Za Book

"You should write that in your book"

"Ahhhem, uhhhh, what?"

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

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

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

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

"I WANT TO WRITE YOUR FORWARD!"

"Right. I will add you to the list"

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

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.

Lesson of a $100

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thought provoking.

Hope... better deemed... Expectation.

It would seem that Advent would be an odd time for a lost and wandering sheep to offer thoughts on this Advent journey through the desert, but whatevs... I'm all about oddness.

Can you believe that for 20-odd years, I lived my life not realizing there were "themes" to each one of the Advent weeks? It's sad, yet entirely true. I clearly was not paying enough attention during Sunday morning homilies to recognize and distinguish one week from the next. However, I must admit, I am a convert. I kind of like having a bit of direction... a bit of a theme to live that week within.

Hope.

A few years ago, our Diocese was fortunate enough to have a Brother from the Taize community in France come and lead a youth retreat. His theme for the weekend was none other than "hope" and for some reason, I got volunteered to give a testament of how I personally experienced and lived out "hope" in a tangible way. I'm pretty sure I blabbed on about something completely removed from what I should/could have said because in all honesty, I was not really the right person for the job and frankly, had nothing positive to contribute to the concept.

However, years later, I had a child teach me what it meant to hope in something... to place expectations in something and that is the story I feel compelled to share.

It was a cold and snowy December night in the final days before Christmas; the roads were icy, the temperature in the low 30's (C), and anyone in their sane mind would have been spending the Friday evening at home with the fireplace going and Christmas music playing. It was the night that the local "inner city parish" was hosting a musical/narrated production of "Touched by a Child" as a fundraiser for a local charity that works to find affordable housing for low income families. The show was sold out, the choir had met every Sunday afternoon for months to practice their four part harmonies, and people with "stories" to share had practiced their dramatic reading numerous times with the local clergy person who wrote the whole production.

The concept was that we, as a music/narrator team, were to tell the story of the Christ child from various perspectives. There was a story from the Inn Keeper, from the Dove, from one shepherd who saw a star in the night sky and followed it to the manger. A total of 5 "stories" were intertwined with music and congregation-inclusive Christmas carols.

Originally, I was to be part of the choir. My untrained alto voice, with enough rehearsals, had almost become acceptable to listen to. However, days before the 'big night', the writer approached me and asked if I might consider reading/sharing the story of the Shepherd because she felt that I could fit the part. It also meant that because I wasn't feeling very well, I could sit with the readers in the congregation rather than being up in the choir roster staring out at the crowd.

I spent that Friday running around to various appointments and late in the afternoon, laid down for a nap. Unfortunately, the nap went longer than expected and I found myself rushing to get out the door in time to battle the road conditions and frigid temperatures. Doing my hair took seconds, I threw on a decent looking outfit, and bolted. I probably sped the whole way, but I literally had to be there. I couldn't bring myself to call the clergy person and say, "sorry, I'm exhausted and it's a no-go".

Arriving at the neatly decorated church, I ran in, dropped my coat, stood in line with the other readers when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

There was one of the choir members I had grown to know over the practices and her 4-5 yr old grandson I had met once (because he was required to sit through a rehearsal). From behind his back, he pulled out a stuffed bear. His words were minimal, but the impact, lasting.

"This will make you better"... and off he ran. His grandmother, my fellow choir member, began to try and explain why I had received the bear. Apparently the funds from the bear were designated to the local children's hospital and when Connor saw the bear and knew that I wasn't feeling well, he insisted that they buy me a bear because his teddy bear always made him feel better.

The tears rolled my cheeks, because it all finally made sense. Conner had placed all of his hopes and expectations in that little stuffed bear... his hopes that it would make me feel better, the expectation that I would be better. He had no understanding of what was going on in my life, but he didn't need to. Because for him, none of the details mattered. All I would need... was in that little bear.

And, just as Conner had placed all of his hope for me in that little stuffed animal, I knew that I in turn, had to place all of my hopes and expectations in the Christ Child that would laying in that manger Christmas Eve... and that if I did that, I would allow myself to be Touched by a Child... Touched by a King.

It seems so stupid that I would need a tangible example of hope before I could physically and spiritually live in it and through it. But truth be told, there is not a Christmas that goes by where I don't pick up that little stuffed bear, give it a hug, and give thanks for a little guy named Connor... who taught what it means to hope and just how I can place all that hope in the birth of that Child, that Saviour, that King.

May we all, this hope-filled Advent week, find that tangible source of hope we seek.

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. ---------.

