The Gift of Communication

At first I titled this entry, "the gift of language", but while thinking about it - language does not get us anywhere if we cannot communicate with someone else.

Take, for example, the adorable 85 year old Baba that will go down in the books as being my "first patient". Other health care professionals on the unit seem to dislike having "Baba" as a patient because every time they enter her room she either:

a) talks non-stop

or

b) only uses an English word for every 20 Italian words and even then, it is said with a very thick immigrant accent

In the short time that I have come to know her, I've learned a few incredibly valuable lessons regarding communication.

1) When 'pretending' to speak Italian, one must simply add "isimo" onto the end of every word. This way, even if the patient is confused by what you are asking them, they will laugh at your feeble attempt to try and meet them in the middle.

2) As much as I want it to be, "Crap-isimo" is not a word in the Italian language. If I had the opportunity to add it to the vocabulary of Italians, the definition I would attach to the word would be, "Wooooow, I screwed THAT up royally!" or alternatively, "DOH!"

3) If one truly does not understand what another is saying, a smile and a gentle hand on the shoulder go a very long way.

4) People prefer being spoken to directly and greatly detest having to use their adolescent grand daughter as a translator when trying to tell you that they are constipated.

5) Communication is so much more than simply the language we speak from our lips. It is about reading the pain in someone's face as they undergo an uncomfortable procedure or dressing change and reassuring them when it happens. It is about engaging their eyes as a sign of deep respect and admiration for the journey they have traveled and the experiences they have to share. It is about smiling as if to tell them that being in their presence has truly made your day. It is about holding their hand with a warm and gentle embrace as if to say, "I'm here, I'm with you, I want to help to lift you to your feet when you've fallen". It is about sitting in silence in their presence in place of saying, "I shall keep watch for you", reassuring them that they are not alone but very much loved and looked after. And finally, it is about a journey - a journey of two people towards a deeper sense of what the other means by their frantic, indiscernible speech or their playful twinkle in their eye. It is a journey that requires many steps, many detours, many bathroom breaks and many, many servings of patience, teamwork, and laughter.

She has taught me lessons that I hope to never forget and lessons that are applicable to so many various relationships in life outside the hospital walls. For even when we speak the same language as friends, acquaintances, and colleagues... we struggle immensely with communicating. We send virtual messages in place of phone calls, we neglect requests to respond, and we get overwhelmed by day-to-day responsibilities that before we know it, the day is done. Some lessons I wish I could write in a card and mail to people who have, for whatever reason, stopped communicating simply to remind them that I am still here - patiently waiting for the gift to communicate with them.

The Little Anglican Piggy

No, I did not over eat the Eucharist tonight and I certainly did not eat too many egg-less pancakes last night, but rather, I feel like the little Anglican piggy who cried all the way home. You know that childhood poem where your Grandma grabs each one of your toes in turn and says, "this little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home; this little piggy ate roast beef while this little piggy had none... and this little piggy, cried all the way home"? While I am not sure who the other four Anglican piggies are in this life-sized scenario, I am certain that I am that last little piggy.

I intentionally waited out in the car until 3 minutes before the service; figured that this would save me from talking to anyone, or worse, seeing someone I knew and bolting. It's not that I want to play hide and go seek with the familiar faces, but after having gone through everything that I have, I don't want my journey to be a public thing. Not yet, anyway. So, having chosen a church in which there is a "university students worship" and a rector that came to the Diocese after I left, I thought I was ready to embark upon a deliberate journey back into good standing with the church - whatever that looks like. No one would be watching me with thoughts of, "wasn't she in seminary" or "she worked at the Synod Office" or anything else... it would be a journey that at first, could be just about God and I.

While I will refrain from commenting on the one or two familiar faces that were present, let me simply say this: the Holy Spirit was wholly, incredibly, and most definitely present.

Although there were tears shed here and there prior to her sermon, they were negligible compared to those that were on the way. The metaphor that University-Chaplain used was that of a palm cross that hung in her front entryway of her house. She spoke of how that little palm cross witnessed her coming in from the world, carrying anger, hurt, resentment, ..... and that same palm cross had seen her enter the world each day with pride, jealousy, ..... and now, tonight, that palm cross was burnt. The last year of wrong doings was forgotten and forgiven, by a Father who wished to create a clean heart in each one of us there. She referenced the movie, "The Bucket List" (which I have yet to see) and how Jack Nickelson realized before it was too late that he had relationships to mend and forgiveness to seek.

