the reservation list for a venue and reception caterer.  When the still, somewhat peaceful bride reaches the midway mark, her attention shifts to finding the perfect wedding gown, ordering flowers, and arranging a photographer to be present at the ceremony, interim and reception.  When the T-3 month mark hits, this is where the bride turns frantic.  Her attention is dedicated to nothing more than the "details".  It is usually at this point that the bride discovers that in actual fact, she is hoping to be a few pounds lighter in the face and arms to look her utmost best on the big day. Getting herself to a gym and hiring a trainer that assures success in the next three months, the bride gives it her all.

For three months, she trains, lifts weights, runs, and when she thinks that she can't do it anymore, she just keeps forging forward... all for the "win" of being truly breath-taking on her day.

When it comes time for the weigh in at the end of her membership, she steps on the scale only to see that after all that... her number only changed by 0.02of a lb. 

Completely and utterly deflated, the bride heads for the showers.  Truly takes all she has to keep the tears in her eyes.  Was all her hard work for nothing?  How could, even after all that, the result not be some dramatic, life altering change?

Then, in the stillness of her heart, the bride remembers this: muscle before fat, strong as a jack... fat before muscle, sturdy as a sack. 

What the bride did not account for was that muscle, though leaner, weighs more than fat.  She did meet her goal of loosing her stomach and arm fat, but in her dedication, it was replaced with bulked up muscle tissue.

The important point is that the bride did not fail in life... in fact, she very much accomplished what she set out to do. What was incorrect, was her goal.  It was too specific, too narrow in scope, too restrictive on what she was capable of accomplishing. Rather, the bride needed to set the goal of becoming more healthy, prolonging her lifespan, learning about her body, etc... the list of possible goals that she could set is long. 

You see, really, I will be okay.  If anything, it is just surprising how fast our inner beings latch onto that glimmer of hope... that possibility of engaging something that is so incredible, it gives us back a piece of ourselves that was lost.  Of course it is not the sole method to regain one's footing on a step climb, but there is something about it that allows us to identify with it, hope in it, and hold on tight.

Perhaps in the end, that's all one needs - that "something" that convinces us to hold on while we are pulled to shore from our storm... that "something" that gives us the hope we need to get out of bed, put our feet on the floor, and then proceed - one in front of the other. 

In essence, after a baseline intake assessment, it was deemed that the program is not quite the right fit AT THIS TIME.  However, two very articulate steps were outlined and once I accomplish those two steps (however big and daunting they seem now), then the invitation is there to fly down to NYC for a proper intake assessment with hopes of developing plans for the two week intensive. 

You can't build a mansion if you first don't clear the trees, brush, and pour a solid foundation.

Annnnd, rather than stewing on the fact that I was temporarily sent back to do a little more clearing work, I need to keep my sight focussed on the future, my heart tapped into that sense of hope, and my grasp held firmly to the one who will ultimately guide me through it all. That one day, whenever that day might come, I will find myself sitting on the front veranda of a beautiful mansion, in the most precious of company.

God-incidences

The pop-psych phrases to explain the Holy Spirit are truly everywhere: "There is a reason for everything", "If it is truly meant to be, it will happen", or "When a window closes, another door opens".

Okay, that is a lame opener, but trust me when I say that I have worked and re-worked this idea in my head while out of internet range over the long weekend and the only conclusion I came up with is that I'm undecided.

I understand that there is a group of believers who think that "winning the lotto" in life is really none other than that immense feeling of ecstasy one gets when their will is aligned with God's will.  When one is truly doing something that lightens their heart and furthers the kingdom of God... what could be better?  For this group of people, one can achieve this sense of overwhelming joy through much prayer, soul searching, and discernment.

Then there is the group of us who, contrary to these people, deliberately walk (or in my case, run) away from God's will for our lives and yet, coincidences (God-incidences) still manage to happen.  We don't pray about it, we make rash decisions; we don't discern it, we make up our own minds and then simply announce what we've decided.  And yet... despite the vast differences, God beats us to it.

If you ask me why I went into nursing, I truly wish I could tell you a tear-jerker or inspirational story about how nurses saved my life and thus, I wanted to return the favour to the universe.  Or that my grandma was a nurse, and my mom was a nurse and so I fell into a career saving people's lives.  But my story is different.  Radically so.

(In a paragraph or less...), I was raised high church, met some friends from a slightly lower church, went on retreat with said friends.  Attended an ordination of the xx type in which two xx's were being ordained to slightly lower church, cried through the Gospel, cried through the sermon and felt this indescribable sense of pull on an internal organ that beats... a lot.  Made sideways move to the slightly lower church, studied unofficially for two years the ways of slightly lower church, took jobs in said church to learn more about it, went through three onion layers of discernment with said church... all to get a resounding yes (paralleled to the Gospel that one cried through years before).  Packed life belongings in car, drove 45 hours, and enrolled in ordination-stream schooling.  For reasons unwritten here, dropped out of said school, went into hiding from the church and so-called "calling" and in the process, thought it wise to enroll in a two-year, completely secular program.  Two year secular program graduated me as an RN and here I be.

