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.

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.

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.

Rosalind A.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An odd day

... and I'm still in bed.

It was a long night with very little sleep happening and while I cannot comment in detail, the summary sounds something like this.

Yesterday, I had two hours of training for an exam that I am working at the end of the month and while this would normally cause me to be absolutely ecstatic (and doubly so as the race car driving friend was DOING the training), it was an immense struggle. Because life happens, I had not looked over the material as well as I should have, even the intelligent questions that I had about it were asked all whilst still sounding stupid, and I even flubbed up one of the easier questions I was asked over that two hour span.

Then, while at work, the young man that I work with had asked if he could put his phone number and coinciding picture in my phone in case I was ever going to be late, (or whatever) and then I could call and let him know. Thinking this was a totally reasonable request, I did not even hesitate to pass my phone over. He was playing around with it as we drove the 30 minutes to our destination, not giving it back to me until we arrived to where we were going and he got sidetracked with catching up with old friends. Totally ok. However, as I was dropping him back off at home, he began apologizing and told me that he may have forgot to hang up from a call or two when he was looking through the contact list.

Sure enough, checking my "who did I call" list, I came across two individuals in my contact list that I had not called personally and whose calls lasted upward to 10 minutes in duration (presumably, this was the point in which their answering machine cut my phone off). Completely embarrassed and apologetic for potentially using up their mailbox, impacting their day, and the like... I called them both back immediately, apologizing for what had happened.

Then, last night on the way to hockey, there I am.... driving down the highway into the city when I start crying. There was no valid reason. I assure you. Rather, I was told by siblings that my car drew the short stick and would need to be parked outside that night so that they didn't have to get up and scrape their windows. For whatever reason, I felt the need to cry.

While at hockey, was defending our goalie in our end of the ice, when some large man from the opposing team came plouging into me from behind. This is, as you know hockey fans, illegal. After an NHL player got his neck snapped because of a hit from behind, this move is enough to earn you an immediate removal from the game as well as a review from the league in which you play. However, the referee felt that this hit did not even warrant a whistle and completely outraged, I first went after the player and then the referee. At which point, there was a game misconduct awarded, but not to the other man, but myself.

For what's it worth, I hate Oct. 7th. Three years ago yesterday marked the day I lost my grandfather and one year ago yesterday marked the day I got a phone call from across the country and seminary life as I knew it, was done.

Sigh.

Today is a day of trying to move forward and find tiny things in life to celebrate - like the fact that it is snowing outside. However, I think that the best way to accomplish that would be to pull the guitar, tune 'er up, and to sing the song that I wrote for a man who deserves to be remembered. Today just as much as yesterday and tomorrow.

Thank you Wayne

Following my volunteer experience with the Provincial Summer Olympics, there was a lot going on, including a 25th wedding anniversary, a 70th birthday, and some much (much!) needed time off before summer session started to truly reflect on a number of things. While growing is often painful at the time, here are some of the reflections that came out of the time away.

1) If someone tells you that what you say is held in confidence, don't believe them. If they have to say this to reassure you, it means that they probably are not the person you should trust your heavy heart with.

2) Open your heart enough to receive a hug from a stranger. These are often the most healing hugs in which there are no expectations.

3) Listen carefully to the people that others would ignore at first glance: a Downs Syndrome first baseman can teach you more about love, life, and laughter than any book in the Bible. Listen to the words they speak as much as the words they don't.

4) Write something everyday. Whether it be a card, a song lyric, a word... write down anything that strikes you in some way. If it strikes you, it is meant to be expressed. Express it. You can always reflect on it later... but write it down somewhere before you forget it.

5) Understand that as hard as they try, family and friends will undoubtably let you down. Regardless of how good they are at cards or eating ice cream on a rainy day, the day will come when they forget, don't follow through, or spend too long staring at their own reflection in the mirror. They are human. Accept it because acceptance mellows the pain for when it happens.

6) Trust that you will cause the tears of another person, hopefully unintentionally. You will forget to call or write, be too busy to stop in for tea, or say something that should have remained inside your head. When this happens, and it will, recognize their pain and their need for reconciliation and healing. Respect it. Work on making this a rare occurance.

7) Spending a day in bed in a pool of built up tears is okay. Two days is alright, but three days might be one too many.

8) Give all you've got to everything you do; this includes personal time and rest. If you give 'er everything you've got to everyone you who 'needs' you, you will burn out. Ensure adequate oxygen to that flame. If someone you love is in a state of crisis, God will watch over them until you are rested enough to save them.