And, silently, inside my head (and my heart), I began to shout, "please stop U-C, please stop U-C, please stop U-C" (although I did not say University Chaplain, but rather her name). It was a sermon that my intellect most certainly needed to hear, but my heart felt as though it was slowly being ripped into tiny. little. pieces. It's not necessarily a bad thing - just an incredibly challenging thing.

The sermon was followed by the commonly sung hymn, "Take my Life" - one that holds a lot of personal meaning and has an incredible story and place thus far in my journey - tonight, being no exception.

I think I anticipated going to this service as a mere "next step" - thinking that it would be as easy and jovial as the movie night a week ago. I seemed to have forgotten what this day and this night are really all about. I thought that attending this service would be like playing music at the church on the hill in which I could sit there, completely disengaged from what was being said, and being done.

I think I forgot how much my heart truly felt at home in that Eucharist, that place of worship, that place of holiness, in which the presence of God and the words of the Holy Spirit and the elements of the Son come together in the most perfect song of harmony that could ever fill one's soul.

And so, all throughout the Eucharist, and allllll the way home (about a 45 minute drive), I cried.

I cried a tear for the time I've stayed away because of anger, hurt, and guilt

I cried a tear for the people I have hurt and the way in which I have hurt them

I cried a tear for the life that I left more than a year ago

I cried a tear for the people who believed just as strongly as I did, that I had a call to serve the church

I cried a tear for the desert in which I stand, not sure where to go or how to get there

I cried a tear for the relationships I have broken, the trust I have stolen, and the pain I have

caused

I cried a tear for the one who saw my burdens the moment she met me, but was denied access to my truckwagon because I did not want it unloaded by a stranger

I cried a tear for the way in which I have closed my life off to those who want to see my light shine

I cried a tear for the many experiences that will be no more

I cried a tear in fear of those that still lay ahead

I cried a tear for the pain that was caused by another's words, and the impact it has on my life

I cried a tear in disbelief at the words of the sermon that my heart simply cannot believe in

I cried a tear at how much my palm cross has seen

I cried a tear in stillness and surrender - in awe of how very articulate the experience of returning home can be and how incredibly powerful it is when the spoken word resonates with the sung word to give the reassurance that this lost sheep *will* be found.

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.

A few thoughts

So, as means of an update, this whole convocation thing is really throwing a wrench into the plan of continuing to believe that it's "just a piece of paper". There are a few people who were crucial in ensuring that I finished this journey - and none of which are going to be here for the "big" day. Let's see... one of them has purple duties in a small country down under, one of them has purple duties in the city nearby, and two of them live virtually, across the country. At the end of the day, I continue to tell myself that it is not a big deal and it is *just* a piece of paper. An expensive one, no doubt, but it is simply a symbol.

I am reminded of an evening in which I tried to teach the concept of a symbol to a group of youth who were preparing for a sacrament within the church. My definition has always been pretty traditional in that a symbol is a sign; a symbol points us to something bigger, more inspirational, and often, a lot more meaningful.

We were talking about what symbols were - how roadsigns symbolized a significant traffic condition (high fatality location, slippery surface when wet/cold, oncoming traffic, one way, etc) and how the sacrament we were about to celebrate together was very much representative of something more meaningful and powerful in their faith journey than simply a loaf of bread being passed around.

On that note, I totally understand how this whole whoopla is symbolizing something greater, buuuuuut, that doesn't change the fact that it stinks. Like a rotten egg would in warm sunshine.

And, before I leave to conquer the day and change the world, although the people I wish to say this to the most will probably never read it (or not read it for a very long time), I shall say it anyway.

"If every word I said

Could make you laugh,

I'd talk forever.

If the song I sing to you

Could fill your heart with joy

I'd sing forever."

(Beach Boys, Forever)

Annnnd to that, I would add,

If every prayer I prayed

Could make you stronger,

I'd pray forever.

If every thought I had

Could ease your pain,

I'd think forever

If every time I wrote

Could close the gap we had,

I'd write forever.

That's all.

It's just a piece of paper...

