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.

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.

Lesson of a $100

Tis a new season, and with a new season comes new colours; I tried for nearly an hour to figure out how to get everything that is orange - to be bright green but it sadly was not working out for me. It has been a very long time since anything new was posted on this blog so for those you just joining now, herein lies reflections primarily on my journey in faith. When I have nothing positive to say about my faith journey, my nursing thoughts find their way onto here. Essentially, I have been told by numerous people that I ought to write a book one day... and this is my way of keeping the potential book material, all in one place.

Tonight, is a reflection on what started to give the jump start back 'home'.

There was an old priest who was taken from his home parish to preach in a smaller, more rural and remote parish one Sunday morning. When the Rector's Warden called the old priest to arrange the details of the service, he made a point of telling the priest that the people of the community were hurting and torn apart. The preacher responded in a peaceful, "thank you".

Saturday afternoon, the day before the service, the priest was seen walking through the countryside; a parishioner stopped him and asked why he wasn't at the rectory, hammering out the details of his sermon. The old priest smiled, "I just had to pick something up for tomorrow morning, now I'm all set." With that, the priest and parishioner went their separate ways.

Sunday morning came and after the Gospel was finished being proclaimed, the priest reached under his robes, and pulled out a freshly minted $100 bill and asked the congregation, "Who would like this $100 bill?"

People all over the church shyly raised their hands. He said, "I am going to give this $100 bill to one of you, but let me first do this..."

He proceeded to crumple up the $100 bill, then he asked, "Who still wants it?" And still, hands went up in the air. "Well... he replied..."

"What if I do this?" and he dropped it on the ground and started to grind it into the floor with his shoe. He picked it up, now crumpled and dirty. "Now who still wants it?" he asked. No one lowered their hands.

"My friends, you have all learned a very valuable lesson; no matter what I did to the money, you still wanted it because it never decreased in its value. It was and still is, worth $100. Many times in our lives, we are dropped, crumpled, and ground into the dirt, by the decisions we make and the circumstances that come our way. We feel as though we are worthless, but no matter what has happened or will happen, you never lose your value. Dirty, clean, crumpled, or finely creased... you are still priceless to those who love you. The worth of our lives comes not in what we do or who we know, but by WHO WE ARE... Children of God."

Thought provoking.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Muppets, Church and Belief

This will be a short post as I only woke up a short time ago and have to run through the shower before my dad gets back and we go to look at cars to replace the one that was totalled last week. (Stupid truck drivers!)

Yesterday I took one of the ladies that I support to mass. It's funny because although we are entirely two different people, her and I seem to understand one another on a level that is not quite where other team members see themselves.

Anyway, there she was - blessing everyone who would make eye contact with her, singing to hearts content (though completely out of key and incorrect words, it did not matter), and giving thumbs up to the guy behind us because he had a "lovely singing voice". She was smart enough to put two and two together because when Fr. A started talking all about "preparing the way", she tugged on my sleeve and not-so-quietly whispered, "we have to prepare for the Baby Saviour. He comes at Christmas, you know!"

It was a powerful moment on this advent journey for me because although we were sitting there for her that morning, I had a "Grinch moment"... you know, one of those moments where my heart grew three sizes.

There was Fr. A, preaching in a church that I left years ago to pursue a dream, speaking to a heart that has been self-inflicted with grief, hurt, and pity; nearing the end of his 10 minute homily, I could truly feel my heart getting warmer, praying for a sense of cultivation and watering.

"Fine. If you have crooked ways that need to be straightened, by all means, straighten them. If you have rough paths that need smoothing, then smooth them over. But do not do all these things in order to prepare to be touched by the Christ child at Christmas time... do these things because you are obsessive or compulsive or both, ok? God does not want you to come to the manger all high and mighty with all your affairs in order because then he cannot help you. He wants you to come, with all your crooked and imperfected ways, for it is only through the cracks that the light can shine..."

Left me a ponderin' late into the night last night and still sits heavy on my heart this morning. Maybe there is truth to what he was saying... I'll keep you posted.

Fool-proof Proof that God exists!

It is, by far, thee most childish and immature argument for why I believe God exists more than Santa, the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy... but it is a proof that has never let me down. For some reason, it is the proof that I've always clung to and am reminded of each fall. Each time I remember this proof, I make the mental note of filing it in the back of the cabinet under "potential sermon illustration". Here it is.