9) Make at least one person laugh every single day of your life. If they don't laugh, at least make them smile; hopefully you'll understand the importance of this when the flood is a comin' in your life and laughter is the only lifeboat you can see for miles. Invest in the laughter of others and when the time comes, pray that they will invest the same in you.

10) When it's raining outside, hop in your car or take your umbrella and leave. Drive (or walk) somewhere in the middle of nowhere... no cars, no streetlights, no tires splashing water everywhere. And sit. Just roll down your window and sit. No radio, no talking, no distractions. Just. Listen. Experience. One rain shower is enough to save a farmer's field from grasshoppers and drought, enough to fill a pond with water and give the fish back reassurance that everything will be okay. A rain shower is enough to save a tiny canola plant or stalk of wheat... I guarentee it is enough for you.

The Lessons of Rhubarb

Did you know that you can avoid crying when you cut an onion if you refrain from cutting the very end of the onion off until the last possible cut? It's true... or, you can just wear contact lenses because apparently that prevents your eyes from tearing up as well.

Rhubarb? I am not so lucky.

I am definitely wearing my contacts, but just about lost them in the sliced rhubarb as my eyes teared up.

I shed a tear for the memories held deep inside of cutting rhubarb last summer and being called a "rhubarb buddy"...

I shed a tear for the lessons I was taught as the rhubarb was cut - not just about how to slice it best for stewing as opposed to baking sliced rhubarb, but the lesson that rhubarb is like love - the more of it that you give away, the more you get the next day. It's true - as soon as you pick all the rhubarb, magically, two days later - there is more than what you originally started with. I actually used to think that I could eat/stew/freeze/bake with all the rhubarb that grew in that little, city garden. I would actually get upset when it was given away to church ladies, neighbours, and co-workers. However, by the end of the summer, I learned that she was right. The more you give away, the more it grows...

I shed a tear thinking about the fact that there won't be a rhubarb buddy this year; that most of the rhubarb will go to seed, and that no one here will eat rhubarb and custard with me...

... and I shed a tear out of shear frustration for not remembering how to cut for stewing as opposed to baking.

However, most of the tears are shed because this broken stalk of rhubarb will never, fully reach it's "rhubarb potential". So, dear rhubarb buddy, if there is any chance that you are out in the garden this summer and picking rhubarb, and you find yourself in need of a rhubarb buddy... I won't say a word. I won't beg you not to share it with others or plead for you to make the amazing sauce just right so that it melts over vanilla ice cream... instead, I will simply rejoice that this particular stalk was picked, dusted off, and called upon. I won't hold my breath, that would be stupid - not to mention painful - but will continue to grow. Hopefully, before I break into seed, you'll pick me.

Speechless

Well, all in all... it was a pretty good night.  At the last possible moment before leaving for ball tonight, I got an email from my supervisor saying that the schizophrenic role that I portrayed on Tuesday with my mom, "Maria" was so stellar, the medical faculty wishes to arrange a taping of the two of us to send out to other cities in the program.  Which, after I finished I laughing, was a huge sigh of relief and affirmation.  We'll see if that actually transpires or if they were just kidding...

Then, headed over to the ball diamonds, where we trounced the other team a whopping 13-4.  And, better yet, I contributed to the run total!  

I then had a 20 minute drive to reach destination "x" in order to drop off the S.L.S. Survival Kit. At which point, surprisingly, panic set in.  I had honestly only known "Maria" for a total of maybe 3 months - and even then, only saw and talked to her a small handful of times (less than 10!).  What if.... what if she was the not the heart I was to touch, the outlook I was to affect, or the life I was to give just enough to?  The shocking part in all this is that I did something that I haven't done in almost a year... I asked a friend to pray for Maria's heart to be open and willing to receive what was on it's way to her.  I kid not, I was literally shaking as I pulled up to the address which I had written on my arm; I nearly tripped on the flat sidewalk, over my own two feet.  I knocked on the outside door, fought the temptation to run, and after standing there and working to build up my confidence - pulled the outside door open just enough to reach the doorbell.  

Sweet!  No answer - I can put the bag between the two doors and she will find it eventually.  However, heading back to my car, the door opened and I hear, "hey!".  Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit... I'm busted.  Do I get the car and speed off?  Run as fast as I can on foot and pretend that's not my car?  Ohhhhh crap!!  Nope.  Didn't do any of those things unfortunately.  I turned around.  Oooops.  Maria wanted to know what this package was and so I started explaining it, but told her it would all make sense when she opened it later.  And so... we talked.  