After finishing nursing school, I had no intention of practicing nursing.  So much so that I chose to specialize in a field that is extremely hard to get into so that when I couldn't get hired, I could find the motivation to work through my "issues" with God, the church and the community, pick up the pieces and my dragging feet and return to that immense sense of pull that I felt years ago while attending an xx ordination.

Where is this going, you ask?

To pay bills and student loans, I took on a full time administration job on the university campus.  What was originally supposed to be a month placement turned into two... then three... then six.  Getting pressure from the parental units as well as my employer at the admin job, I started applying for positions within the specialty I graduated with distinction in.  At first I was hired as a casual, picking up a few hours here and there, but nothing overly significant.

On one of my shifts, I found myself as the only RN on the floor who was comfortable playing with a 3 yr old boy whose family had all been killed in a car accident and whom no one had told this horrifying news to.  All the services that would normally be consulted while we waited for extended family to drive across the country to get the child were "off duty" as it was a weekend, so I figured I would sit with him for a bit.

Monday morning, I got a call from the manager of the unit I was a casual on and I was asked to submit my resume for a full time position on the unit.  I had an interview on Thursday and the following Wednesday, I found out that the job was mine if I would accept.

As I sat there waiting for the late manager to show up for the interview, I was actually quite nervous.  Don't get me wrong - people are always nervous for interviews...but I was nervous because if I got the job, I would have a really hard time putting and describing God in a simple and understandable way.  So, after years of not being able to pray, I pulled my phone out of it's case and read the prayer that has been taped in there... the prayer of St. Augustine (as seen in a previous post)... "Oh Lord my God, I have no idea where I am going, I cannot see the road ahead of me..."

It obviously was not a coincidence that I was on the unit the day that we got the 3 yr old... nor that my phone rang Monday morning requesting my paperwork.  Nor was it a fluke that I was now sitting here for an interview for a full time position, merely months out of school.  No doubt I had no idea where I was going or where the road was leading. My only option seemed to be to leave it with God and if this was where I needed to be, then I trusted that things would come together... doors would open... things would happen for a reason.

Then I got the job!

So here I am, trying to rationalize this all in my head.  Trying to figure out why I, along with communities of believers, prayerfully discerned that I was called in one direction and now I find myself blindly stumbling in another, completely different direction.  It's not a coincidence, that I'm sure, yet perplexing just the same.

I cannot deny that God is here.  Of that, I have no doubt.  What does raise question in my mind is why.  Why would I, along with a whole community of believers, discern one thing and yet... things are lining up nicely in a camp far, far away from one's "said calling"?  How can that be?  It puts to shambles the whole belief that we can pray and discern where our lives are supposed to be and meet God there.  Because clearly, God just goes where do anyway.

I think.

That, or my logic is faulty and I need to go back to the drawing board.

Feeling Vulnerable

So I had every intention of writing a post when I got home about the concept of "God-inicdences" as my eastern friend calls them... more commonly known as coincidences, but not.  This spirited friend does not believe that things happen by random chance or coincidence, but that God and the Holy Spirit very much have a say in it.

However, then I got home.

And to my horror, I had been broken into (in to?); there is nothing quite like the feeling.

Last Christmas, even though we "don't exchange gifts", I received an autographed/personalized novel from a local news anchor that my godmother gifted me.  It had some coloured liquid spilled on it and as a result, is severely damaged.  As is my latest season of the favourite television show as the discs were sitting next to my book.

For my last birthday, I received one of those picture frames in which you can frame a number of pictures at once from two of my sisters - so that wherever my career took me, I could take my family with me.  One of the pictures appears to have been snapped off, thus breaking the frame.

But these are "things" and while some are more replaceable than others, I can find it in my racing heart to get over them.

What I can't get over is the fact that it appears to be an inside job.  In fact, I know that it was my landlord as the door wasn't tampered with, yet opened with a key.  I don't rent the whole house or even a floor... just a room.  And yet, for a reason unbeknownst to me, they felt the need to let themselves into my personal space, remove property that is clearly not their own, and trample on things of meaning and personal value.

It seems to be a feeling that I cannot get over.

As a victim of sexual assault, I very much understand the notion of personal space... of sacred space that is my own and is safe.  For me... that was my bedroom.  The door had a lock.  It was a space that I could return to at the close of each day to read, to write, to ponder, to celebrate successes or mourn losses.  It is the home of sacred things like the homemade Hope Chest that my grandfather made as a graduation gift before he passed away.  And the afghan that my Grandma knit as a gift to her eldest granddaughter... housing every shade of blue yarn she could buy because we were the only two people of that genetic descent that had blue eyes... none of her children or grandchildren with the exception of her and I... had blue eyes.  Growing up, we often marveled at that bond we shared.  "Angels have blue eyes" she would often say - when I either did something really great or ... really not so great.

It was my space.

I pay monthly rent and everything.

And everything.

I called my sister in hopes of having her talk me down and reassure me that I'm over reacting.  "It's just a room" or "Get over yourself! It's not like they let one rip while sitting on your blanket" or maybe "Why don't you spend the night in my guest room?"... but she's out of town and really, I just need to breathe and remember that I am okay; I am alive; Tomorrow is a new day.

It is truly a horrible and vulnerable feeling - none quite like it, actually.

As I struggle to see any God-inidence in the events of my evening this evening, I think I just need to curl up in the blanket of blue.

