And the winner today... Dr. J

"How is the medication working?" (Dr. J)
"Yes, I think so, but... it seems to leave me with a really dry mouth" (YS)
"Does this bother you?"
"Well, yes. You see, I was playing saxophone the one morning in church and there were a subsequent number of squeaks that are not normally part of my music because I couldn't gather up enough saliva to keep my reed damp enough..."
"Oh, you play the saxophone?"
"Yup!"
"Where are you going to church?"
"Well, I don't really refer to it as 'going to church' because I am really and truly only there for the music"
"You aren't there for God?"
"Nope"
"Are you mad at God? Because as a Christian (pointing to themselves at this point), just know that you are never alone in that journey"
"Ok"
"I once had a patient call God a very, very, very, very, very, very, very bad name - one that would never come out of my lips... are you afraid of God?"
"Uhhh... (voice quivering slightly)..."
"We should work on that. Find someone that we can talk to about that. We can both do that and we will compare notes next time."

I no longer felt completely alone on this journey where judgment seems to come before acceptance and more importantly, really respect a health care professional who is up front with me and calls it like it is - even if it threw me for a loop initially.

Tonight, I give thanks for the gentle way in which the truth was sought about a touchy subject and the reassurance that was shared, reminding me that I am not alone, not an alien, and not forgotten.

Ms. Saxophone Sue

The person of today is Ms. Saxophone Sue, but in order to illustrate the quality of S.S., I need to go back a little ways to tell the story.

I started playing piano when I was five. When I got to grade seven (approx 12-13 yrs old), it was a no brainer that I would choose to study band over art. So, my parents paid the band fees (art had no associated/additional fees), and I showed up the first day to be given a piece of paper with three lines. On it, I was to write my first three choices for instruments. I wrote:

1) Alto saxophone

2) Tenor saxophone (only if the alto is really not possible)

3) Baritone saxophone (only if the alto AND tenor are unavailable)

and I handed it in. Well, our band teacher had a crappy method of assigning instruments and rather than giving an avid musician the instrument of choice, she opted to give the "cool" instrument to the "cool/sporty" kids that were in the grade seven band class. sigh. Apparently my fourth option was the flute. So, grade seven, I tried to learn to play the flute. When grade eight rolled around, the question on the first day of classes was a little different. "Does anyone want to change instruments to try and learn a new one?" Oooooo... pick me! Pick me! Nope. Shockingly, she didn't pick me. And so, by the time my turn came around, once again - all the saxophones were taken. Yup, so in a stage rebellion, I chose the oboe. Finally, in the ninth grade, the final year at the school, two things changed.

1) I had been asked to try out for the senior basketball team and thus, finally became a sporty/cool person myself

2) the rest of the truly cool/sporty people realized that our teacher knew very little and dropped out of band for the alternative... art.

It also helped that the first band class day of grade nine, I marched into the bandroom and said, "Look. My uncle is going to lend me his saxophone because clearly this school does not have enough. Just let me play it already!"... turns out, I was the ONLY alto saxophone player in the band. True story!

Well, the Christmas of grade nine came around and it was the last present to be opened. It was a small box and my mind was boggled... I had already gotten more than I needed... when I opened it up, it was a mouthpiece for an alto sax. Me, being dense, smiled and got all excited because it meant that I could take "my" mouthpiece to school and not have to use the chewed up ones that the school provided. My parents were dumbfounded. Finally, my dad walked around the corner with a familiar sized case... and lo and behold, inside - was an original Conn (one of the finest makes from the "good ol' days)... and it was mine. I loved it - played every day - literally. And when the year end concert came for our grade nine band, my band teacher stood up and introduced the closing song by saying, "I have waited years to be able to play this piece, but I never had a saxophone player capable of playing it. Now I do." It was a sax solo in which the band did nothing but support/chord behind me. My Conn made it sound like gold.

Shockingly, a similar story occurred at the end of grade 12, whereby we were on a band tour in the maritime provinces and playing in a huge festival. My band teacher stood up and said, "I introduce you to our soloist,.... "

I took my baby to church tonight to practice for the Easter Triduum music. (You learn that when you graduate, there are very few places one can play a band instrument...and so, although I am not a part of the church community by any means, I get to hang out and goof off with my Conn). I got all the way home from the church, went to grab her out of the car, and realized that she wasn't there. I panicked. Raced back into town, looking on the roads in case she fell out (of a closed window?! Don't know what I was thinking... or if I was thinking...). Nothing. The church is no doubt, locked up. Calling one of the guitar players, whilst completely out of breath, she tells me that she has a key and if I can swing by and pick it up, I can use it. Race over to her house, get the key, take the shortcut back through the graveyard, almost hit an elderly, retired priest on an evening stroll in the dark, unlock the doors, trip on the stairs, and finally... see the outline of the case - right where I left it.

You might think that the moral of the story is that one should never leave their beloved more than an arms reach away or in safe keeping, but in fact, the moral of the story is that one ought to be more like Saxophone Sue (the lady with the church key), who gives of herself (or belongings) to save another's evening entirely. Dear Saxophone Sue... tonight I give thanks for you and your heart of willing... open to sharing what you have, to enable another.

Rosalind A.

So, as per the previous post, the first person I wish to speak about is Ms. Rosalind A.

I started work at 8am this morning at a nearby college and in order to get there the required 15 minutes early, meant that I got there with exactly... 42 minutes to spare. Picking up a requisite steeped tea and a free copy of the newspaper, I checked in early and sat. And waited. At half past nine, the program organizer came in to inform the four of us that toddled in that due to a booking error, we were actually no longer needed. Yup, spent the paid three hours of work reading the paper, drinking tea, and attempting the two crossword puzzles in the paper.

On the ride from the local college to the University, we were at the last stop the bus makes before it crosses the river, and on got Ms. Rosalind A. Wearing pressed black slacks, black pointy shoes with lace up the front, and a red sweater zipped up to the level of the tucked in scarf, she was gorgeous. Not gorgeous in the "I wish she was 40 years younger", but more so in the, "silver hair, cut in a stylish manner, back sitting straight, leather gloves holding onto a leather folder, embossed with her name in gold in the bottom right hand corner" gorgeous.

When she got off the bus, she walked as someone in their 70's would walk: stiff legged, slightly bent at the waist, and with small steps. But, walking mannerisms aside, there was something about her that one couldn't help but be drawn to.

It wasn't her impecable sense of fashion, nor the hair perfectly styled with a small clip holding her bangs back, but rather - it was the way she carried herself. It was evident to anyone on that bus that she was flooded with both grace and self-confidence, neither one out of check. Her gently formed wrinkles and bent knuckles told a story of lived experience in which her hands were always very much a part of her work and her face, quick to show the emotion that sat underneath it.

We didn't speak, just acknowledged one another by that simple-stranger sort of smile one gives another as if to say, "I see you, have a nice day, thanks for holding the door".

So today, on this trying-to-be-spring like day, I give thanks for the quiet, graceful, aged lady on the bus... better known to the rest of the world as Rosalind A. ---------.

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.