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! :)

Way to go, lil' buddy!

So there is a lot that I could say about how there are people who ought not to say anything about judgement, unless prepared to be judged themselves... or about how I just read the most incredible and uplifting (and honest) Easter letter and am going to skip to my next class...

... but instead...

... I give a shout out to the lil' cousins hockey team. Who, after going into a second overtime period on Sunday night, were declared the AJHL (----Junior Hockey League) CHAMPIONS!! I am absolutely delighted for them and it was truly a joy unlike any other to be physically present to see them play the way they did. They now go onto play the provincial winner of BC's Junior Hockey playdowns, and if they win that, could play for the Doyle (National?) Junior Hockey League Cup.

Excellent job boys!

And now, off to class to pick up my creative project and camera (which I have kinda missed over the last few days)... could go either way, but I'll let ya know later on.

Isaiah

Just when I am ready to throw in the foot-drying towel and raise my hands with exacerbation, and cry, "the church is full of human beings"... I am caught, pulled back in, and winded - all at once. 

If the past few days have shown me anything, it is that the "church" as we know it (in whatever expression we participate within), is made up of none other than human beings.  I think that once upon a time, a university chaplain tried to explain this to me, but I wasn't ready to hear it.  It is a realization much like the one I had when I first learned that Adam and Eve "may not" have actually been two, real, walking and breathing human beings.  *GASP*

It's true though.  I went to church every Sunday and firmly believed that "if" Adam and Eve were two fish or apes rather than human beings, my faith was no longer valid.  I don't know why I thought the Bible had to be read literally, but when I found out this was not true, my brain sort of exploded.  

The "human being composed church" realization is a lot like the Adam and Eve one. For the past 23 years, I have gone on believing and proclaiming that God is found in a church.  Slowly, over time, I came to accept the presence of God outside of the four walls and residing more precisely, within each human being that composed "the church".  And now, this most recent ideology might not be true either.  

I am grabbling with the idea that God created us IN HIS IMAGE, not as spittin' replicas of himself.  It is this reason that the phrase, to err is human, stands true.  We are human - (unless there is something you are not telling me) and we all make mistakes.  It's who we are... we will fall, stumble, groan, complain, and make horrible mistakes along this path.  Some of our mistakes (sins) will without a doubt, affect those around us.  I get that... 

What I don't "get"... is how there are actually church leaders out there who can pastor and shepherd a congregation, all the while believing that someone else's mistake has affected them personally, take rude offense to it, and walk away.  I understand that they too, are human - and have been given free will and choice in life.  But honestly, it doesn't speak much for the church you represent if those hurt on a greater caliber, are willing to stick it out and support the stumbling - while you are cutting loses and turning your back.  

Then again - maybe I just don't understand the human condition enough to be able to understand the actions of a few.  And so instead, on this Monday of Holy Week, I am standing in the middle of a desert, lost and searching, and kindly yelling, "Let my adversaries confront me" (Isaiah...).  

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!

I'm stuck.  Yup, not afraid to admit it and easily frustrated when others try and help by seemingly trying to clean off my stuck tires with a bucket of water.  Good intentions, just painfully not practical at the moment.  I guess there is a time and place and today is not the time and sitting on a hill is probably not the best place.  But... hey... in the larger picture - who cares?

The genuine question of the day, though is - how one can go about saying Happy Birthday to someone who still holds a huge place in your heart?  I'm caught up on the little things, and therefore - struggling to find the right words.  

Do you have any idea how magnificent the birthday greetings need to be for that one person who refused to give up on you, even when you would curse her under your breath, hide under the blankets, and tell them outright - you don't want to live in that state of health anymore?  What about for that person who unselfishly scheduled their work day around you: they dropped you off (in a rather grumpy state) in the morning for treatment, offered each and every day to stay and hold your hand, and was ALWAYS on the other end of the "magic cell phone" when you called in tears or jubilation, and asked her to come and get you... and who would leave work to come and get you?  For that person who would take you home, make the best grilled cheese in the world, fill your fuzzy hot water bottle, wrap you in a blanket, and sit with you - not leaving until you were completely past out?  

What do you say to the person who reacted the same, motherly way to dress shopping as she did to wig shopping, "YOU LOOK AMAZING" and then always follow it up by, "FOR REAL!" because you never felt as amazing as they described... or to the person who held you back from almost punching a lady in a busy store who misunderstood your gender by judging you solely on the ball cap you wore?  How can "happy birthday" be enough for the person who helped you break the rules, threw "chemo parties" and ever so gently, shaved the remaining few hairs from your head so that they wouldn't have to fall out?