Servant or Friend

It is the story of my life that I am either two steps ahead of the group or two and a half behind.  The literal side of me wants to blame it on my Dad because from the age of 3, I would strive to match my stride to his.  His inseam was a gigantic 36 inches long... and I was barely 4'5" tall.  But, that story doesn't ever work because now that I'm "all growed up"... my inseam is a whopping 36 inches and yet I find myself falling behind. 


The humorous side of me says that it happens that way so that there can be a great roar of laughter when I finally catch the punch line of a joke. 


Whatever the case may be, I believe it might work to my benefit when it comes to spirituality because 9/10... someone has "been there and done that" before and often has wisdom they are dying to pass on. 


This past Sunday, I found myself as the sole musician in worship.  And normally, while music and singing is something that I am willing to do at the slight of a whisper, this week... I struggled. I knew the songs. I knew the tempo. I knew that the group would try to slow down the Sanctus.  I knew what to expect, or did I?


Growing up, we were encouraged from a very young age to "get involved" in the church.  As soon as I was old enough to be an altar server, I literally served every Sunday at 9am from that Sunday until I "retired" in my late (late!) teens.  From there, I moved onto other ministries within the church and never thought anything of it.  As the sermon reflected around the notion of no longer being God's servant, but God's friend, I struggled.  


When Sr. Mary wrote Servant Song, I think she understood that we were meant to servants; Mother Teresa was quoted saying, "God has no hands on earth, but our hands; no feet, but our feet..."

"What do you want of me Lord? Where do You want me to serve You?

I am Your song, your servant. Singing Your praise like Mary"

And yet, this week, I was challenged to be an equal... a friend. Someone who is willing to "sit down with Jesus over a cup of tea and "tell all""; I think it's easier to serve. 

It is easier to sit at a piano and play music than to sit honestly and humbly at the foot of an altar.  It is easier to fill the quiet with music or the sound of joyful service to another than to open up the gates. It will make me sound like a horrible and greedy person, but I really wish that Jesus would have consulted before he just walked in and said, "No, no... I don't call you a servant... I call you a friend" and before he implied that friends know the intimate details of one another.  

It is easier to be the sheep who follows a shepherd to the green pasture than to walk alongside a friend.  When walking beside someone, I am the person who is tempted to still go my way - and if the friend follows then the conversation continues and if they don't, then we head our separate ways for a bit.  

It is easier to scrub dishes, pots and pans, and clean the table than to sit in conversation with another. Easier to ensure that the kitchen is tidy after a common meal than to have another beat me to it.  Easier to create gifts, plan co-workers surprise birthday parties, and pass around homemade cards than it is to console them after they get disappointing news.  Truly - I am the person trying to make awkward jokes about a situation or the weather to simply brighten the office!

Then again, maybe I want to have my cake and eat it too?  Maybe I am truly struggling because somewhere deep down inside, I long for the day when I can pour a cup of tea, sit in the sunshine, and converse freely with a friend... as though no time had past since the last time. 

Augustine or ...?

Once upon a time, a time that seems oh so long ago, I went on a "camping" trip with some very holy friends.  One of the prayers that we used as a reflection point was a vocation prayer.  I then lost the paper it was typed out upon, then found it again, and then lost it.  Eventually, I managed to track it down and type it up. It is on a tiny piece of paper with size 6 font... it is coffee stained and crumpled. 

And yet, when I was cleaning out my car this weekend and found it, it felt like I had won the lotto. 

My Lord God, 

I have no idea where I am going. 

I do not see the road ahead of me.

I cannot know for certain where it will end.

Nor, do I really know myself,

and the fact that I think that I am following your will...

...does not mean that I am actually doing so. 

But I believe that the desire to please you,

does in fact please you.

And I hope that I have that desire in all that I am doing.

I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.

 And I know that if I do this, you will lead me by the right road,

though I may know nothing about it.

Therefore, I will trust in you always.

Though I may seem lost

and in the shadow of death,

I will not fear for you are ever with me.

And you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

Amen.

 Really, the first paragraph of this prayer resonates the most with where I find myself at present... the notion of not really knowing where to go or where this road is headed.  Today, I gave resignation that I would no longer be working in a temporary full time administrator's position so that I could truly try my hand with a sense of commitment for nursing.  It has been great, no doubt, knowing that I have a paying job on a Monday-Friday basis - but in the realm of my greater gifts and talents, they may be better shared elsewhere?  I got this incredible sense of relief when I shared the decision with my mentor - am trusting that's a good sign. 

Going to ponder that for the month upcoming as I wait for this transition period to come to a close and cross my fingers that I am blindly heading in the semi-right direction.

If I Could Tell Ya...

One of my favourite authors wrote a chapter entitled, "If I could tell you anything, I would tell you nothing" in which she described a day of her life in which she meant to have all these meaningful discussions and instead, accomplished nothing productive.

But it got me thinking... so here goes...

"Dear... You...

Yes, I am talking to You. I know, it is truly shocking. In fact, more shocking would be if You were actually listening. But then again, maybe it's better if you just leave me talk to You thinking that You're not listening. I can be more... candid.