I know that God exists because unlike Santa, God can hear the prayers that I say in my head; God can read my mind, but if you want Santa to know something, you have to either write it down or say it out loud. I know that God exists because unlike the Easter Bunny, God is capable of gifting more than chocolate and God doesn't leave a mess anywhere; God gifts things like love, forgiveness, grace, and peace, but the Easter Bunny is only capable of gifting those things which come in moulds - most often, in the shape of a bunny and rarely does the Easter Bunny gift anything aside from milk chocolate (not exactly a utility kind of gift). Plus, you don't have to clean up after God, he cleans up after you. But the Easter Bunny requires a pooper-scooper and a large pail in it's wake. Finally, I know that God exists because the rewards of making a sacrifice come in copious showers, but the Tooth Fairy never rewards more than a two dollar coin; God isn't cheap, but the Tooth Fairy certainly is. God understands that having an important, rooted aspect of your life is a painful, tedious process and never puts a numerical value on what is being lost, but the Tooth Fairy seems to think that Novacane makes everything manageable and clearly thinks that being able to break life into bite-size pieces is only worth small coinage. Plus, God does not hold our past against us but that stupid Tooth Fairy holds all the teeth in an envelope in Dad's bathroom - probably just to give back to us when we are old and start to lose these teeth.

I have been up for a few hours already, pre-sunrise thinking about this "proof" and how absolutely certain I was 18 years ago that the proof was infallible. Growing up on the farm, this time of year was one of mixed feelings. We only got to see my dad on Sunday mornings for church, if we got to stay up really, really late, or if it was pouring rain. He would always be out of the house before we got up in the morning and would never get back until after we were in bed. Every night, my mom would hear the instructions that she was to pass onto my dad when he got home. "Tell dad that as SOON as he gets home, to come and kiss me goodnight, make sure that Kristin didn't steal all the blankets or kick me onto the floor. Then, after he showers and eats his supper, tell him to come back in for one more kiss before bed, k?" She would nod, assure us that he always came into our rooms when he got home, kissed us goodnight, and made sure we were all tucked in. Night after night, my sister and I would be scolded for having to "use the bathroom" every five minutes, taking turns to see if dad was home.

If we were lucky, we would get to take supper out to the field for him. We would put milk in a canning jar and essentially, pack a small, cold picnic for him. Annnnd, if we were really lucky (and if the baby was sleeping in the car), we would get to go for a round on the combine with him. On the nights that we didn't go out to the field (we typically only took supper out on the nights where they were going to be combining into the early hours of the morning), we would leave him pictures, mis-spelled notes, and crafts by his plate for him to look at/read/admire while he ate his supper.

And this was the time of year, where part one of the proof was first discovered. Prayers were often said together, post teeth-brushing and pre-tuck in. Together, we would pray for good weather, good crops, safety, for people we loved.... and then silently, I would add a prayer for a whole day of pouring rain. I didn't necessarily want to contradict the good weather prayers that mom prayed for, but I just wanted one day of pouring rain so that dad could stay home.

Sure enough, after what seemed like eternity to a six year old, it rained. Two days straight. I didn't need to say these prayers out loud at bedtime for God to hear them. God heard my prayers for rain and didn't let me down. Now Santa on the other hand, should maybe take a lesson in the non-verbal, silent requests. If he did, I bet there would be a lot more Christmas presents of peace wrapped with a bow under the tree Christmas morning. And probably, a Transformer toy instead of that Barbie.

Not for the weak of stomach

Sorry, I apologize in advance for the "graphic" nature of the picture, but this dear toe is the subject of reflection this afternoon.

A few days ago, post the funeral of a young family friend, and before the craziness of this week set in, I went for a hike. Not an incredibly long journey, but long enough that I learned a valuable life lesson... hence, the reflective blog post.

Here is the short story of my toe, or "relatively short story" of my toe. When I was in grade 10, back in 2000, I was going to change from gym class, and had a heavy fire door opened on my toe. I was going into the gym and previous class was leaving. While wearing runners, my toe managed to get wedged between the bottom edge of the door and the floor, resulting in bleeding and a minor annoyance of pain. A few weeks later, before the nail had a chance to fall off, we were playing floor hockey in a friends basement and I managed to "accidently kick" (paradox, I think not!) the piece of 2x4 that was the beginning of them framing their basement. The nail fell off rather painlessly, but has been a pain in the ass ever since. I have had two complete nail ressections (removal of the entire visible nail), endless doctors appointments and open toed shoes, as well as one surgery to go in and remove the nail while also destroying the nail matrix.

Unfortunately, my toenail seems to be a close relative to the raspberry stalk because nothing will kill the damn thing. Since the surgery, the nail has grown back in on a sharp angle (like is seen above) and would catch on anything and everything, pulling it back a little more each time. Things like sheets, blankets, socks, edges of steps, the sidewalk, you name it.