She opened my eyes to the reality that people on commercials don't usually use the product themselves.  Like hemorrhoid cream supporters on T.V... prolly don't even have hemorrhoids; Ellen most likely doesn't use Covergirl, defying aging cream and actors on coffee commercials probably don't even drink coffee.  I decided... I'm going to write to Ellen.  

Watching a sports car go by, Maria made a comment that hers was better - and I thought it was a joke.  She normally bikes everywhere!  At which point, she opened the garage and... there it was... (drooling!).  She asked if I had time to go for a ride - and when I made a kind of squealing noise, I think she took that as a yes.  Off we went... AAAA mazing!  She is racing it on Sunday and invited me for a ride-along.  I wish I could put into words how excited I am. 

Whether it was conversation, riding along on the open road with the windows and top down, or the gift that just kept on giving... she was laughing and crying and laughing.  And, I received the greatest compliment of all time... "you should go into business doing this sort of thing.  Really, I mean it!  I LOOOOOVE this!"  She kept all the little notes that went with each gift, setting them carefully on the coffee table to show her other half when he gets home.  

Life is way too short to spend everyday of our busy lives always looking in or down.  And I got the impression that although she may never actually use any of those ridiculous gifts, a pretty rough week may have been turned around... if only for a moment.  Well, this ordinary person is off to bed.  Life needs a' ponderin', sleep needs a gettin', and maybe (just maybe), someone needs a thankin'.  

Matthew 25

The parable of the land owner is one that has been floating around my head recently because of a sermon that I was once blessed to hear about this passage.  Summed up in two words, the take home message was "Just Enough".  In reference to how many talents each worker had received at the end of a long day in the fields, the answer always should be, "just enough".  

I am pretty lucky that way.  You see, I have a job in which I work to train to various professions of medical students (nurses, doctors, respiratory techs, pharmacists, etc) how to interact with patients, what the 'accepted practice here in Canada is' and give them a chance to have patient interaction before they get out into the real world of grumpy people, people who will always have something wrong with them, and people who want to have their meds and take them too.  The pay ranges from minimum wage upwards to 19-20 dollars an hour and while it is not steady enough work to live off of, it is still, "just enough". 

It pays for the gas and supper to be picked up and delivered on the doorstep of a mourning family nearly two hours away; I make just enough to throw a make-shift party with balloons, cake, decorations, and "kids-wine" for a special anniversary celebration for someone who often goes unnoticed.  The pay is just enough to put two baseball tickets into a card signed, "your loyal bus-rider" to be passed off to a bus driver who has driven numerous (and thankless) routes to the university and back - battling traffic, and let's face it, annoying and somewhat disrespectful riders; it is just enough to buy a bouquet of flowers for a sibling who went through a disgusting break up, giving her hope for a sunnier tomorrow and some inflatable blow-up toys for the pool for a sibling who is sick and tired of being judged on someone else's mistakes in life.  

...And, today - the pay is just enough to fill a large birthday bag with tissue-wrapped gifts and individual notes to help someone get through an absolutely, downright, shit-tay week.  Literally, in a matter of 10 tens, the band this person was a part of = split.  A mother-in-law was moved into a long term care facility, and one of their best friends committed suicide.  No one should have to live through 10 days like that.  And so, in a bag labelled, "S.L.S. Survivor Kit (sometimes life stinks)", there are a few things to hopefully bring a smile to her face, and let her know that she is being thought of in this challenging time.  Some Sourpatch Kids candy to remind her not to allow the experiences to make her sour, a little frog in a poncho holding a sign that reads, "rain brings flowers" as a reminder that sometimes storms are healthy, a box of chicken noodle soup (with a note that says, not sure if it works, but my momma always said this would make anyone feel better), a disguise kit (in case she wants to hide from reality for a little while), a bright, smily face bouncy ball to throw at those people who seem disgustingly chipper, and among others things, a box of Mr. Clean's Magic Erasers with a note that says, "if I were the handsome, bald man and I had the power to erase the shit-tay-ness of this past week, I would... but... since I am not a man, I am not bald, and I am not magic, perhaps this might be more useful in cleaning?"  The package is topped off with a home-made card and verse and will hopefully be dropped off tonight.  If I can find my camera before drop-off time, I will include a picture, but... not something to hold your breath for!

I'm not sure how this co-worker will react as it's been a stressful time, but hopefully the point gets across that she is thought of and cared about - and that sometimes, a laugh is 100x better than a wilting bouquet of flowers.  And if not, then hopefully this messenger will keep from getting discouraged and continue working with the just enough salary, to make just enough of a difference in the world in which we live, move and have our being.