I want You to know that, just like in any romantic comedy, "it's me, not you, that's the issue". Eeeeeveryone I talk to continues to assure me that YOU haven't gone anywhere, it's me that wandered off on my own - it was me that thought I could outwit, outplay and outlast You like in the Survivor reality show. Regardless of what piece of the journey I share with them, they seem to have reached this bizarre consensus that just like the Prodigal Son, I am the one who needs to "return" home because You never left. Please note that I am slowly working on accepting this notion, but it's not coming easily.

I also want You to know that there is not a night in which I fall off to sleep in which I don't think about how different life would be if I took the path You put before me rather than making the deliberate action to step off and away. All those people who shared their 'vision' and 'interpretation' of Your plan for me may have been right and instead, I struggle to find the next best thing because going back to the "best" thing is just not an option. Shocker number two? I just don't find the same joy that I once did and for the life of me, can't figure out why.

I alllllso want You to know that just like any bad break up, I am struggling to get closer. Not a sense of closure on our relationship because I think there might be a slim chance of rekindling that, but closure on the past. Maybe if I could just know whether or not it would have worked out, I could actually move forward instead of dwelling on what was and what could have been? Those same "people" keep telling me that if it is meant to be, it will happen. You and I both know that they are probably wrong. Everything in life involves conscious choice on some level, and what we do to occupy our time and pay our bills requires a rather large serving of conscious choice, don't You think? And theeeen, these "people" say, be patient. Hold on. Someone has their eye on you and you are about to sign up for the ride of your life.

I think You need to smite these people. Or something like that. I mean who says that? "Be patient". That's dumb. Just in case You didn't know. In case they missed the memo... it's not patience that's the issue. Or who tells another person that 'someone has their eye on you and you are about to sign up for the ride of your life'?? Clllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeearly they are ignoring their inbox memos frequently. If they know me a tiny little bit, they would know that I get car sick super easily (so I am NOT super keen on signing up for a "ride") and they would gather that I have been both baptized and confirmed (AND received), thus... there shouldn't be anymore signing up required.

I'm not tattling on them... I'm just sayin'... dorks.

Finally, I would tell You that I really only signed up and went into student debt for this second degree thing because I wanted two years of separation. Forget that 6 degree weird stuff. I wanted to quantify my distance in years. Degrees are too close for comfort... and they are hard to quantify. And yes, before You saying anything, I already know that my two years are up. But in fairness, we both know that You started dinging the "dinner bell" to remind me of the meal You prepared before two years had elapsed. Therefore, I declare a thumb-war.

Wait, wrong sport.

But it WOULD be cool if you made thumb wrestling an Olympic sport rather than shotput or discus. Men in tight one-pieces are just odd. Surely that's not what you had in mind when You gave someone the idea to create spandex in multi-colours.

Oh, and ps... a tomato should not be a fruit just because it's red and shaped very similarly to an apple.

PPS... I am keeping my ear plugs in, so please do not feel the need to roar the thunder or smash the lightening... just leave a message at the beep and I will happily return it as soon as I figure out how to manage this whole "direct connection" thing again.

That is all. You may now unplug Your ears.

Sincerely,

The Black Dog (because I am tired of the sheep reference... wasn't there any other animals in the time of Bible writings?)

Simply put...

What do you say to a dear 24 year old friend who was given a grim diagnosis of throat, esophagus, and small intestine cancer? How about the 28 year old friend who's stitches you removed that finally got the results of her biopsy, only to find out that the mole they removed was truly melanoma?

Which words would you select from your extremely vast and educated vocabulary to explain to the mother of a beloved 14 year old with spina bifida that some nurse at camp called it "an extremely stupid plan" to put this incredible young camper on a barge to "sail the ocean" because she is at an increased risk of drowning? What could possibly be said to an elderly couple, one of whom was a past post-secondary educator, when they "gift" you with an inscribed, leather bound edition of "The Book of Mormon" while at a lovely dinner in which faith was not even on the discussion agenda? And, what do you say to a dad whom you seriously love, but who refers to some of your closest friends as being "twisted" on the basis of their lifestyle choice/biology and doesn't realize that it isn't really an acceptable term to use for these individuals and yet... it's all he really knows?

Simply put... nothing. There really are no words to draw upon in these situations. Well, I'm not ruling it out completely that there are no words, however, if there are any... I do not know 'em! Instead, I merely sit there with an awkward smile or horrified look on my face because even despite my experience and exposure in the "real world" education... there is truly nothing that I can say which makes any of these situations any better.

I am really struggling with this notion of sitting in silence. I met with a lovely dear old friend last week who asked if it would be okay if we prayed before we parted ways. With this horrified look on my face, I told her it would be okay as long as she was doing the praying because after literally years of theological and conversational silence, I just do not have the words.

It's ironic really... the moments in which I long for words to speak to another, I cannot come up with a blessed word and in the moments in which I fear to speak at all, I am handed the opportunity on a silver platter and fear just shuts me riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight up.

When you are looking here... it's happening there...

Okay, I admit.

It is a super lame title for a chapter. Let's see you come up with something more creative than that after a full day of studying ob-gyn and community health. Ugh.

So... this summarizes my life to a tee...

I am house-sitting a dog for friends of mine and I return home from a long day at school to the foul smell of dried dog-piss. Worst. Smell. Ever! Some people will say that nothing is worse than the smell of brussel sprouts, but they lie. Tell them to look after a poorly trained puppy and then they will understand that nothing really beats that smell on the foul-scale.

