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.

God's Altar Cloth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picking up the Pieces

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

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

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

But I forgot.

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

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

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

But, I learn the hard way.

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

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

The 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.

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!

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?

Words to Live By

I am on a cleaning mission. Now that I've stewed and dwelt from within the pile of heaped compost, wasted time dreaming about what was and what could have been... I have decided that ultimately - these are beyond my problem solving ability.

Wish I would have realized this back in October, rather than sitting amongst my own sewage, however... I'm relieved that I have transitioned to the long awaited "shower stage".

Anyway, this post isn't supposed to be about the transition, but about something I found while in this stage.

Written on a corner scrap of sky blue paper, ripped on three of four edges, I found this written:

We can move forward in God and through God's will.
Although this can sometimes be challenging or horribly uncomfortable
And while we may pine for the pastures in which we came from...
By following God's will in our lives,
We can journey where we are not on our own.

I am not sure where I wrote it down from, whose words they are or the context in which this wisdom was shared. However... I kinda like it. And once I finish cleaning up this mess in which I write this post from... maybe... just maybe, I may paint these words on my wall.

Maybe I oughta go buy a fish too. The tank on the shelf of my desk is lookin' kinda lonely.

Tis an odd feeling

Of all the things to ponder on one's birthday, each year as the day approaches, I think back to the day I was born and the meaning that has held over all these years.  

Good Friday.  

There are years in which I find this piece of personal history smile-evoking.  These are the years in which I find myself thanking God for his backdoor sense of humor.  There is nothing like a stuck, horrendously Conservative and (big T) traditional Roman Catholic family to have their first born enter the world on Good Friday.  My ultra-Catholic Grandmother still refused to celebrate the birthday a few years ago when the day of celebration fell on the dark Friday.  

AND, then there are the years that I find it myself searching diligently for a deeper, more profound reason and come up with nothing more than it was just a normal Friday in the month of April.  

But this year, as the birthday falls on a different church feast day, tis truly an odd feeling.  Maybe it's the fact that I haven't been spiritually home since relocating late in December or perhaps it's that I am putting too many expectations on myself.  This year, the Passion is not just a story acted out, but an incredibly tangible reality - valid and human expression of what our Christian life really is.  

In years past, I've been on every side of the story - I have acted the part of the first and second criminal, Pilot, the guards, the crowd, the complementary music, and even the composition side of youth dramatizations.  The difference this year is that I don't yet know the part I am supposed to play.  

I don't know how to describe the feeling other than to sum it up as... "odd"... 

Maybe this year... is the year that I am simply supposed to "be".  Perhaps I am called to simply take a front row seat and absorb.  I guess I'll let ya know when I know!

Thank You!

I know that you already know who you are, and I also know that the chances of you reading this are slim to none... but I also know that quite frequently, you pop into my head. Yup, it's true. I have yet to figure out how you do it and whether it is something that you do intentionally or whether you are brought into my head by someone or something else, but I'm learning to like it.

I know that you didn't read the last blog in which I shared how your words brought about a new set of reactional emotions within me, so I'm left wondering how you knew that an apology and explanation would somehow, oddly enough, make everything okay again.

But, you did.

And for that, on this deepfreeze type morning in which the alarm went off too early and the bus was too full to sit, I find myself giving thanks.

Oh, and for the record, anonymous singing sensation... even though you often leave me puzzled, you remain welcome in my head - any time, any day, with any reason.

...But please don't mind the mess. I need to clean, but until I find the proper tools to do so, I hope you will find yourself at home, and refrain from stepping on cute and cuddly Charlie!

The Fallen Angel

I am trying to think... (a dangerous thing, for sure!) I might be wrong, but I thought there was a children's book about an angel who fell from heaven and spent time wondering the earth in search of meaning, hope, and direction.  Along her way, this little angel meets a variety of interesting characters who, through their interactions, teach her that God is with her wherever she roams - whether the heavens or the earth below.  If not, someone really ought to write one!!

Saturday night, I wandered aimlessly into the parish in which I was raised, worked in, and left rather abruptly two years ago.  While it really didn't have that warm, "welcoming home" feel to it, I occasionally moved my lips to the words of hymns, pretended to pay attention to the readings, and was half-heartedly following along through the Eucharist.  I now understand what it must feel like for all those lapsed Catholics who stumble into churches twice a year to "do their duty".  

This polish priest, the same priest who was there when I left and who walked up and down past the church graveyard talking to me about feeling called to follow Christ for hours, made an interesting point in reference to Epiphany and following the Star.  He pointed out that the star is actually present each night in the sky, but we are all too often caught up in the vast darkness that surrounds it.  Regardless of where we are heading in life, or what kind of vocational journey we are on, each one of us is guaranteed to feel overwhelmed by the darkness and lose sight of the guiding star.  However, he seemed to think that all it would take is asking for a journey companion, who can still see the star, to encourage, to cheer, to chat with... He seemed to think that we will all make it to the creche, like the wise men, to give a piece of ourselves to the infant.  

It's a lot to chew on, and I'm honestly not sure how I feel about it... but to say that it's comforting to know that even angels fall.  

A Blessing Prayer for Healing

I wish I could tell you which collection this poem/prayer comes from, but it was passed onto me recently at an Anglican Fellowship of Prayer event.  In light of yesterday's readings, I found this blessing prayer quite suiting.  

May you desire to be healed.

May what is wounded in your life be restored to good health.

May you be receptive to the ways in which healing needs to happen.

May you take good care of yourself.

May you extend compassion to all that hurts within your body, mind, and spirit.

May you be patient with the time it takes to heal.

May you be aware of the wonders of your body, mind, and spirit and their amazing capacity to heal. 

May the skills of all those caring for you be used to the best of their ability in returning you to good health.

May you be open to receive from those who extend kindness, care, and compassion to you.

May you rest peacefully under the sheltering wings of divine love, trusting in this gracious presence.

May you find the little moments of beauty and joy to sustain you.

May you keep hope in your heart.

Joyce Rupp

For only then, can you love God as God loves you, love yourself as God loves you and your neighbour as you love yourself.