So, really wanting to get out and go hiking this past week, I wrapped the toe in prowrap, and secured that on with a surrounding bandage of hockey tape. That sucker wasn't going to catch on anything as I hiked my way through the bush. About half way through the afternoon though, there was a twinge of pain coming from my foot. Sitting down in a resting grove, I carefully took my boot off, then my sock, and then the first layer of bandage before I noticed some blood.

Carefully cutting off the prowrap and tape together, I could assess the damage more easily. To my surprise, the jagged edge of a nail was gone and I only had some blood to deal with.

It's amazing what our feet can tell us. Before that afternoon, I never would have guessed that my nail had a purpose in my life, but in fact, it's purpose is pretty incredible. You see, when the little piece of nail was there, it was a reminder to slow down and watch where I walked, avoiding anything that might snag and hurt. But without the nail, I am still the same person. There was weeping blood to dry off and clean up, but eventually - the toe stopped bleeding and began to heal over. The pain subsided and I was able to hike back down, the same way I came up.

Sometimes, life is just like a toe. There are days where it might seem incredibly pointless to engage, as though it is something without a deeper meaning. However, if we are attentive enough to our own "selves", we know to look out for snagging material that will cause pain, further injury or headache. And sometimes, unfortunately, we will lose things in life before we want to. (I much rather would have preferred the nail to stay on until the doctor's appointment in September for him to see and evaluate!) But after some weeping and mouring, we will be okay, successful, optimistic in a brighter tomorrow. The pain will fade, the mess will be cleaned up, and the journey will be continued as though our crisis was nothing more than a resting place along the walk.

It seems so mundane and simple and I wish that I would have understood it before now, but I've always been a tangible learner and need to experience things to learn from them. I will miss Reed, the same way I will miss and wish my toenail was still here. Toes are certainly more beautiful when 10 are painted, not just nine; life more beautiful and spectacular with dear friends and near family. There will always be a gap in the nailpolish, but that's okay. My toe, just like my life over the past little while, was a learning experience I wish to never forget and may the (temporarily) nail-less toe be a reminder of the incredible grace and peace I experienced on that hillside that afternoon. And may this ugly looking toe be a gentle whisper reminder of the slow turning point to come back home, out of the bush - and into light of life. TBTG!

The 1 Millionth Psalm

"I heard there was secret chord, that David played and it pleased the Lord..." (from Hallelujah, as seen in Shrek)

Relationships are a funny thing.  For when a relationship is blossoming well, all we want to do is sing the praises of the other person or how wonderful life is.  However, when relationships are hurting in some way, we exhaust ourselves trying to figure out how to "make things better" and return once again to that state of wonderful elation.  Yet, in our efforts to "make things better" or return things to the way they were, we so often get disorientated and get confused on which relationships we can affect and which ones are out of our control.  

On Monday, I literally will have spent 8 months agonizing over broken relationships with human loved ones.  I have tried to come up with various solutions and possible answers on how I can repair these relationships.  Everything from starting anew to pretending we had never met...all the while, ignoring the one, single relationship in my life that I actually had some influence upon. I don't think that the 8 months was necessarily "wasted" effort and time, I'm just kind of ashamed to admit that it took this long to realize which relationship I needed to put my energy into saving.  

And so... comes the creation of The 1 Millionth Psalm.  A song, a prayer, a heart - crying to God. 

I am well aware of the fact that the Bible contains 150 psalms and that a number of musical artists have written "151 Psalm"... but 1 million seems like a safer number.  It is a number that acknowledges the fact that after everything, I don't deserve to be 151st or 152nd or even 999 999th in line to bring my song before our God.  It also acknowledges that there will be time to ultimately prepare for that journey to the altar, for I believe it will take longer than 30 seconds for God to hear the psalms 151-999 999 and work with the psalmist. Which, in frank honesty, is what I need.  

However, all that blabbing aside it is written and ready for the day when it is my turn to approach in timid fear and sing it before the Lord, my God, the only true shepherd of lost and wandering souls.  And without any further adieu, I share with you... The 1 Millionth Psalm.

The One Millionth Psalm

2009

My faith was tried, my heart is cold

Running away from Your Fire of love. 

And now I sit,

On the edge of abyss,

Waiting for You to take me home. 

Oh my God,

Take me into your arms again

Oh my Lord,

Take me, and call me yours.

In this great mirror of life,

All I saw was me, O Lord.

But now I know,

I was wrong

Cause others...

Always shine of you. 