Anyway... house-sitting a dog. That was the point of the story... not the smell thing.

So I take the dog's mat outside into the backyard when I let the dog out. Standing the mat against the fire pit in their backyard, I get the hose and spray the living snots out of that stupid mat in hopes that the smell would leave. After spraying it for an extended (!!) amount of time, I leave it propped by the fire pit and run back into the house to scrub the kennel down. This smell has GOT to go! However, I was so focused on scrubbing the smell out, I forgot to watch the mat and dog in the backyard. Needless to say, this severely untrained puppy took the wet mat and dug a hole in the backyard and proceeded to BURY THE MAT! So, now I had to re-wash the mat, wash the dog, ANNNNND fill a giant hole.

The same is true internally. I was so focused on the fact that these two years would be a time of spiritual seeking and reconciling and while I was giving that my full attention, I failed to see how other aspects of my life were starting to heal up.

Two years into my first undergraduate degree, my naive and positive outlook on life was violently shattered. Fast forward through some hospitalizations, panic attacks, and months of counselling and I would have sworn that I was "good to go!"

However, then as a requirement for this undergraduate program, I found out that I was required to do an ob-gyn, maternity, post partum rotation. I did everything I could (EEEEEVERYTHING) I could to get out of having to do this rotation. I contacted the course lead and begged to do my entire rotation in post partum, working with newborn babies... the answer was a bold-type NO. I asked my post partum tutor if I could do the duration of my assignment with infants rather than labouring moms and again, the answer was... NO. Though, the tutor actually laughed a little before she said no. I visited my wonderful family doctor and requested a doctor's note to excuse me from this rotation for "religious reasons". Her initial reaction was just laughter. I guess I have a way of sounding funny when I'm really worked up?

My family doctor actually did come 'round once she knew my reasons for wanting to avoid the placement, truly giving me the choice of whether or not to go through with the rotation. In her best wisdom, she helped me figure out what the pros/cons were to both doing or neglecting the placement and then willingly wrote a doctors note to excuse me from having to witness any births and sent me on my way with Ativan.

To my surprise, once I finished up the post partum portion of the placement and transferred over to the screaming moms in agony, the labour-tutor was incredibly understanding as well. Our discussion went something like,

"I really, really, reeeeeally don't want to be here"

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. What can I do to make your time here manageable?"

"Let me go to the pre-term unit and play with pre-term babies all day?"

"Not until you see a birth. It is actually a beautiful thing. Don't you want to have kids one day?"

"Heeeeeeeeeeeello adoption!"

She thought that I was "genuinely humourous" and literally walked me through the process as best she could. Together, we chose a woman who was labouring with her fourth child. When it came time for this patient to push, she pushed for a grand total of 3 minutes and 21 seconds. At which point, I happily excused myself and went to spend the last portion of my placement in the nursery.

But the weirdest thing came of my experience at the hospital. Aside from deciding with certainty that I would NEVER have kids of my own, I began to feel as though I could conquer the world. Really, as lame as it sounds, I had just overcome that which previously, scared me to the point of not sleeping, not keeping food in, and not really breathing. I most certainly did not execute myself in perfect form or with the utmost grace, but I did it! It was not tear-less, anxiety-less, or sarcasm-less, but it also was not me-less.

From there, I had the courage to somehow follow through with one of my assignments to follow a midwife around for a clinical day. I swear it is only by the utter grace of God that I, one student among 70-0dd students, am selected for a midwifery experience rather than any of the other long list of possible experiences. There, I spent 11 hours learning that the hospital way is not the only way and that there are humane experiences of pregnancy. 11 hours in which I was not forcing healing to happen, and yet... it was. Just learning the fact that contrary to the hospital pathway, particular patient histories do not always necessitate cesarean sections and that the pregnant couple have full power of decision making, not un-involved physicians who get paid more for 'complicated delivery procedures' was enough to perpetuate healing.

Aaaaaand, as if that wasn't enough of a step forward, yesterday found myself sitting at the University Health Services awaiting an 'initial intake' with a psychologist. Unlike this time last year, I was actually able to articulate three 'priority needs' for the 12-sessions I am entitled to as a student. Granted, my second and third priority and reason for seeking psychological services both had "related to number one" written beside it, this is both huge and awesome!

Finally, as a true testament to the grand improvements that seem to be happening in life, I was able to attend not one, but two massage therapy appointments in the past three weeks. While these appointments would be heavenly relaxation to most, being able to trust someone enough to be able to lay on my stomach, having severely limited vision because of having to put one's face in that stupid face-toilet-bowl-shaped-thing, while the almost-complete-stranger makes physical contact with the clothes-limited me... is... exciting beyond words!

For those who know me even slightly, they know that this last step is truly reflective of the inner healing that has already started. Seeds that were planted in this heart of dirt over these past two years are now sprouting through the black soil in search of the sunlight warmth. I only have a mere 6 months left in the program, but that is more than enough time in my humble opinion, to continue on this journey. And, as I said to someone today, even if I never actually nurse a day in life (I *will* nurse, but if I never got the chance to), I now understand why I embarked upon this particular journey almost two years ago.

