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.

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.

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. ---------.

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!

I Once Knew

I once knew a very intelligent individual who had the personal ability to move mountains, change minds, and influence the hundreds by a single sermon. Although I haven't spoken with her in quite some time, she continues to cross my mind, invade my thoughts, and speak directly to my heart from afar. I think that after all was said and done, it was a tie whether I learned more from her powerful sermons each Sunday morning or the simple and seemingly innocent car rides each morning and evening.

I like to think of this individual as my wise shepherd, no pun intended nor does it bear much relation to her current role within the wider church.

Almost a year today, I found myself in the basement of a tiny, country, Anglican parish on the outskirts of the seminary town I was still residing in (although no longer studying). A friend was preaching there on the Sunday morning prior, and when an older lady stood up at the announcement time and invited the congregation to join her on this particular evening of mediated healing, I was overcome with that combo platter of guilt, heart tears, and a slight pull. There I was. The youngest of the crowd by at least a decade, maybe even two.

She asked us to close our eyes and spoke in this incredibly serene fashion about a journey that we were on. She took us down a winding path, through the trees that were taller than any house we had ever seen in our lives. She walked us past a babbling brook, where we stopped for water, up a long and meandering hillside, through a green and flush meadow, and through an old gate that was barely on its hinges. She walked with us into a quiet cove with vines, birds, trees, and a large rock. With the birds and the water in the distance, she sat with us in the warm sun as we waited for our special visitor to arrive. After not too long, our wise friend came around the corner and our hearts filled with emotions. While I can't speak for anyone else, my heart was overflowing with tears for I had not expected this wise friend to show up - in a dream or real life.

But there was more. My friend was bearing a box, wrapped with a bow. And it was for me. Opening it carefully, I pulled out a key. It was one of the old fashioned keys and in the end, was an engraved heart. Although my friend did not verbalize anything, her message was clear and articulate...

So, five days later, I was packing up my room, loading my car and preparing to drive across the country once again... all the way back home. I had no idea what I would do when I got here, or how things would look. And, although I am living in a basement somewhere in the middle of nowhere, in a house, I am not yet home. On one of our many car rides, this wise friend said something that has stuck with me through thick and thin. "If God is really and truly calling, he has not told my heart yet". She was referring to a turning point in her own journey and how everyone else seemed to vision her taking on a new role, but for whatever reason, she remained tentative.

It's been more than year and I think I speak for my entire being when I say, "Dotto, I just wanna go home, we aren't in Kansas anymore."

Last night, on my late night drive to the arena, I was listening the "All Christmas, All the Time" station on the radio, responsible for playing Christmas music 24/7 from now until Boxing Day when none other than Josh Groban's, "Believe" (from the Polar Express) was played. I had to pull over on the freeway, turn my hazards on, and go... "Ok. I get it. That is my heart you're talking to."

Believe in what your heart is saying
Hear the melody that's playing
There's no time to waste
There's so much to celebrate
Believe in what you feel inside
And give your dreams the wings to fly
You have everything you need
If you just believe

Trains move quickly to their journey's end
Destinations are where we begin again
Ships go sailing far across the sea
Trusting starlight to get where they need to be
When it seems that we have lost our way
We find ourselves again on Christmas day

Believe in what your heart is saying
Hear the melody that's playing
There's no time to waste
There's so much to celebrate
Believe in what you feel inside
And give your dreams the wings to fly
You have everything you need
If you just believe

The Rationale... of a Donkey

Notice, I did not say "ass", which we all know is the code name for a donkey. At least in these parts of the English speaking world, it is.

I wanted to ask the question, are donkeys able to think rationally?

See, here's the thing. I know that the donkey on Shrek (for the most part) thinks like a rational being... he knows what to do to help Shrek fight the dragon, he is able to father children, and leads a fairly normal (albeit, donkey) life. Therefore, based on this example, I would be inclined to say that donkeys are capable of rational thought.

However... I have continually been told that I am more stubborn than average ass. I mean... donkey. Which, in my convoluted thought, seems to beg the question, "am I actually capable of rational thought, on most days?"