Please grant peace to those in life,

the loved ones I hurt

Heal their pain

with Your glowing love

Shower,

their paths with grace.

My eyes are healed,

the mud has cracked.

I can see Your Light, O Lord

But my soul,

it`s got a hole

Upon Your mighty altar, 

I lay it.

Feast of the Ascension

Yesterday, by my calendar, marked the Feast of the Ascension (which in most churches, will be carried forward to this coming Sunday). While I have made the choice to work on Sunday in a job that is 100% secularized and removed from any thought of Christianity, this doesn't keep me from quietly marking this feast day with a day of reflection and introspection.

I was raised with the teaching that the Feast of the Ascension is an important feast for two reasons:
1) It is a pivotal point in Christian belief and doctrine that Christ rose from the dead, ascended into heaven and sits on the right hand of the Father. To not believe this would probably be heresy!
2) That Ascension is always a "forward-looking" feast. Unlike a lot of the other feast days within the Christian Church that mark a memorable occasion or individual, Ascension marks the beginning of the first novena for Pentecost. Just as Christ prayed for the Holy Spirit to descend upon the apostles, we too pray, that the Holy Spirit may enter every avenue of our lives, guide our steps, and transform our very being.

And it is this latter reason that has really got me thinking.

A few weeks ago, I was asked to play music for a Confirmation Mass in which 50 some grade six students were confirmed in the Roman rite. The Archdiocesan bishop was unable to attend, so Bishop-Emeritus of a Northern most Diocese who was passing through town took the service. A French Missionary Bishop, +C. For some reason, I cannot get his sermon out of my mind... and it is this sermon, that has been the starting point of reflection in the days leading up to Pentecost.

He started by reminding the confirmands that there is one, single, unforgivable sin: a sin against the Holy Spirit. (Theological training has taught me that "a sin against the Holy Spirit" is any sin which ultimately denies the presence or work of the Spirit in one's life...) He then proceeded to explain what the Holy Spirit was. To do this, he told a story.

"Imagine with me for a moment. It is summer time and your parents are sooo delighted that you made the choice to be confirmed in the faith, that they tell you they have a special vacation planned for you and your family. You are all going to drive to Vancouver for a week. You've never been to Vancouver and so you are very excited to go. Now, as you are driving, you have to go through the Rocky Mountains. And while you are driving along the road, your sister points out her window and says, 'I see a moose, waaaaaaaay up on the mountain'. The whole family strain to look out that side of the car and people say, 'oh yea... there is something up there!'. You remember that you packed a pair of binoculars, so you pull them out of your bag and look up to the top of the mountain. And there you see, a mother bear and her two young cubs. Excited to share this beautiful sight with your family, you pass around the binoculars. At that moment in time, the Holy Spirit is a pair of binoculars. You see, the Holy Spirit will come into your life in times where things are blurry and will provide clarity. And I promise you, the Holy Spirit will allow you to see the most beautiful sights, just like the binoculars will allow you to see a mother bear and her cubs.

Now driving a little further, it is a lovely sunny day, and Mom says, 'I packed a picnic lunch for everyone, let's have a picnic!' Finding a nice little park in the mountains, a blanket is pulled out and a wonderful lunch for everyone. But in the excitement to leave, no one packed utensils. All of a sudden, you remember that you packed your Swiss-army knife. Pulling it out, you use the fork for a bit and then pass it on so that others can eat and when it comes back to you, you change it to the spoon, have a few bites, and pass it around again for others to use. In fact, when it comes time to open the pretend bubbly, your knife even has a corkscrew. In this moment, the Holy Spirit is a Swiss-army knife. The Holy Spirit will equip you and enable you with tools and gifts to be shared with others. The Holy Spirit is a gift and begs to be shared.

After lunch, you are driving further into the mountains and as the day gets later into the afternoon, the sun is getting lower and lower. Soon, Dad says, 'I think we may need to stop for the day. The sun is blinding me and I can't see the road and we might go off the road or hit an animal. It's too dangerous!' Taking your handy sunglasses off your head, you pass them up to the front seat for Dad. At this moment, the Holy Spirit is a pair of sunglasses. Sometimes in life, danger will be looming right around the corner. Temptations will be glaring and blinding, but the Holy Spirit will be there to once again make your navigating safe and remove the blinding ability of temptation and sin, doing it's best to keep you on the straight and narrow to your destination.