Let your Light Shine

Well, Advent 4 has come and already gone and the self-assigned "advent reflection" seems to have fallen by the way-side in the blogging world. After reading a comment left on my previous post drawing attention to the fact that there is more to the Advent season than simply allowing the Christ child to come to us, broken, lost and wandering really got me thinking. I do not mean to lessen the importance of our journey to the creche as Christian people and solemnly believe that it should be a time of reflecting as well as genuflecting; a time of looking back on where we have come in light of where we are going as well as taking the time to pause upon the truly incredible gift that we are seeking out on this somewhat dark night.

Perhaps I understated Fr. A's sermon notes, but do not think so. For you see, I am a firm believer that not unlike the Magi, the journey should not be perilous. Challenging, yes, but not difficult.

For the past three months, I have been working with various individuals who have varying disabilities. Some are battling through the teenage years of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome Disorder, some are Manic, Bipolar, Fragile X Syndrome and some do not necessarily fit within a boxed category but cannot read, write, or function as a "normal" individual (as much as I hate the word normal). Two of the handful that have entered my life are, for lack of better description, non-verbal. Although they can tell you what they want to eat, when they are hungry, tell jokes, repeat phrases, answer short questions, and have a wicked sense of humor... they will never sit down and write a novel or be able to describe in any length, how they are feeling.

But the truly incredible thing about these two individuals, is that in speaking almost no words, are the Gabriel's of the 21st Century, heralding the coming of the Christ child.

I was awake all night on Friday, sitting in the shadows of Kristy's (name changed) living room as she paced, stomped, stormed up and down the hallway, around the dining room table and back to her room. The bedroom door must have slammed 102 times throughout the night and the bathroom door, 101. There was screaming, yelling, water-cup throwing and puzzle destroying. Although my urge was to jump up and gently guide her back to bed, I sat there. Did not speak, but just let her be. She is stressed and the only way her body can work it out of her system is through manic behaviour. Needless to say, when she finally fell asleep at 6:30 Saturday morning, I dashed off to bed to catch an hour or two before the other two ladies in the house were up and needed my attention.

There I am Saturday morning, essentially drooling. I do not function well with little sleep. The second staff showed up and took the other two ladies to finish Christmas shopping as I sat with Kristy and had a cup of tea. It's hard to not let feelings of shear exhaustion get in the way of compassionate care. It's hard not to say, "hmm - too bad. We're not doing anything or going anywhere today because I couldn't sleep last night", believe me! Kristy went off and came back with her winter boots, a fancy pair of tights, a long skirt and her winter parka.

"Shopping?"

"For what?"

"Mom and Dad and Kristy"

"You want to go shopping for mom and dad?"

"Yes please"

"Why?"

"Santa Claus is coming to town"

So, bundling up, we stopped off at the bank, grabbed some lunch and tackled the mall. At each stop, she sang the one line, "Santa Claus is coming to town" to everyone we passed. Some smiled, others ignored. The day would have been a write off if we hadn't sat and rested a while and grabbed a bite to eat. There we are, in an over crowded food court, eating the mall's sad excuse for lunch, when four carolers stood 15 feet away. They started singing "Silent Night" and two lines in, my lunch date put her burger down, and started singing.

She didn't care what others thought, I don't think she even acknowledged that there were other people there. But there was... singing loudly and beautifully. As soon as they finished, she stood up and bolted in their direction. Approaching the man on the end, she slowly put her hand out towards his. He did not even hesitate. He turned his page and took her hand in his. There she stood... swaying her hips to their singing voices, holding his hand and singing right along with them.

Standing a few feet away, my eyes began to overflow. Kristy may not talk a lot, but at the end of the day... she "gets" it. She understands what the true meaning of Christmas is and how special that little baby really is for bringing joy and love and peace and happiness into the world. And as I sit in the glowing light of these four candles, the song that comes to mind is,

"Let your light shine, for all the world to see

The brightness of your light within, the joy that sets you free

Let your light shine, to fill your nights and days

And all will see the deeds you do and give your Father praise"

Yes, at the conclusion of this Advent season, almost on the Eve of the Christmas feast... this little heart is singing The Beatitudes as loud as I possibly can. And giving thanks to a Father who has once again, reminded me what it is like when I open myself to the possibility of being touched by a child, touched by a king.

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

Storms of all shapes and sizes

Our family spent the weekend at a friend's cabin. Having grown up with these two families, it was a wonderful, semi-relaxing time to catch up on all that had happened in each others lives since the last wedding. At one point back in elementary school, I think we actually called ourselves The Smart Muskateers, adding one more to our "elite" group when we hit junior high.