So, while I was busy trying to scrub the smell out of this spiritual kennel of mine, the healing was continuing to grow in my flower pot. The seeds that were planted over the years by nursing instructors who claimed that my brick walls were too high and suggested some level of psychotherapy... those incredibly loving people who let me hang out and play music with them every now and again without any church requirements, constantly reminding me of the fact that I am loved for who I am and where I am on this journey...those people who remind me all the time that ultimately - I just need to be me. Me, the genuinely humourous child who needs the reminder to water the plant every now and again.

Crazy how that works, isn't it? I should know by now that things never really happen how we plan them out to, but rather - they happen when we least expect them, don't feel ready or worthy of them, and when we have the inner strength to laugh at the pure irony and coincidence of the timing of them.

Not my timeline... clearly!

I am 26 and regardless of how many times I "think" I have this whole life thing planned out, I end up completely ass-backwards and am shown yet again, it is not "all about me" and is most definitely... not on my timeline.

Here's da thing...

When I came back from working on a masters program in Western Ontario, I was pretty much in a state of brokenness. I previously thought I knew exactly where my life would end up. I had people I barely knew approaching me and giving testimony to how ecstatic they were that I was "following my true vocation". Among the tangible reminders that they passed onto me prior to setting out east were a study bible, a Hebrew lexicon, and a promise stole.

The bible came from a dear 'soul' friend. You know... that person who you can sit in silence with and still feel refreshed? That was her. We could go for a walk or a cup of tea, and say absolutely nothing or talk about completely mundane things and yet, I would come away truly feeling confident in who I was: a beloved child of God. She had so much faith in me and where my journey was going, she actually gave me her study bible that was gifted to her at one of her ordinations by the Diocese. She had removed the plaque in the front that was inscribed with the details of her ordination, wrapped it up, and gave it to me on my last day of work in the office. I still have the card that she tucked inside the bible.

The Hebrew lexicon came from a lady who, when she went to school, went against the norm and studied Hebrew rather than Greek. For her, she thought that having a solid foundation in the history would put her in good stead for teaching others much of the same. As a youngin' who was not born and raised in the denomination I was seeking ordination, she wanted me to have a piece of 'history' to remind me that regardless of where I went or what I learned in my journey, I would always remember that to everything... there is a past... a previous way of walking, talking, and experiencing.

The promise stole - I have to admit - has been offered back to the individual who gave it to me, numerous times. However, the lady who gifted me the stole is absolutely convinced that (for the time being), *I* am the one who should have it in their possession. I have tried valiantly to convince her that really and truly... I have no need for a stole. Believe me... there are probably hundreds of people who get better use of this lovely and holy piece of fabric than I could right now. She continues to insist that I keep it tucked away in my Hope Chest for now. It actually has a crazy story behind it. There was a woman in the Diocese who was working as an Registered Nurse when she felt called to ministry. My understanding is that she was an emergency room nurse and was amazing at what she did. When it came time for her to be ordained to be a Deacon, she decided to sew all of her vestments and garments. And so, she stitched this beautiful white stole to wear on the feast of her ordination. From there, her ability in making priestly garments only improved and so she decided to pass this stole onto a future "to be ordained" individual as a "promise stole". The idea was that when this seminarian was feeling frustrated, down, or began to question their call, they could look at this stole as a promise that someone truly believed in the fact that God was calling them to ministry... as an encouragement to keep going... to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Fast forwarding a few years, I find myself looking for a spiritual director. Praying about it daily for weeks, I continued to get the same response... for some reason, I was supposed to ask this past-RN to lead me down the spiritual discernment path. She was not one of the Bishop-recommended people at the time and worked with the rough and gruff of our population as the priest in the inner city. A truly incredibly spiritual person. In leading the opening prayer in our meetings, she would say things that I resonnated so deeply, I would find myself startled by it. Things that I had only ever revealed to the Holy Spirit in prayer, would somehow find its way into her words. That was every confirmation I needed to know that it was obviously, right where I needed to be.

So imagine my look of being utterly stunned when another priest approaches me with this stole and tells me the story of how she got it and where it came from and that she prayerfully discerned that I was the next person to hold onto it. Talk about mind-blowing!

Anyway, these three things drove all the way from Alberta to Western Ontario with me and then sadly, four months later, they made the drive back. Currently all three are tucked neatly into my Hope Chest because the individual either doesn't want it back or I haven't quite figured out how to get it back to them without offending them horribly or letting them down because I clearly failed in the 'ordained mission' that they so fervently believed in for me. Some friends still think that in me holding onto them, it means that one day I will come to senses, beg forgiveness, and seek ordination once more.

So when I found myself in this state of brokenness, I had to figure out what it was that I would do with my life while I worked on that "healing" piece, recognizing that it would not just happen over night. What did I do? I applied into a two year, bachelor's program that would find me graduating as a Registered Nurse. The primary reason for applying was not to eventually save people's lives... but rather, give me two years of a completely secular education where I could slowly work on building up the inner strength needed to actually pray again or walk into a church home without that terrorizing feeling of wanting to run in the other direction.

With less than 1/4 of the program left, I find myself no further ahead spiritually. Sure, there have most definitely been obvious signs that God is still there and Christ is knocking on the door and the Holy Spirit becoming tangible in ways I would never have imagined possible... but the timing isn't right.