I want to answer yes - that, on the average day, I approach the tasks ahead of me in a cognitive and coherant fashion, achieving goals and fulfilling dreams.

Buuuuuut (hahaha... donkey, ass, but? Okay, I'm tired)... there are more days than not in which I find myself at a roadblock, wondering where on earth I went wrong. So, exerting the extra effort to re-trace my steps backwards, and after many trials and errors, (and the grace of hindsight), I finally figure out where I made my mistake and am able to correct my steps and continue on my way. While there doesn't appear to be anything wrong with this superficially, it is, for lack of more description... exhausting.

For example, something simple like taking medication daily. I know it's something I should do, and I have paid witness to what happens when I miss taking them...and yet, there are still days where I "forget"... and I pay the consequences ALL OVER AGAIN!

If it was only me that these errors in judgement affected, I would cope with that. But I am human (yes, the stubborn, ass end of human - but human) and this fact alone tells me that I am interconnected with other people ALL THE TIME. And so, unfortunately, being stubborn beyond the realm of your average ass, doesn't just hurt me... but those around me.

... if only I could find a way to illustrate that donkeys too, are capable of rationale thought. Hmm

God's Success Story: A Basket of Colourful Eggs

There are so many, very different blog topics floating around this school-logged brain of mine, but in tribute to a younger cousin who was old enough to learn about the magic of colouring Easter eggs this year for the first time... I figured a post or two on the egg was appropriate.  

While I cannot touch or eat the inside of an egg, that has never stopped me from staring in awe at them.  They make excellent youth group illustrations on a variety of topics.  I'm sure you've done the experiment in junior high where you take two plastic lids from a 2L pop bottle, a raw (uncooked) egg, and a stack of heavy books.  Asking the youth before hand, how many books they think the egg will hold after shaking the egg and proving it has a runny yoke, the answers range from 0-1... maybe. However, standing the egg upright on it's end in one of the lids, and placing the other lid (like a hat) on top allows you to stack an incredible number of heavy books upon the egg.  I've used this illustration to introduce topics of choosing the proper foundation in life, community and the importance of surrounding yourself with people you trust (lids), and even topics like, "Stand up!  Take Faith!"... for if you do, your inner strength and courage to withstand outside forces will be much stronger than you originally think.  

However, more than a perfect scientific/Christian illustration, eggs to me - are a perfect example of God's success story when it comes to the notion of divine timing.  Having grown up on the farm, and with a mom who would gather the eggs every two days, wash them and sell them... do you know how many conditions need to be absolutely perfect for a chick to exit an egg rather than a runny yoke?  The temperature in which they are kept must be within a range of a few degrees, or the baby chick will not survive and will default to being the runny egg.  The incubation time must be kept within a range of a few days or the chick won't develop either.  You cannot prematurely break the egg open, you'll kill the little, adorable, fuzzy thing.  

But, when the time is right and the chick is good and ready, prepared, healthy, and developed... it will start to slowly hammer on the shell... and piece by piece, a chick will emerge.  IT is not a hasty process - you definitely have enough time to call young ones to gather round when the chick starts tapping so they can witness this excitement, but at the same time - it is not a process that lasts days on end and elicits boredom either.  

The timing is just right.  

Yup, chicken/egg debate (that plagues five year olds to no end) aside, I would have to say that eggs are most definitely God's success story!

Stay tuned... next blog?  About the beauty and reminders of grace found in decorating these lil' marvels of creation! :)

Sacramental Boots

When I was studying for my Confirmation, I was taught that a sacrament was a gift bestowed by an incredibly loving Father; when I was completing credits for my theology minor, I was taught that a sacrament was an outside sign of an inward grace.  Now, as a pilgrim on this perilous journey, I know that the true definition, actually lies somewhere in the middle.  

I've got a pair of boots I have had since I was in early junior high that look like Van Gogh's "Peasant Boots"; the only difference is that there is nothing artistic about my boots.  