Once you finally get into Vancouver, you decide that it's time to tour around and see all the magnificant sights. There is the park, the aquarium, the ocean... so many things to do, and so little time. What to do and where to go? Not wanting to waste too much time driving around on busy streets and getting lost, Dad runs out to the gas station on the corner and returns with a city map. At this moment, the Holy Spirit is a map of Vancouver city. The Holy Spirit will guide you through unknown territory with incredible precision and grace. It will guide you where to turn and how to not get lost along the way to the final resting place we are all headed to. The Holy Spirit, unlike our own desires, will never lead you astray..."

This was the basic summary of his sermon and from here, he explained to the students that Confirmation was the receiving of this Holy Spirit into their lives and journeys. Truly one of the most incredible Confirmation sermons I have ever heard... and more importantly, one of the first sermons I have actually listened to since early October.

It may seem like a simple, assumed fact to most - that Holy Spirit is all of this and more, but when you are driving along, take a wrong turn (followed by a long series of wrong turns trying to once again find your way), get utterly and completely lost... when the sun is shining and you are blinded from reading the roadsigns that you whiz by, and now have no idea where you are, how you got there, or how to even start getting back... the sermon is a kick in the teeth.

I get it. I'm not stupid. The Holy Spirit is the Robe of Righteousness that we are given when we enter the banquet hall for the feast. The Holy Spirit is that tiny voice inside your heart that leaps for joy when God is recognized in a spring rain, a field of sprouting crop, or in the voice of a friend, calling to say hello.

But what I don't get, is how I can possibly be standing in that group of disciples 9 days from today, to be showered and empowered with the Holy Spirit. I want to see the bear with her cubs, to pass the knife around the picnic, to not be blinded, and to have a map to guide me back to the place I made the wrong turn so I can be guided through life on the right path once again.

Maybe 8 more days of reflection might tell me how?

It's a promise I made years ago...

As a side note, in my humble opinion, bread dip beats "Mr. Ben" cough syrup ANY day!  However, this Friday post isn't really about the bread dip OR cough syrup. 

Wearing the Sunday church hat, and clutching a matching purse,

sitting in the pew "studying" a prayer book, 

the musical family starts to sing a hymn that she knows,

by heart.

Standing up proudly, she sings about seas and skies, stars and light;

Snow and rain, loving tears and conversions of hearts of stone to that of love.

Then, the part she knows best, singing loud enough for everyone to hear her:

"Here I am, Lord

I will go, if you lead me

I will hold your people in my heart"

My memory is sketchy at the best of times, but I can tell you at least two things about this song... 1) that this song has always been one that resounds in a pretty deep and incredible way, and for which the words have always been on my lips and 2) It was a topic of discussion at my First Communion meeting with our parish priest.  

The priest that we had at the time was nearing retirement, but I was determined to celebrate my first communion before he left.  He knew our family quite well and so to ease the tension of our meeting, he asked me what my favourite piece of music to sing in church was.  I remember quite clearly, scooting to the edge of the chair, leaning forward, and telling him that it was the one that talked about seas, skies, love, hearts, and going somewhere.  He didn't laugh, but instead, asked me why that particular song was my favourite.  I never remembered my answer, though my mom, who was also there has reminded me over and over (apparently it embarrassed her slightly). 

She'd say, "you looked him in the eye and said, 'Because I want to hold people in my heart just like HE does... DUH!"

Oooops!  I guess "Duh" is not a theologically based word.  Or, it wasn't at the time.  I'm not sure how hard Fr. Al had to pull strings, but lo and behold, the Sunday when I made my First Communion, the very first communion hymn to play was none other than "Here I Am, Lord".  And, I remember this like it was yesterday... after taking communion for the first time, I raced back to the front pew, knelt down, and told Him that NOW, I was a big girl and NOW he could trust me with holding people in my heart too.  

So, while people tell me not to worry about them, be concerned for them, or even - not to pray for them, as many have... my response is simply, "I cannot break a promise"  It is a promise that I actually made years ago, and while I continually stumble and fall along this journey, I'll admit - there are some days where I could do a much better job at keeping this promise. I made a promise to hold His people in my heart; somedays, that brings worry but other days, it brings true joy.  Occasionally, it's really (really!) hard to keep this promise, while other days it remains straightforward.  

Clearly God put you on my heart for a reason, a season or lifetime - and that is right where ya'll will stay.  And yes, before you say anything, you're right... it's not always easy to hold ya'll in my heart and once in awhile, it feels pretty stretched out... but I wouldn't change anything and I hope you can deal with that, because if you can't, it's not me you should take it up with.  Any concerns or complaints should be made by calling 1-800-HE-LOVES (answered 24/7).   But before you call, know that I don't think he'll be removing you from my heart anytime soon!