In less than a month, I will walk across a stage, shake some strangers hand, and pick up a piece of paper that says I have officially received my university degree. In facing deadlines in ordering tickets and such, I emailed a friend to find out for sure what her plans were in either attending or not. When she elegantly wrote back to say the timing is less than ideal and she would have to pass, my response to her was simple: "it's okay; at the end of the day, it's just a piece of paper."

It's true. There is nothing in the world that can even come close to capturing the last six years of my life, and most especially, not a mere piece of paper. It is a piece of paper that will probably never be framed and hung on a wall, rather it will sit, packed nicely in a box, and stored in the corner of my closet. It bears the signature of someone whom I will never, personally meet or have a cup of coffee with. People get all excited about receiving this piece of paper. A three hour ceremony, cap and gown, standing and sitting amongst strangers for an entire afternoon - people I will probably, never see again.

My degree is nothing special. It does not give me more relevant wisdom than the man I sit beside on public transit each morning. It does not qualify me as a better citizen, Christian, or friend. It is not unlike the relationships that fill my life; random text messages or emails sent to a friend in which the relationship is merely a ghost of the life-changing journey that was once traversed. It is a piece of paper containing words that are meaningless unless placed in a specific circumstance, much like the communication exchanged between two people who used to have something in common. And most of all, my degree does not give me the answers to the life-agonizing questions that keep me up at night.

The same way that I will stop investing time and effort and concern into relationships that are going nowhere or in which my effort is met with a mere mumble of meaningless words, I find myself wondering if all the hype and hoopla is required in order to get a piece of paper. Because afterall, when the day is done... it's just a piece of paper.

Life vs the Fog

It is not a large picture. It does not need to be. Everyone can relate to that feeling of helpless lostness when travelling through a foggy patch. I was reminded of this in a very tangible way as I was on my way home from hockey tonight/this morning (our ice time was at 11pm so I arrived home around 1 in the morning).

For drivers (around here anyways), driving in fog requires the perfect balance between driving with a sense of confidence and competence, and tentative caution. Realistically, one could hit a deer or moose and be in serious trouble at any point along the familiar stretch of road and with heavy fog, it is impossible to see anything until it is right in front of you... when it is often much to late to react safely. The same is true for cars or other hazards. A car may have applied their brakes in plenty of time, have properly indicated they are turning and yet... as the car behind them, one has no idea until they are literally feet behind the virtually stopped car.

However, for ones own safety, it is best to drive faster than a snails pace so as to not be rear ended by the over zealous truck that is screaming down the highway. Often, the fog will not lift or disperse if you drive slower... and the flip side to driving a relatively safe and quick pace is that one is through the worst of the fog within seconds and back to being able to drive safely with 100% visibility.

Funny how often life is manifest in the weather situation, do you not agree? How there are always going to be some moments in life in which, momentarily and short term - the answer seems to be that we ought to just stop. Pull over to the side of the road, maybe wait until mid morning for the fog to burn off before continuing on our way. There will most definitely always be those moments in life in which we can not see how many fingers we are holding up, let alone where to turn, where to run, where to hide, where to venture, where to conquer. Those moments in which we are truly overtaken by circumstances beyond our control.

The only challenge that the life/fog paradox poses is that with fog, even an elementary child could point out that the sun will eventually come out and burn through the lower level of cloud or after a certain period of time, the fog will truly lift and no longer be an issue. This is a proven, scientific fact. We know "x" will happen because "y, d, a and n" happened. But with life, the story is different. We don't know what the variables "y, d, a, and n" truly are. Nor do we have the insight to "guesstimate" whether or not "x" is even possible.

Someone should work on changing that sometime soon. Just sayin'...

Lost

Others see me, and tell me that I am lost. They point me out to all their friends and whisper about how I have strayed from "the way", whatever "the way" really is. To them, I am different. I no longer do things the same way that they do, nor pretend to understand the same things they pretend to. Although I look the same as I always have, to them... for some reason, I am different.

But they are wrong. I dare not tell them, for I fear their reaction. I have not changed at all; au contrar as the French would say, for on the contrary, I have not changed. I have withdrawn.

I have pulled myself away from this insane world we all call home for a moment of solace. In an attempt to figure things out, I have pulled back. It is here that I sit, confused, quiet, and tearful. There is nothing that I can do to ease the pain of a loved one or to soothe their stormy lives and so here I pause. I am trying to find courage, discover strength, inspire hope. I am not punishing myself or satisfying those who wish not to see me... but simply problem solving or pondering the many paths I can take upon leaving this inner wilderness. I just need to think through what would be the best for you, one of the few people I would do anything for.