However, as I was completely focused on thinking that it was my spiritual life I had to heal in a matter of two years, I realized the other day that there is a lot of 'other' healing taking place instead... healing that brokenness that was present long before the spiritual desert. More about that in a later entry. But for now, I shall continue to feel truly, "on top of the world" because while the healing is not what I first anticipated or would have aimed for... it is truly more than I could ever ask or imagine.

Za Book

"You should write that in your book"

"Ahhhem, uhhhh, what?"

"The book. The book you are going to write and publish one day."

"Ohhh, right. That book. I forgot I told you about my desire to one day write a book about the hilariousness that is my life; you reeeeeeeally think that I should write about how I overcame the passing-out-puking-pathetic-ness-of-my-ObGyn rotation?"

"You ARE still planning on writing a book, are you not? It would be a perfect title of a chapter"

"Yes, of course. I even have a list of people who want to write the forward for my book - and I haven't even written it yet!"

"I WANT TO WRITE YOUR FORWARD!"

"Right. I will add you to the list"

It is moments like this which make me laugh out loud. This was a legit conversation that was instigated by my family doctor when I went to see her for a prescription refill for the summer months. Surprisingly, it is also moments like this that help me to realize that there are moments of new life and 'resurrection' happening in my life at present.

A Time for Change

For years... literally, more years than I can remember, I have had this set of flannel sheets. They started off being a royal blue with little yellow stars and cute little sheep as the print; however, after all this time, the blue is now a blue-grey hue, the stars are essentially white (occasionally a yellow one pops up) and the sheep are now replaced with holes of worn fabric.

I know that I need to change the sheets and put my summer ones on, which is normally a happy thing. But today... today there is the realization that when I take the sheep off the bed this season, that will mark the end of their reign as my sole set of comfy flannel. It is like the end of an era.

"...now I lay my sheep to sleep, I pray the Lord their soul to keep..." Well, not quite, but... kinda.

I have fought this life transition so hard and so stubbornly, it is starting to reach the point where my sheets almost have their own aromatic odor. Let me state that I have washed them through the winter, but up until now, I just have not had the inner strength I need in order to change them... one. more. time.

But something changed inside of me this week and I cannot quite put my finger on what that is. I can identify the turning point as being a chat with a friend on our break at an exam... but I cannot put my finger on that "one" thing that changed in order to make this level of inner peace possible.

It was kind of cool actually - it was like a turning point in our friendship. There she was, all wise and crap, being all logical and continually saying, "... but I don't understand your resistance". And for those of you who know this stray little sheep well, know that this would normally make me turtle. My "usual" response to a phrase like this would be, "yea, you're right. Should just get 'er done" and then make a mental note not to share my inner turmoil with that particular friend in the future. But this time... this time, something was different. Maybe it was her patience in waiting out the awkward silence as I tried to find the words to articulate my puking-in-my-mouth fear of the change. And lo and behold, I did!

So together, we sat for no longer than 30 minutes, but we managed to come up with a workable solution: going to talk with someone who would know more of how to help me face this transition... this upcoming hill. And no joke, I slept better that night than I have in weeks.

This week, I found myself sitting in the office of a most superb health professional - you know, that kind that (unlike the majority of their colleagues) goes above and beyond the call of duty. And by the shear grace and "rah-rah-rah" strength of distant friends, I was able to share with her why I could not face the sheet-change era of my journey.

SHE THANKED ME! I am still in shock. This health professional actually thanked me for sharing this piece of my journey with her... she said that she was humbled... and thanked me some more. We chatted briefly about what my two options were - she wrote a note essentially giving me and the higher ups permission to delay the sheet change and then she gave me a list of options that were available for support should I feel called to take the plunge and change the sheets.

It blows my mind... a month ago, I would still be fighting the higher ups, the health professional and the friends... I would fight until I was blue in the face that I needed these sheets to cling to every night for safety... for security... for peace of mind... and for the ability to remember to BREATHE. But this morning, I find myself thinking about actually changing the sheets.

The weather outside is gorgeous - so I could wash my summer sheets and hang them outside for "to die for" summer smell and I could cut these sheep up so that I had a new saxophone-polishing rag, piano dusting rag, and maybe even a square or two for the quilt I am working on (there are some decent patches left on these sheets).

I don't feel like I have the strength or courage to conquer the world yet... but I feel... okay. at peace. rested. I have finally been given the keys that I need to unlock doors which were previously bolted, boarded, and blockaded.

Then again, maybe I am just finally maturing.

Oh the Lord Heals in Mysterious Ways

I think this is going to be the title of a song soon to be written at a later date; I honestly thought that there was something already by this title, but I cannot find it anywhere... which only means... it remains to be written.

:)

So if there is anyone out there who thinks that the Holy Spirit is just a silent partner in the Trinity, they really just ought to walk a week in my shoes to find out that this is not at all the case. The most recent example in which I am left with my mouth hanging open in awe took place last Sunday.

It was a Sunday morning in which I had no other commitments in my morning; I was not scheduled to play music anywhere, there were no exams to work or papers to write. I was not scheduled to be at work until 1300H, which left my morning, wiiiiiiide open.

