A New Start: Lent, as defined by my terms.

Well, it has been a jello week; you know, the kind of week that barely seems to hold together long enough for you to reach the end? The kind of week that, if you're not careful, will jiggle out of your control and stain the white carpeted floor? You get the point. Over the past week, I have been told in just about every way that someone could be told - that doing some reflective reading, quiet contemplation and attending a worship service - is simply "not enough" to mark a fresh start and a long journey back to the path of the righteous.

In lay men's terms, the message is this: "Look, you screwed up. It's going to take a lot more than miniscule efforts to make things right."

Rrrrrrright. Well, at first my thought was that the Lenten season would be the ideal time to start the process, however... I clearly got the start date wrong. It's what track athletes call the "false start". To be honest, I'm not sure if I got the timing wrong or the lane wrong. I'm thinking it was the lane. What I mean to say, is that maybe it was wrong of me to think that I could just quietly attend weekly, evening worship and slowly start to build up the courage to talk to people. I thought that my ducks were lined up and that after hiding in a hole for a year and bit, things would have blown over. Or, at least enough so that I would have a chance to let the roots grow into the ground before the wind decided to blow.

Uhhh... nope!

So, in true YoungSeeker fashion, I have opted to rebel. Not that this concept is novel one - it's something that has been a theme my entire life. Anyway, here's how.

Rather than trying to fit my path into the church seasonal calendar, I am starting my own Lenten season. And, rather than confining it to 40 days, the only upper daily limit on the season will be 364 1/4 days x 40 years. And, rather than giving something up or adding in a prayer practice, I shall instead, daily reflect on the people I meet and how I wish to emmulate a piece of them in my life so that I will once again, in the eyes of others (and hopefully God) be "good" again.

Some might jump to conclusions and say that this is a poor practice because I was made to be an individual - unique, Godly, and self-sufficient... Or, alternatively, may point out that this is not an "approved" spiritual practice and may distance me even further from the church I long to call home... however, to these people, I would simply raise my hands in exhaustion and share with them the comments/happenings/challenges over the last week and illustrate that I truly, do not have a better idea.

And, so begins the journey of finding something to aspire to in at least one person I meet, witness, or exchange pleasantries with every day from now, until... well, I don't know when it will be until... let's just wait and see.

Directions

I don't know about anyone else, but as a directionally impaired individual, I often find myself wishing that every highway between here and my destination - would be riddled with the "exit right overpass" option. You know - the road that safely takes you off to the right, over top the rest of the speeding traffic, and lets you go back to the turn you were "supposed" to make in the first place. Often the case with me is that I am too busy pondering life and forget that I was supposed to take the exit 23A and now... sadly, I am at exit 30B and I can't just pull a u-turn in the middle of a busy road.

The question of the day: if I am lost and wish to be found on my way to large family gathering off the interstate, is it necessary that I explain the wrong turns I took that got me lost? If I were asking the gas station attendant for directions to the celebration, would I not simply ask for the most direct set of directions from where I was currently located to get to the party?

This is the question that is weighing heavy on my heart today; I do not understand why someone would be defined by the sum of the wrong turns they took. I do not understand why the gas station attendant must first know where I went wrong in the first part of my drive in order to help me get to where I am going. It is this question that makes it hard for me to understand why the visiting Gabriel decided to tell the UC only of the wrong turns I have made and opted to leave out the joys, the straight and narrow travel, and the bigger picture of what makes me who I am today.

Well, all the same, today is a new day and although there is still the guilt of yesterday to deal with, I intend to do all I can to make sure I can make a positive difference in the world of today. Because realistically, that is all that I can do.

St. Benedict on Stability

Tonight... was a challenge. Not the "I see you are out of shape, I challenge you to a game of basketball", nor the "I challenge you to keep silence for 40 days"... but more so the, "I can see into your heart and if you don't want to talk to me, than at least sit there and listen to what I have to say" challenge.

Perhaps it was because I was tired after a week in which two massive midterms were written and a term paper submitted, or perhaps it was because the antibiotics for a sinus infection have finally started to kick in, but I cannot help but feel... slightly overwhelmed. There was an additional cleric visiting the WR this evening, one of incredible wisdom and lived experience; the topic was stability and the effect was profound. She spoke about the meaning of spirituality and how Benedict gives one expression of it. She spoke about well-versed authors and finely written pieces of work. And although I dare not comment on the entirety of her message this evening, there is one subsection of that message that I shall continue to ponder into the wee hours of the morning.