What else can be done?

I once had a mentor and friend who used the phrase, "it'll plague me to my grave" to describe those undesirable, untalkable things in life that daily challenged her.

We all have that list of things that, regardless of what we do, will haunt our days until the day we die.

One of mine is the ridiculous, unfounded desire to please people in my life.

The habit is an unhealthy one and while I can recognize this basic fact - it is a behaviour that is insanely difficult to stop participating in.

I agree to meet people who repeatidly stand me up. I get all excited and psyched up to finally see them and catch up. At one point, we were as close as sisters could ever be. Now - I don't even know where we stand. I think I've seen this person twice in the last 8 months. We make plans, arranage the details, I clear my schedule... and they don't show. I sometimes wonder if it would be easier to just cut the loss and walk away, give up, refrain from putting myself in that situation on future occassions. Yet, when they send a public, somewhat sarcastic message about finally meeting up, my desire to please their request grows and I respond - placing myself in the vicious circle once again.

On other occassions, the innate "big sister" in me leads me to opening up in most intimate fashion either spiritually or emotionally (neither of which I am extremely comfortable with) to someone in order to pass on some, remotely related piece of life experience that might help in the situation of a close friend. In the desire to please this person, I go above and beyond what would be considered the norm. Kills me. One email or phone conversation at a time. The serious lack of response on their end is a toxin.

Slowly, I'm learning. As immature as it might sound to some, I make plans with the first individual in a public, busy place so that I may always have proof that I held our plans and showed up, but that no one ever joined me. I work to find the silver lining: a bit of individual time with a cup of tea is not the end of the world every now and again. With others, I am learning that I should not hold my breath for promised updates - when they want to fill me in, they will and their lack of updating should not be a reflection on who I am, but who they are. I am learning that emailing while they are at work, while convienient and possibly desirable for them, usually leads to frustration, hurt feelings, and a series of pointless wonderings on my part.

Contrary to the teachings, I am learning to take the approach of an eye for an eye: if someone wishes to see life from the position of my eyes, they have to be willing to enlighten me from their eye colour first. In order to take, there must be give. From my viewpoint, in the grand universe scheme of things, I deserve to take and not simply give in the give and take spectrum of life.

Maybe I'm just tired, whiney, or downright cranky, but realistically - I'm trying to level some relationships in life - something that has to be done if I am to survive the craziness. Notions of sarcasm and "fairness" only go so far. After that, what else can be done? Bring on the ritual sacrifice of eyes, ears, and any other dual body part we have!

My fingers are numb...

I was always taught when growing up, that if the world ever gave you something that stirred that urge inside of you to punch something/someone else, reach for an ice cube.

Well, my fingers are number than numb, so what I'm trying to say is that any spelling errors I make, are not my fault.

My fingers are numb because I am upset about the human condition and how people have been trained to respond to tragedy by saying, "I'm sorry...." I understand that there is a certain level of empathy at play here, whereby the other person is acknowledging the pain of a situation by potentially apologizing for the fact that life sucks. I get that.

But honestly, it is THEE most unhelpful, pointless, mundane, ambivilent phrase in the English language. Those two cursed words should be reserved for apologies and apologies only, where you are at fault for something and you are remorseful. And, as a huge introvert who likes to ponder the shit out of every little thing, I would rather hear "Wanna talk?" than "I'm sorry". Seriously. Because I would be more open to talking through how much life sucks and hearing their honest, unreserved account of why life either sucks or it doesn't than to hear that they are "sorry" for some random misfortune that they had absolutely no part in.

I don't know... maybe I'm just upset because on a night where I need to talk the days events out, the two people I turn to, immediately drop the "I'm sorry" bomb on the conversation as if it will make everything better. Or, maybe it's true... maybe "I'm sorry" is a phrase that is abused in our lexicon and we need to work on changing this.

Up to you. I'll supply the ice cubes.

Life is Like...

Do you ever feel like you are in a giant 'super mario kart' game of life? 

 Sometimes this analogy is more realistic than what first meets the eye.  After sharing it with a friend last night, I felt it was best to write it out before I was asked about it and forgot where I was originally going with it.  So... here goes.