For the individual who laid on your bed and read you chapters from Lord of the Rings so you could fall asleep on those difficult nights, and who never complained when your nightmares and endless tears about the dismal future brought her into your dark room... just to rub your back, dry your tears, and console you as best she could - how on earth, do you wish them a happy birthday?  

This is the lady who, as we sped to the hospital, put her seat all the way back, held your terrified hand and sung "You Are My Sunshine" over and over and over again; the person you left your provincial discernment meeting early for - so that you wouldn't miss one of the most important days of her life.  

She is the person you spent almost all day with, for the better part of two years... but also the mum you have only seen once since August.  

Somehow, the pathetic phrase, "Happy Birthday Mum" just isn't enough.  

Lenten Reflections

It has just been one of those reflective kind of weeks where I momentarily ponder what I wanna be when I'm "all growed up" while filling out applications for summer employment everywhere imaginable.  

And... on this Friday afternoon, I've never been more convinced that if I ever have the opportunity, I will mass produce and distribute t-shirts with the upside down slogan

"IT'S NOT ALL ABOUT YOU!"

screened across the chest.  This would allow the wearer of the t-shirt to be reminded of this simple fact every time they tied their shoes, looked down at their feet, or fell flat on their face.  

Don't get me wrong - I love the liturgical season of Lent, a season of introspection, personal reflection, and personal growth in a way unlike any other season of the church year.  It is a time set aside where we can look inward, re-evaluate, and adjust.  

However, beyond the soft smell of springtime and new growth from within, I can't help but wonder if we should maybe distribute these t-shirts to people at the beginning of the season.  I would hope that in doing so - it would prevent the unnecessary naval gazing and over-excessive personal negativity that comes when people go ONE step too far.  (or two or three or four...)

*sigh*

Well, maybe it's just me - but honestly - there are two VERY different kinds of reflection, introspection, and evaluation that we (as Christians) can engage in.  There is the kind that, unfortunately, becomes all about us.  It's all about how we feel, how our world is changing, how we feel left out, left behind, or left field; this reflection focuses on how something is going wrong for us or how we can't seem to clear our heads.  Alternatively, it can also be the kind of reflection that leads us to believe that something is wrong with the world just because it's not how we used to experience it.  

The other type of introspection and evaluation is what I like to call "prescription eyes" reflection.  It's that kind of evaluation where we finally get our eyesight check out, realize how blurry things were for us and how clear they are now; this allows us to not only see and experience our present situation more clearly - but lets us look back upon those fuzzy moments that require a healthy dose of "corrective eyesight".  

The problem with the first kind is that we get too caught up with ourselves and actually begin to live in a pretty dark and negative world.  This is when we need a friend to slap us silly, as hard as they possibly can, teach us how to kindly apply this slap to ourselves, and scream, "IT'S NOT ALL ABOUT YOU!!"

Some people seem to get it after one conversation, but after this week, I'm left wondering why some people insist on saying that their way is the only way or who agree that they need to change their way, but actually do squat about doing it.  

In my humble opinion, perhaps this video is a suggestion of a better way of reflecting upon our Christian lives and journeys.  And for all those out there who need to hear this the most, but won't ever read this blog... may the Triune God apply the appropriate reminder that in the end, IT'S NOT ALL ABOUT THEM!!

Laugh of the Week

So there I am, sitting in the middle of a row, as a face among hundreds.  Well, maybe not hundreds - but I think the class registration in this particular psychology class is at 150-175?  It is definitely one of the largest lecture theaters for this University.  But, as an older student, I stand out among the first and second year novices - for sure!

The other day, the prof is going over the notes and the powerpoint slide, projected on the large screen says, "emotion"

... the conversation between my friend and I goes something like this:

Me: "Is that a typo?"

Friend: "Is what a typo?"

Me: "Emotion"

Friend: "Why?"

Me: "Well, what  kind of motion is e-motion??"

Professor overhears and as my friend is snickering at my question, he doesn't stop lecturing - BUT, manages to slide, "no, no this is not a typo.  Eeeee-motion is that type of motion that deals with feelings..." as he continued lecturing.  

Oh, I wish I could describe the colour of my face.  I think this ink colour is pretty close... 

Music of the Soul

It comes as a shock to most people who find this out about me, but I speak Spanish fluently.  I do not have any direct family relatives (or indirect for that matter) who are Spanish speaking or hail from Spanish countries... nope, we are German and French, and now, Canadian.  