"Get in your cell and stay there... stability is to stay put... stability is to prevent self deception. For only when we stay in one place long after our community can see what we choose to ignore about ourselves and confront us, can we truly experience the grace of God."

I understand very little of this and unfortunately, the more I try and think through it as it pertains to my life in the here and now, the more confused I get. I do not understand where I went wrong... was it when I first left the birth church? Was it leaving the seminary community? Leaving one parish to join another for health/personal/job reasons? What is my cell? Do I need to go back to one of these two church communities to work through this desert with God/belief/trust/fear or can I work these out and then seek peace and reconciliation?

My heart longs to be with my cassock sister, laying on the grass in a long, black robe on the lawns of the Diocesan supported seminary as we read and tried to grapple with the depth of such writings as Benedict and his rule and the always lovely Desert Fathers. For everything that we read made life seem simple and genuine while making faith seem personal and constant. I am learning that this is not the case and more often than not, one's heart is conflicted with one's intelligence.

I have a sinking feeling that the work I started this Ash Wednesday will work on preparing me for the following Easter - like Easter of 2011. In the meantime, I shall continue to read "Girl Meets God" as recommended by UC and maybe pull out the books from the Desert Fathers for a read through. And, as hard as it may be, trust that this darkness too, will end and the questions will resolve.

I Learned

Yup. While I am no genius, I did learn one thing on my Together Encountering Christ weekend four years ago: do not (NOT!) give God an ultimatum. I learned the hard way that God is slightly more stubborn than I am and when presented with a decision of "do this or this"... there is really no way to brace oneself for the oncoming dose of "this". Preeee much knocks ya on your... well, you get the picture...

Tonight, I tried to find every excuse not to go to the university chaplaincy service. Seriously. At one point, when I drove by, I decided that the lone parking spot was not big enough for my little car. I did not try to get into it, simply drove down to the end of the lane and back onto the main road. The next time around, when a larger spot had become available, I began freaking out that I recognized another car parked in the lane in front of the church. Frantically texting/calling common contacts that might know whose car this was, the dash board clock read "6:58" when I was firmly informed that the person in question (whose car I *thought* it was) was actually present at another location for another service altogether.

My excuses had been exhausted.

Quietly taking to a pew to wait the rest of the group, there may have been an uttering upwards to the extent of, "I know I'm not ready to sit down and talk with you beyond the superficial, I am only taking small steps. I trust that if this is the right step, you will make that clear. Please do not make it painfully clear... in fact, clear "lite" will suffice".

How much "clearer" can it get when the reflection/sermon/hammered home point is, "in order to be humble before God and to therefore open ourselves to God's grace, we must stay put - stick it out - hang in there. Church hopping, while tempting, will never allow us to live authentically true to ourselves and to God because we never really get a chance to let go of the mask. Let us emulate the monks of St. Benedict, and stay put - where we can strive to be authentic and humble together before God".

Right. Point taken.

Allo? Anyone home?

I, just like any other 'big sister', older cousin, or youth minister, have heard my fair share of knock knock jokes. And, although I don't admit it very often, I'm sure I went through a stage where I was annoying everyone within a 10 foot radius with the not-funny, annoying jokes. That was exactly what I was thinking about as we played music this morning.

After attending the Ash Wednesday service this week, I left with the feeling that the Holy Spirit is very much at work in a heart that is cracked, worn, and fighting off an infection. And slowly, as the service progressed, it became all the more apparent that little by little, the HS was beginning to pull the dead layers off to give air and light to the young seeds, hoping they will take hold of the soil and grow. Painfully necessary for new life to take up residence.

Today, I was part of a music ministry that really made me pause, stop playing (thank goodness others continued on), and question whether I am actually in control of this journey back or not. We sang a relatively newer worship song entitled, "Somebody's Knockin at Your Door"

"Somebody's knockin' at your door; somebody's knockin at your door.

Oh sinner, why don't you answer? Somebody's knockin' at your door.

Knocks like Jesus... somebody's knockin' at your door (2)

Can't you hear him.... somebody's knockin' at your door (2)

Jesus calls you... somebody's knockin' at your door (2)

Can't you trust him... somebody's knockin at your door (2)

Oh sinner, why don't you answer? Somebody's knockin' at your door"

So, taking this as a prompting, my reflection time for the next little while will be in tackling the big question: why can't I answer the door? Why did I opt for the comfortable music playing role today rather than attending an Anglican service? Why can't I get myself to go to the student 'Worship Room' tonight with other post secondary students?