Sometimes, life is like a Super Mario Kart game.  We climb onto our little scooter and slowly crawl up to our starting block timidly, somewhat unsure of what our laps around the track will look like.  We quickly scan our surroundings and notice that if we go off-roading, our efficiency or speed will be greatly reduced while we run the risk of wearing our tires thin on the rougher turf.  

However, we don't need to worry too much about getting lost or drowning in the water that is sometimes on the course because the 'lil dude on the cloud is always near by.  The Cloudman is responsible for giving the green light to go and flashing the yellow light for caution and if need be, a red light for those moments around the track that require us to stop and rest awhile.  This Cloudman will also be there to warn us if we are unsafely going around the track backwards... and, believe it or not, if we run our scooter into the water (intentionally, or accidently after hitting a banana peel), the Cloudman will come along with his fishing rod - and pull us back on to dry ground, ready to continue once again.  

There are some races that are "ours" to win, while for other races, we are merely companions on someone else's track of life.   When the latter is the case, our duty is to warn of the banana peels so that the 'winner' of the track doesn't get hurt or lose ground; when we hit the secret squares and "win" the prize of the shooting turtle shells, we have a duty to knock out any possible obstacles for the person whose race it is.  

However, at the same time, rather than it being the "race" mode, it's more like Super Mario Kart, Challenge mode - where the characters have to find certain hidden objects within the world or complete certain tasks in the world before they pass to the next level.  While we are companions on the journey, we simply happily continue our way around the track... practicing our driving and encouraging the journey individual along their path.  

Just like everything, there are advantages and disadvantages to this view of life's journey.  The advantages are that we are always reminded that we are truly NEVER alone on this journey.  If not the other scootered creatures, there is a ball on a cloud with a fishing pole that will never leave us drowning longer than a blink of an eye.  He will pull us out, carry us to dry land, and place us back on track.  While there are banana peels along our way, we always recover.  We only momentarily spin out, and after a few seconds, are able to catch our breath and continue.  

The disadvantage is that while we are puttering along as a companion on someone else's journey, we occasionally get car sick and need to put our control on pause for a bit.  When our own world stops spinning, we can return once again to their world, but not before.  It would only just complicate things if our little character got sick on the track and put others in danger of wiping out.  But, even when we momentarily remove ourselves from the world... we are simply sitting just outside the world's door - able to reached at any time with any request or clarification.  There, sipping on a cup of tea and reading a good book, cheering you on from a slightly different viewpoint.  

The fire is a ragin'

I have tried watching a movie on the lowest volume, reading, and trying to think things through - however, nothing seems to be working.  I am attempting to slow my mind down to a pace which is suitable for sleep once again and clearly failing miserably.  

Have you ever been woken up abruptly by teary dream?  The kind of dream that literally has you crying and when you wake, your heart is racing, your cheeks and pillow are completely wet, and you feel more exhausted than when your eyes shut the first time?  It doesn't happen all that often, but every once in awhile, there are nights like tonight.  Nights where I wake up, in the middle of a fit of tears, almost feeling like the current state of dismal outside.  

We are currently experiencing a number of "close to home", out of control grass fires.  The skies constantly are dark because of the smoke and out here on the farm, we are currently surrounded by three local counties who have declared states of emergency (including our own county).  The smoke is so heavy, it is literally hard to breathe and the inhaler is kept in the back pocket for easy and frequent access.  It's hard to know which way to turn at a rarely encountered intersection because some road signs are actually unreadable with the copious amounts of smoke.  And, naturally, so many local roads are closed that it's impossible to keep up with the updates.  Often, on trying to find a route home, one encounters barricades, a fire crew or local volunteers stationed in such a way that strikes panic and forces "on the feet" thinking to find another route.  

It is the times in life when life itself is in a "fire" situation, that I have the exhausting, teary dreams.  When the barricades appear to be blocking my desired route of required travel, I require aids to continue breathing, and when the smoke and smog is so thick and unbearable - it brings about concern and frustration at the same damn time.  

I will admit to the fact that a fire has been burning in my life for quite some time now, but up until a few days ago, I honestly felt as though it was being battled and declared "in control"... but clearly the winds have changed, picked up, and caused havoc!  

While I continue to reflect on the "winds of change" that are present and blowing ever so.... "lovely" (good thing it's sarcastic Wednesday!), for lack of wanting to cause offense, say something I might later regret, or further spread the fire in any way, I will just say this.  