However, a family who provided music for our Sunday worship when I was a young child always sang this particular hymn in Spanish.  Although I never learned what the words meant until I was old enough to search for an English translation.  When I got to highschool, where Spanish was offered as a second language, my heart leapt at the opportunity to study it.  I carried these studies through my undergraduate work and speak Spanish - every chance I get with friends from other countries.  Such a beautiful and expressive language.  

This afternoon, I got an instant message from a friend who was wrapped up in concerns about what to do next, worried about this or that, and worked up about whether something was "right" or how the timing would work out.  And so, in true sharing, shared this hymn with her.  Surprisingly, it seemed to bring her some sense of comfort and peace.  

And, knowing that there are more than one of us out there who are worried about what the next step in our journey is, where it might take us, feeling anxious about moving on or staying put, searching frantically for the answers, courage, and grace... I share this hymn here, with you.  

Tu has venido a la orilla, 

no has buscado ni a sabios ni a ricos; 

tan solo quieres que yo te siga.

Senor, me has mirado a los ojos,

sonriendo has dicho mi nombre,

en la a rena ha dejado mi barca,

junto a ti, buscare otro mar.

Tu sabes bien lo que tengo;

en me barca no hay oro ni espadas,

tan solo redes y mi trabajo.

Tu necesitas mis manos,

mi cansancio que a otros descanse

a more que quiera sejuir amando.

Tu pescador de otros lagos,

ansia eterna de almas que esperan,

aamigo bueno, que asi me llamas.

The (rough) English translation is:

Lord, you have come to the seashore, neither searching for the rich nor the wise,

desiring only, that I should follow. 

O Lord, with your eyes set upon me, gently smiling, you have spoken my name; 

all I long for, I have found by the water, at your side, I will seek other shores.

Lord, see my goods, my possessions; in my boat you find no power, no wealth,

will you accept then, my nets and labour?

Lord, take my hands and direct them.  Help me spend myself in seeking the lost, 

returning love for the love you gave me.

Lord, as I drift on the waters, be the resting place of my restless heart,

my life's companion, my friend and refuge. 

It's incredible in so many ways - and could, soooo easily, be a simple prayer before the work we engage in daily - whatever that might be.  At various points along the journey, various verses or phrases hold the most impact.  Personally, if I can  manage to utter the words: "as I drift on these rough waters Lord, be the resting place of my restless, unsettled heart; you are my life's companion - friend and refuge"... then I'm improving.  

And for those of us who are in some way, worked up about "what comes next" - may we take heart and courage in trusting that God is gently whispering words of love and vocation to us and that it is ONLY with God at our side - that the seeking of other shores will happen.  Not alone, not on rough waters, and not without direction.  

Oh the Lord works in Mysterious Ways

I was actually going to blog about something all together different this afternoon. Revgals posted the Friday Five about reflecting on our Lenten journeys thus far; since this Lenten season has been quite different from all the rest, I was feeling inspired to write something deep and profound about the windy road through the desert. I was feeling the urge to write something incredibly inspiring to those whose hearts are heavy and troubled this Friday afternoon, but...

instead, I leave you with this.

Sunday evenings in our house were spent as a family, gathered in the livingroom (in the winter, we got a fire in the REAL fireplace, with REAL logs) around our little television. At 7:00pm, dinner would already be settling in our tummy's and we'd come together to finish off our day of rest by watching Touched by an Angel. After the show was no longer airing new episodes, we still gathered faithfully to watch rerun after rerun.

I remember one episode in particular entitled, "The Lord Works in Mysterious Ways" and it was the story of a small town and how the Lord showed up and spread His love, mercy and grace without being obvious to the townfolk. I think I remember it so well because Della Reese, the infamous "Tess" sang this gorgeous gospel song about how the Lord works in mysterious ways.

Today, that is simply what my heart (not even my lips... they are still in shock) is left uttering.

I received a facebook message from the longtime girlfriend of a semi-brother with a link and the note... "You NEEEEEEEEED TO SEE THIS!" Skeptical that the link was going to take me somewhere wonderful, I ignored it until this afternoon when she sent another message saying, "SOOOO... did you watch it?"

Here is the link - it's actually quite incredible. I'm sure if you are regular Oprah watcher, you've probably already seen this - but who cares?! It's something that everyone should probably watch more than once.

It look less than three minutes of my afternoon... but it has given me a lot to chew on, sit with, and possibly (JUUUUUST possibly) pray about. I don't know if I should take this as a sign, or simply chalk it up to random chance... but either way, if you listen really carefully tonight, you'll hear the whispers of heart in the wind singing with gusto, "The Lord sure does work in mysterious ways..."

May this Friday bring you a sense of peace as we, together, wait for the most glorious mystery of all time.

Sacramental Boots

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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