Advice on why sinners are more likely to ignore or be too scared to open the door?

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.

The Need to Feel Loved

There we were... four sisters sitting at supper in a strange country, trying to argue and rationalize a mute point with my wise father. He is an incredible man that, until a month ago, we collectively thought that he was just "behind the times" in converting to technology like facebook or myspace or blogs. This thought could not be further from the truth. In fact, reality is the opposite. These technology driven dumping places pose an interesting dilemma: whether people use these as methods to stay in touch with long lost family or friends or they are used as means for feeling loved.

So, to test out the theory, I began to watch friend's status' on facebook and how they reflect the broken human condition of feeling unwanted, unloved, unneeded rather than conveying general updates to keep people that are distant, closer to the happenings.

Each and every day that passes, being on campus and interacting with people who have signed on to eventually work towards the healing of others, I have become increasingly aware of the need for people to plug themselves into a sustainable resource. It is easier said than done, I get that. But would it not be worth the effort and hard work now so that when you need the resource the most, it is within one's grasp? In my short-lived experience, I swear, the well that distributes water without the effort of lowering the pail, is not the water that will save you from thirst. Rather, when we journey to the well of value and go through the effort... we will not only get the water we need to live (long term!), but perhaps, just like the mysterious lady in the Bible, we may meet the true source of life while we wait.

Wouldn't that be worth it in the end?

Instead, people seek the immediate, the quick source of "feeling good" about what they have done or said or written. These are the people I shall pray for this week... that they may find the strength to battle that inner temptation to stop at the mirage for water rather than enduring on for the well of fresh water.

Peace.

Would God Ever Say, "I Told You So"?

I don't know the exact date of the last time I had communion. For some reason, there are other dates popping in my head like the date of my last day as a theology student... the date that I got a phone call from the other side of the country that snapped me back into reality... the date that I packed up and drove 45 hours back "home" to face that reality... and even the date that I met with a bishop back home who tried her best to help me back on the path of the straight and narrow.

I do know that somewhere following all of these dates, I essentially tried to cut my losses and walk away from the church all together. I had reached a point of spiritual exhaustion. Being realistic, 5 years ago, I was a happy, church going youth who believed that nothing was more precious than my relationship with God. In those 5 short years, I went from being a boisterous youth minister responsible for getting teenagers excited to live a life of faith to deciding that what I was hearing in my heart were the whispers of the Holy Spirit calling me elsewhere. Packing up, I pronounced my faith in a different denomination - putting myself at odds with my cradle faith and the family that came with it. Within the following three years, I would not only convince myself that I was called to some form of servant ministry, but anyone I met. Literally. Three separate interviewing committees, new friends, and national contacts all were equally on board with the idea that I was "called to serve" as I was. It's no surprise that when things blew up, I personally decided that I was better off without any of it.

Now... I'm not so sure that I was right.

I was in the process of closing up the grand piano, tidying up the sheet music I had acquired, and fixing the piano bench when a man from choir approached me.

"We never know what to do with you and Communion"

"Um... pardon me?"

"Well, you don't go up to the altar to receive communion with the rest of the musicians, but you also don't take communion with the choir when we all receive. We never really know what do with you during communion"

"Oh. I see. Well, it's not a big deal. But thank you for thinking of me!"

"Would you like us to bring back a host for you?"

"No thank you."

"Why do you play in a church if you don't take communion... are you baptized?"

"Yes, I have completed all my sacraments, some more frequently than others. I do not take communion because I am at a weird place in my journey right now." (Which is easier to explain than trying to explain the process of what I would need to do to participate in the Eucharistic feast)

"My wife and I will pray for you"

I wanted to stop him and clarify that there are more important things to pray for, but he was gone. I wanted to tell him that I am just there for the musical outlet... I can survive without communion... really and truly...

On the drive home, I opted for silence. Just like the feeling that overcomes a composer when there is a song to be written, music streamed from somewhere deep within. The tune sounded familiar to me, but the words and context just wouldn't come. Once I got home, still puzzled, I pulled out my guitar and began trying to figure out what this song that I kept hearing was. About three strums in, I broke into tears.