"Dear Changing Winds, 

I trust you.  I trust you as much as an exhausted firefighter who refuses to leave the post, can trust at a time like this.  No more... and no less and this is actually in your control.  I trust that you are blowing where you need to blow and pushing the fire in the direction  you subconsciously know is best.  I also trust that you are unstoppable in that I can never "stop" or "capture" the wind, only respond appropriately to God's element.  However, please, please, please... I wish you could do something, (ANYTHING!) to give me a heads up warning on where you are going and blowing so that I can be prepared.  For it is a struggle to trust and follow where you go when it is without warning or when your direction seems in so many ways at once.  

That is all. 

Signed, 

Your Chief Firefighter"

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! :)

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

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

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

sitting in the pew "studying" a prayer book, 

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

by heart.

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

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

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

"Here I am, Lord

I will go, if you lead me

I will hold your people in my heart"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, Damn Mug of Blessed Tea!

When I got sick Nov. 06, my mum did what any parent would do for their loved, adopted child... research, research, research! In fact, it often surprised me that she knew rules about cleanliness, sterile environments, and general "good health guidelines" for chemotherapy patients before I was informed by my doctor, no kidding! However, I regret to inform you, that one of the pieces of information she read said that green tea, which is extremely high in antioxidants, was recommended for cancer patients. These natural chemicals help to flush the body of toxins that are hanging around, and when going through something like chemo, there were more toxins than my body could physically handle.

So... every morning, my mum would get up early enough to boil a kettle of water and steep a pot of this blessed green tea. I promise you, the green tea was more of a fixture in our morning struggle to get out of bed and convince myself that I wanted to live and chemo was the best method to do so, than "discussing" alternative destinations for the car to go in the morning.

Every morning... I would saunter downstairs with my backpack packed: my blanket (it rarely came out, but I needed to know it was there, just in case I had to spend the night), a book (occassionally a colouring book), my computer, ipod, and Booker the Bear (often stuck out the top). And, waiting at the bottom of the stairs was my mum - proudly holding a travel mug of that damn green tea. Most mornings, I would try to "forget" the mug on the counter before we left, but somehow, she knew. She would soon appear in the drivers seat with the darn mug full of that blessed awful tea.

To humor her, I always had to take a giant gulp (as giant as one can when it's still boiling hot) before I got out of the car each morning. I would slowly sip on it as I waited for the blood results, waited for the nurse, and waited to have the treatment start. However, as chemo does, it wasn't long before I traded that mug for a kidney basin; not having much in my stomach from the night before, and only a few bites of breakfast, my brain connected the green tea, to getting sick.

Psychologists have published numerous papers that declare taste aversion as one of the most difficult learned behaviours to break... AND, I am case in point. To this day, more than two years later, the very smell of green tea causes my stomach to churn and that lingering acidic taste to develop in my mouth. I know that logically, it doesn't make sense. My brain is fully aware of the fact that the chemo drug mix lead to the nausea and vomiting... it wasn't the green tea. And yet, at the same time, it is linking green tea with being sick.

And so, tonight, as I lay awake into the wee hours of the morning, I owe you an apology - oh damn travel mug of blessed green tea; I'm sorry... all those times I cursed you silently under my breath and wrinkled my nose at the thought of having to drink, one...more...sip... it was never your fault! But rest assured, oh green tea, I am working frantically on taste aversion reversal - so that one day, real soon, I may savour your lovely antioxidant taste!!

Author's note: As those of you who know me well already know, I have considerable difficulty sharing my inner most thoughts and feelings in a blunt, "out there" sort of fashion. I am not someone who can "let it all hang", though I am getting better at it (thanks to the HolyMitredOne who lead by example through life). Anyway, all this to say that a very, very dear friend is offering themselves as lovely company, a consoling ear and an experienced heart... and while I long to take her up on it, for my heart is heavy and my head is spinning, we would be meeting over a cup of green tea (not actual green tea, but there is another necessary component needed in order to be able to talk through it, but to that, I have a slight learned aversion, similar to the green tea). It seems that green tea is the necessary common ground, but I don't know how to say, "Please don't walk away, I just can't bring myself to drink a cup of green tea... just a little longer? I'm trying and training, for I long to be able to drink it again... really I am...