These are the boots that ensured warmth through all the cold winters; protecting me from the most harsh of conditions.  They have walked through knee-deep snow without wincing, braved wind and sleet without cracking.  If only you could understand how protective these boots are of what really matters: my precious feet.  

These are the boots that manured out the chicken coup every Saturday morning at 9:00am; stomping on mice, shoveling out dirty straw and laying a fresh coat, climbing up and down the dangerously steep barn stairs without flinching, unwavering in faith, and firm in trust that they would find the next step, without falling.  They endured stench, sticky crap, and slippery steps because they seemed to know what had to get done.  

These are the boots that carried pails of grain into the steer pen; first, one 5-gallon pail at a time and over the years, took on the weight of 4 at once.  They stood firm, not caving under the increased pressure of the load at hand; dodged frozen mud holes and sprained ankles, twice a day, seven days a week, 365 days of the year.  They knew how to avoid danger and stand strong for even if uncomfortable and heavy, it would be over before you could say, "my feet hurt".  

These are the boots that have run great distances to avoid danger or to play in the fields.  They have hopped rows of cut grain, in a hurry to ride with Dad or a hurry to get home in time for supper.  They sat patiently through the games of "shoemaker" as we carved our "shoes" out of a mud-covered boot with twigs in the springtime.  They have puddle jumped, walked thousands of miles (and back), and been forgotten in the tall grass in the summer time when taken off to "rest awhile".  

The laces have been changed more times than I can count.  It would be ridiculous to think that thin pieces of string could endure all these different conditions.  The boots have been polished and sprayed, to protect and honour.  But these are the only repairs they've ever had.  

Talk about a sacrament.  These boots represent the incredible transformations of grace that have happened within over the last ten years... and they still fit.  But this afternoon, when I pulled them out of the closet to make one more important journey, there was a hole.  A small, tiny hole in the soul.  

I know that I cannot fix this hole on my own; it will require the work of a master shoemaker, for these boots are one of a kind, none like them in the world.  And so, very carefully, I remove them from my feet, dry them off, and place them on the shoemaker's porch.  The lights are on, and I feel bad leaving them out in the cold, but I dare not disturb the shoemaker.  

In leaving quietly, I turn back, and see them sitting there; so full of life and almost pleading to be fixed.  I know the front porch is not used everyday, but I trust that as soon as that door does open, this shoemaker will see my boots.  I trust that the shoemaker will know that they are mine and will treat them with TLC, not throwing them out, but carefully turning them over.  

There it is, right there... a tiny hole in the soul, pleading to be mended.  

Face up, O Daughter of Jerusalem

I have been in this college town for a week, officially this morning and have a bit of time to reflect on the past week of flurry - in getting here, settling in, and "facing up".  Through the moments of "I don't want to be here", there were incredible moments of God's presence, comfort, and companionship.  Though, it may come in two installments.  

Already missing my mom, who had left for NZ two days before I was heading out on the road, the plan was to pick up Ms. NZ (my car mate who was completing her final semester of law across the road at the main campus from where I would be studying and leaving from the same prairie town) and be on the highway early enough to get us two provinces east by nightfall.  With the rest of the family standing on the porch waving, I set out.  Ms. NZ and I were on the road by 8:30 and because of a lack of student priced hotels, were forced to drive to the outer limits of the provincial "big city" and only got settled in a room beyond midnight.  Note to self: for personal mood considerations, stop sooner next time!

Day 2 gets us to Thunder Bay.  Up at a decent hour the next morning, I insist that we make a stop off at the Terry Fox Memorial.  Never having seen it, I had a friend recommend that it would be lovely.  So, packing up the car and getting directions from the lady at the gas station, we drive 10 minutes out of the city to the memorial.  As a means of journalling our road trip, I was capturing pictures at various border markings of my teddy bear traveling across the country.  So, it was in grabbing Booker that I realized I had misplaced my camera.  I literally tore every bag out of the car and started going through them right then and there.  Flustered, Ms. NZ offers to take pictures at the memorial for us.  Very sweet of her, for sure, but that doesn't solve the fact that I've LOST MY CAMERA!!  Her solution seemed slightly immediate rather than long term.  Not good enough.  