We have since lost touch with the friend who joined our group in junior high, not really talking to her in high school and probably have not seen her since graduating in 2003. However, the three of us still manage to see each other once or twice a year by the blessing that our three moms are really good friends and make a point of talking at least once a week. Our families have seen each other through temporary separations, poor crop and cattle years where we were forced to rely on the frozen meat and vegetables from the year before in order to survive, graduations of all sorts and sizes, and in the past year, two of three of us walking down the aisle and saying "I do".

As great as it was to catch up, it was truly an incredible weekend of storm watching and squatting (if I can use that term in this context...). Saturday was a gorgeous day, spent down on the water and playing beach volleyball. Sunburns were had in various proportions across the board and a large handful of good solid wipe outs on the water as various individuals tried their hand at tubing, wakeboarding, knee-boarding and skiing.

My two youngest siblings were scheduled to cater a wedding in a small, farming community about an hour away from the lake and so they hit the road (dressed like little penguins) in the mid afternoon. By the time Saturday evening had rolled around, clouds were beginning to build in the distance and shortly after our post-supper volleyball match, the younger crowd was hauled out of the water at the sight of rapid, intense lightening that was fast approaching. Before we knew it, the wind was more than we had prepared for and the awning on the trailer was pocketing the wind and shooting up, almost like a parachute would. (This caused numerous, un-bloggable words to leave dad's mouth!) and a panic to get everything put away and tied down before it was too late.

Then... while sitting on the swing watching the lightening and listening to the incredible thunder (yet, not raining) two of our crew came around the corner of the house, one handing his cell phone to my mom and one handing his phone to my dad... both of my sisters were trying to call and couldn't get through on anyone else's phones. The sky was green in the small community where they were; funnel clouds were spotted and it was storming worse than they had ever seen in their adolescent lives. The power in the hall had gone out and they were allowed to stay there for 30 minutes on back-up power, but if the breaker wasn't fixed in that short time, the wedding party would end early. You have to know my two sisters... if anyone would freak out in that situation, it would be them. One of them is scared of anything and everything and the other one is the baby of the family and simply doesn't have enough life experience to be "brave" in a situation like that where her older sister is crying and freaking out. Ha ha... oh man!

They attempted to take to the road and head back to the cabin themselves, but hit the large panic button when, while driving down the highway, witnessed a close-by lightening strike and virtually explode a tall tree and driving a few more feet to discover large, im-movable tree branches laying all over the road. The cell phones rang again, this time asking the guys to come and pick them up and bring them back.

All got home safely after hours of detouring and sitting to wait out the storm... late enough that I was actually startled when a gentle tap woke me up around 3 to ask if she could crawl into my sleeping bag. She was shaking - poor kid.

News reports yesterday showed incredible monetary damage to things from BBQ's blown down the street to a farmer loosing his barn and all his lifestock due to the falling barn and some scattering. Trees, literally, exploded when struck by the lightening - leaving debris all along the highway. Cement walls were blown down, a tower in the downtown core began to break off and injured people walking and in vehicles and a fire truck drove into a building. Semi's flipped, cars rolled into ditches, and trees decades old are no more.

This morning, a teary, red-eyed professor came in, apologized for his lateness and raspy voice, but a close friend died Friday night, taking his own life. Guess I'm lecturing more this term than I originally planned...

Gives a person a true sense of thankfulness that the storm, while damaging some crops and touching the lives of wonderful people, spared those who life couldn't exist without. Crops are easily enough to replace... adorable little sisters who want to crawl into the tent with you because they are still terrified of the stormy weather are both priceless and irreplacable!

Let me

Well, to be honest, I've always been a sap for bagpipes; not sure why, but there is something that warms me from the inside out when I hear them played. This movie clip is one from the Provincial Summer Special Olympics that are taking place here this weekend - with athletes representing 114 communities from all across the province. This short clip is taken after the pipe band has marched in about 45 uniformed military personal, Royal Canadian Mounted Police (in their red uniforms/hats), and cadets.

The uniformed officers are lining both sides of the aisle that these athletes are about to walk through; the officers were followed into the arena by approximately 50 competitive bike riders, and about 100 joggers... and then... the screaming starts - the pipe band is drowned out - and these two, incredible athletes, march proudly into their home arena and up to light the torch and declare the games... "officially open".

There are honestly no words that can describe the emotional surge that came from sitting in that packed arena, on my feet - just like the 900 special athletes on floor level and the 1000 spectators, parents and #1 fans... watching these two athletes march with such conviction and pride.

I don't think there was a dry eye in the entire arena.

And then... 900 athletes stood proudly and proclaimed their oath - one that everyone should take heart in...

"Let me win, but if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt"

IN-credible. I truly encourage you to find out when Special Olympics are taking place in your area. Time spent that you will never regret, and that will change you... above and beyond. Warm your heart, moisten your eyes, and stretch your spine.