Late Thursday afternoon, I received a very delayed response from an old friend apologizing for missing my earlier email regarding Ash Wednesday service times. She told me about the upcoming services for Holy Week and mentioned that it would be great to see me if my schedule permitted. I sent a quick reply back mentioning the idea that I might be present on the Sunday morning and left it at that.

I arrived to the church 4 minutes before the service was scheduled to start, found a make-shift parking spot, and quietly "snuck" into the church without really making eye contact with anyone or chatting about anything; I managed to find a seat in which there was plenty of space between myself and everyone else near the back of the church (easy for a quick escape).

The service started out as "normal" as normal could be. The words found their way to my lips without any struggle or prolonged searching... it was like I hadn't been away from the church at all.

...and then the first reading started...

"The Lord said to Samuel, 'How long will you grieve over Saul?'" and it was as though there was no other place I was supposed to be. It was as though I, personally, was being asked the rhetorical question of, "how long will you grieve over not being in the ordination stream?"... or "how long will you grieve over the relationships that are seemingly lost?"... or "how long will you grieve?" In it's own way, it was a wake up call for me. I have literally spent YEARS (I think I'm coming up on four years?) mourning what could have been and would have been if I had not completely screwed it up. Spent years in hiding, hoping that my relationship with God and the other individuals would completely dissolve as an expression of the punishment I deserved for screwing up in the first place... and now, was being asked just how long I was intending on wasting time on this spiritual journey living in this state of self-inflicted grief.

From there, I forget what the second reading was, but the Gospel was about the Blind Man who was gifted back his sight by the Lord. I cannot pretend that all the mud was completely wiped clean from my eyes and my heart in one service, but there was a tiny crack in the dried mud that let just enough light through for me to realize... I was not alone. My eyes... and my heart... were opened, even if just a little.

But following the Gospel, there was something I had never witnessed before in a service... there was not a sermon. Instead there was a "personal witness"; the parishes lay reader stood up in the middle of the church with his booming voice, and told the congregation of his great life trial and now God remained there. Even in the darkest of hours, God remained faithfully there. And then, one of the associate priests stood up and shared her story about how she found healing in forgiving others. But not just forgiving people, but forgiving people who had committed suicide and would never know they were forgiven. The journey of forgiving people who meant a lot to her, including herself.

And then, as if my head wasn't exploding enough at that point, the old friend who was presiding - stood up and transitioned the congregation into a healing service. All three clergy stood at the altar rail, anointing members of the congregation that approached them... for healing! My butt stayed firmly glued to my seat and I merely listened to the music that was being played/sung and just took it all in; while I am not quite ready to march up there and ask for prayers of healing and anointing, there was an insane and bizarre feeling of healing in just being present. Being among others who were hurting and in need of healing for whatever reason. I don't think I can even put the feeling into words... but the majority of the congregation was going up to the front at their turn and similarly to the blind man in the Gospel, I was starting to realize what it meant to see the healing of God incarnate.

They were opened enough to see that I am not alone in experiencing some type of spiritual distress and darkness... there were others (and lots of them!) who were facing periods of wilderness and darkness. My eyes and heart opened enouigh to see that it is completely acceptable to carry oneself as far as the foot of the cross before kneeling in humble need to ask God and the church, to carry them in the time of trial. It was absolutely phenomenal! I think part of me was previously living in doubt and thought that only one or maybe two people would ever open themselves in such a humbling manner to God's healing love and grace. Soooo incredible and soooo, beyond words.

And, just to keep in the mind-blowing aspect of things, the closing hymn was "We Cannot Measure How You Heal". The second and third verse of the hymn were:

"The pain that will not go away

the guilt that clings from things long past,

the fear of what the future holds,

are present as if meant to last.

But present too, is love which tends the hurt we never hoped to find,

the private agonies inside,

the memories that haunt the mind.

So some have come who need your help

and some have come to make ammends,

as hands which shaped and saved the world

are present in the touch of friends.

Lord, let your Spirit meet us here

to mend the body, mind and soul,

to disentangle peace from pain

and make your broken people whole"

I sat there and had to re-read the lyrics over and over and over again because I could not believe that someone I had never met could write a song that not only spoke my story, but read the unspoken of my heart. The only part that I wasn't sold on was how one who was soooo very far from home could feel God's love in the touch of friends. I have spent the last two years ENSURING that I was encircled by secular people as I worked on my nursing degree... and when I felt that I could finally walk on my wobbly legs, I went to leave the church.

Wanting to avoid the shaking of hands with the clergy, I went over to the far door to leave. However, apparently someone much bigger and wiser than I had different plans. For by the time I could get to the entryway, the lay reader was waiting for me with an outstretched hand, waiting. And before I could get outside the church, the priestly friend had a huge hug waiting.

I guess some might call it a coincidence that my schedule was open on this particular Sunday at 1030... that after all this time away from my home, I felt this urge to go to church... that the service just happened to be a healing service... that two people shared stories that would resonate in ways that they will probably never realize... that God ensured I was tangibly shown His touch before running out.. and that the readings and music could have just as easily had my birthdate and name in them as identifiers... but those are a LOT of weirdly connected coincidences.

Yes, most definitely, the Lord begins the hard work of healing our broken and shattered hearts, in thee most mysterious and holy of ways.