Throwing (not nicely) everything back into the car, we head back to the cheap motel.  As we pull up, the cleaning lady is working on our room.  Great!  The room is unlocked and she'll know where it is!!   "Have you seen a camera?"  A bunch of words are spoken in a language I don't understand.  Sigh.  Making the hand gestures of taking a picture, the lady suddenly gets all excited and nods.  This only makes her even more excited and the speed of her sentences is faster and definitely still in another language.  Ushering me outside, she starts looking for something.  No, I don't see my camera lying in the parking lot - but nice try!  Picking up a rock, she bends down and simply writes "430" and begins pointing... around the corner?  Discovering quickly that they don't have a room as high as 430, we start driving down the road thinking that it's been taking to a house with the number 430.  Stopping off at the next motel we find along the road, I go in to ask the woman if she understands this any better than I do.  However, English was not her first language either.  Eventually we discern that the next motel down the road is also owned by the same people and its number is 430.  

Getting there, it only took us to pull into the parking lot for the owner to come out and ask if I was back for a camera.  Thanks be to God!  She, slightly more English speaking, says that she'll meet us back at the first motel because that's where it was.  

Camera in hand, we head back out to the memorial.  Busy taking pictures with Booker overlooking the memorial and the water, it was a few moments before I got to read the write up they had.  Now as an elementary student I have to be honest: I kind of secretly hated Terry Fox.  I had never met him, obviously, but he was the reason that our first unit in gym class EVERY year from the time I was 8 until 18 was "The Terry Fox Run".  We would all have to gather in the gymnasium one fall day, watch the outdated movie that was made of his run, and then head outside to do the cross country run.  Everyone from grade 2 - 12 only got the option to sit out if they were personally deathly ill or had a note from their parents.  Sadly, I never got a note and was never deathly ill (not for a lack of trying!).  

However, as I stood there, still flustered from the morning activities... my life felt incredibly grounded quite quickly.  Terry Fox was diagnosed with cancer right around the same age that I was first diagnosed and his age when he lost his leg to cancer was right around how old I was when I relapsed.  And yet, the write up seemed to imply that he decided to run across Canada as a sign of hope, inspiration, and a sign of miracle - lighting the way for those who come after him.  I could have read it wrong, but it seemed to say that he set out on this mission while still battling cancer.  This would mean that he never had a chance to properly train, but knew that if he set out on this incredible mission, he wouldn't be alone and that when he was out of shape and couldn't run any further, God himself would bear him up and carry him.  And yet, almost down to the month, at the age that he lost his battle, I was standing in the same spot physically.  The difference was that, as our paths crossed, I was a two time survivor heading off to fulfill the plans that God had for my life in studying theology.  

I can't explain the transformation that took place inside me at that moment of realization.  My first inclination was to want to finish his run across Canada; that perhaps I was the person who always meant to fly out to Thunder Bay and finish running to the BC coast.  Perhaps it was the realization that life in itself is incredible; a gift, a privilege, a precious piece of God himself entrusted to us to live in love, according to his will responsibly and fully.  Or, perhaps it was the way that Terry seemed to understand the concept of "bigger than life" and that there was truly someone that would carry him through the darkest nights who was bigger than life; bigger than any pain, incline on the road, or weather condition.  Or, maybe it the notion that he understood that his job was to point the way to the cross with his head held high - to emulate a presence of peace, hope, love and a looking forward.  

Whatever it was, it was the inner overwhelming sense of peace that in reference to my journey, it would be ok.  I would survive, and very much, already have.  That if I truly believe, like those around me, that God is calling me to a specific journey in faith, there is much larger reason than I can see right now.  That years from now, the family who think I'm doing it "all wrong" and all the small obstacles that seem impassable, won't be what matters.  All that will matter is whether I've said yes and followed.  God will make the rest possible - he always has, and always will.