It was a song that I was asked to sing at the Cathedral in town because it spoke about the woman at the well (which were those Sunday's readings). I don't remember whether we did the music for the whole service, or just that song, but I was on the guitar, there was someone else singing, and we had a violinist as well. The song was not really relevant to me back then... but now... sitting on the couch in tears... I get it. (Nothing slow 'bout me, I promise!)

It is a song sung by country artist, Martina McBride and it's called "Reluctant Daughter"

Jesus, tell my Father I wanna be his child again

Tell him, what my name is, incase he's forgotten.

Tell him I'm the woman at the well, drawing water

And I'm sorry if I've been his reluctant daughter.

Jesus, tell my angels to keep me in their prayers

Remind them how I need

To feel them everywhere

Tell 'em I'm ready to drink the living water

I don't want my angels to think I'm his reluctant daughter.

Jesus, tell my Father I wanna come to heaven

Tell him, to shout my name out

So I won't be forgotten.

I cannot make any promises for the date that I will kneel in prayer and sing this song upwards, nor can I know where that will be, with whom, and what will precipitate from doing so. I cannot know whether I will hear the whisper of "I told you so", nor can I assume that singing it will be effortless. However, I will simply continue to trust in what I do know... that reluctant or not, I have most definitely not been forgotten yet. Apparently I just needed the reminder.

The Tides are Changing

This time yesterday morning (almost exactly to the minute), I was standing on a Bahama beach in sandals, a pair of long shorts, and a very light jacket. We had just finished eating our last meal on the island as a family and when the rest of the six went upstairs to pack, I snagged my youngest sister and made her come down to the water to take pictures with me. I had missed a friend's birthday back home and just to prove that I was thinking about her while away, I wanted to get a lovely picture of "Happy Birthday (Friend)" written in the sand with the ocean in the background for a half decent birthday card.

And what seemed like a 30 second task to find the "perfect spot", write the message in the grains, and snap the picture... turned out to be incredibly and deceivingly challenging. The tide was not quite out all the way and it took a number (higher than 10) of attempts to time the writing in between the big waves and get the picture taken. So much so, that I nearly lost a sandal to the undertow and managed to provide quite the comedy to the security guard further up.

And now, 24 hours later, exhausted and wide awake, I find myself chuckling at how beautiful of an image yesterday's adventures were in illustrating life itself.

In about an hours time, I will drag my jet-lagged, sleep-lagged body out of bed, shower, and drive to the local university where I will embark upon a two year, professional degree of studies to hopefully graduate as a Registered Nurse - fully certified, trained, and health conscious. The logical part of my brain keeps telling me that these are just courses... they are no different than the six years of undergrad courses I just finished taking. But that middle section of my body that houses the digestive system seems to be saying something else. My stomach is churning, I feel like I'm going to either pass out or puke, and although nerves are not a horrible thing - I cannot remember feeling like this when I attempted to start theological studies a little over a year ago.

I am pondering the whole concept of the tides changing and what that means for me: a single soul standing on the edge of something so deep and profound as the ocean having the waves wipe out the message I try to write each time.

Maybe pondering the journey as a whole is too overwhelming and impossible to do, but I cannot help but ask the question of whether this journey is going to the "thing" that leaves my mark in the sand or whether this is something I am embarking upon as an attempt to run away from facing God's call once again. On the flip side, perhaps the tides have indeed changed as has God's call on my life, morphing the expression of discipleship that I am called to live and breathe and emulate.

Makes me wish that I could have a brief cup of tea with one of three wise spiritual mentors. One, because she would ask the hard questions in a way that would make sense and then share her intuitive opinion on what she believed the answers to be. Two, because although I only recently met him, he is a truly incredible young man who frankly - hates change and transition as much as I do and although he couldn't offer tips on how to cope, just sitting in his presence and sharing the hate of transition moments would be enough. And three, because although I detest green tea, she steeps a wonderful cup and whether via custard and bananas or curry or simply a peaceful accent... the world always seems alright from her viewpoint; she always has a plan B, even when having done something completely backwards or downright wrong - scolding and shaping is done in and through love - always, and frankly/finally - I miss her.

But, as these three individuals either live on the other side of the world, are in school themselves, or unreachable - I guess I am left to ponder these waves as any brave soul has done in years gone by: experimentally. Here is to hoping that I do not get sucked under by the pull of the ocean, wiped out by a massive tidal wave, or get lost wandering aimlessly along the beach front of life.

Cheers!