Forgive Me

Everyday, at 10:11pm, my phone goes off to indicate that I have an email message to attend to.

I realize that the timing is a bit odd and actually invades into personal time whereby I should not be attending to anything other than peaceful reading, studying or sleeping... however, in a lot of ways, I need for my phone to go off at 10:11pm every night.

The email that I get is always from the same place... it was something that I signed up for years ago and occassionally the message that comes through is one that I've read before. But, for the most part, the message is a new one - and one that I oddly... need to hear on that given day for some reason.

Today, I had to laugh. After a crazy busy day of errands that have accumulated while in school, I was racing to put clean laundry away while reflecting on the day when I phone did it's little "bleep bleep" sound.

This was today's message - a quote from Robert Frost:

"Forgive me my nonsense as I also forgive the nonsense of those who think they talk sense"

At first - seems kind of comical - a poet's take on the Lord's Prayer. But when you really stop to think about it... it's not a nonsense quote at all... just a different way of saying it. Huh... imagine that. :)

To some, it's a coincidence, but to me... it's a gentle whisper.

Having a degree in psychology, it always astounds me to people watch. I don't stare them down so that it becomes a creepy and awkward situation, but at the same time, I love watching people and how they react to different situations in life.

For example, take car-racing friend. For the first time in her life this week, she played hockey. Helmet, gloves, stick and runners - she is part of our new ball hockey team this summer. Following the 4-0 loss, there were glum faces in the dressing room. Car-racing friend threw her helmet off in frustration and began going on about how much she "sucked" at this sport.

For us as a team, it was our second ever game. The score did not reflect the effort and energy we had invested, but there were a lot of great things that happened. Defense learned about keeping the other team out of our goalie's way and forwards learned how to line up for an offense face-off. There were wonderful passes being made, great team spirit and 15 exhausted ladies who have invested an hour of exercise back into their life that they wouldn't have otherwise done.

15 pairs of eyes and I bet every pair saw that game in a different light.

Funny how that works, isn't it?

This week was my limit. Our program requires that we take 15 credits in 5 weeks and this translates to literally, 8-5 days packed with lectures, labs, seminars, and study hours into the wee morning when we get home.

One of our seminar topics this week was discussing a "patient" by the name of Katherine, a middle aged woman who is in our care after suffering her second heart attack. She has all the "risk factors" that make her high risk for suffering another one: morbidly obese, a smoker, suffers from Type II diabetes... you name it. If she doesn't change her ways, she will die of a heart attack. Our seminar group was discussing what we should do with her. She is not being compliant with the cardiac rehabilitation program and our choices include discharging her on account of non-compliance or "reading her the riot act" (essentially laying it out for her that she will die in short succession if she keeps her life on this track).

Out of 11 of us... 10 voted to discharge her. 1 fought to keep her in the program a little longer and try to elicit a change in her behaviour/lifestyle.

I was overruled and we discharged her. I was devastated.

When speaking with our prof the next day, I was told that "in the real world", she would have to be discharged. It comes down to funding, to making priorities and to realizing that our patients problems should never become "our" problem as her caregiver. And, because I couldn't rationalize this decision in my heart, my prof and I ended up talking at length about Ms. Katherine.

Wise-professor took off her reading glasses and set them on the table without breaking eye contact and after a lengthy silence asked if she could give me a piece of advice that has worked for her in her practice as a primary caregiver. She began to tell me about how important it was for her, to establish those boundaries. She preceded her metaphor by claiming that it was a bit "out there", but it would be good to try. She then told me that every morning before going to work, she would put on her armor. It was not "real", but a mere image that helped her immensely. "I put on a helmet, a body armor, a belt, and carry my shield..."

As far as she let on, for her... it was just an expression of imagery. A mere coincidence that this imagery can be found in various places within a thick, ancient manuscript of how to live one's life.

But for me, it was more than just a survival mechanism in clinical... for me, it was a gentle whisper that wherever I go, there God will go too. Long gone, but not forgotten.

What does it mean for me? For God?

It kind of bugs me when other people wish something for me and it ends up coming true in inconceivable ways. Let me unpack that sentence a little bit more. I was exchanging facebook messages with that person in my life who wonderfully drives me nuts. They are that person who understands my thoughts better than anyone else and because of that, they are both wonderful and annoying. For sometimes, having someone know what you're thinking is the most annoying thing in the world. Anywho, I digress. This individual sent a message along asking how my Easter was and I responded truthfully by saying that for the first time in 25 years, I had not more than a snipet of the Holy Triduum in a church... of any denomination.

When asked, I explained to her that I was providing relief for a young man whose parents were in Vancouver and he required 24 hour supervision. Thus, preventing me from attending more than the occasional church service. And, I continued on to say that frankly, I'm not sure church is where I'm meant to be. Her response was something along the lines of, "I hope you manage to find Easter in other avenues of life, whether it be in Brady or what's around you".

I am rather in awe to confess that I think her "hope" for me actually became manifest in ways that I will never fully comprehend.

Easter Monday coincided with my 25th birthday this year. I was actually born on Good Friday, but it's not uncommon for my early April birthday to fall somewhere within the most holy weekend in the church calendar. I didn't have any grandiose plans for the occasion because I would be living with Brady until that Wednesday. At some point in the morning, Brady came upstairs and asked if we could go public library. I tried to explain that we couldn't, because the library was closed for the holidays. He seemed to accept this answer and went back downstairs. Moments later, however, he came and asked again. So, once again, I tried to explain that the library was closed but that we could go tomorrow (Tuesday). He quickly became agitated and began biting his hand (as per usual when he becomes anxious) and jumping up and down. My feeble attempts to calm him down by saying, "Deep breath bud" didn't really work and so I got up to try and calm him down with gentle physical contact.

Before I knew it, my forearm was locked in his teeth.

When he finally opted to free my arm from his lovely bicuspid grip, it was worse than I had hoped and he managed to pierce the skin in three locations. My birthday afternoon was spent with icepacks, copious amounts of polysporin, and hours on the phone with local health links trying to figure out how to prevent infections as the human mouth is pooling with bacteria.

However, this is where I was taken aback and cursed my friend for her Easter message to me.

Moments after the incident occurred, he came back upstairs and into the kitchen. "Brady sorry Dreea (his attempt at saying my first name, which is not really close, but we have a mutual understanding that this is my name)", picked up my arm, kissed it, rubbed it a little, and then gave me a hug. He turned around and went back down to watching his movie.

It was at this point that I began to cry. Brady seemed to sum up every Easter lesson known to Christians because he demonstrated to me, what it meant to forgive. Of course I was hurting and bleeding and worrying about future infections and complications. Without a doubt, it was the most upset I have been with another human being in a very long time. I was confused - why couldn't he just be verbally upset that the library was closed? It was something completely out of my control and yet, I was the one who got hurt.

But, at the same time, of course I could never stay mad at him. My hurt and anger and pain seemed to melt away in the moments following his child-like apology and understanding. Did his kiss stop my arm from hurting? Not a chance. But to my surprise, his simple gestures stopped my heart from hurting. In a huge way. Of course I forgave him. How could I not? He said he was sorry. Will he ever do it again? That I don't know. I do know that next time I have bad news for him, I will keep my distance and let him work through his aggression on his own, but I can't guarantee that it will never happen again.

This has really boggled my brain as of late as I have spent the last 2 years punishing myself for the mistakes I've made, removing myself from contact with those who know the truth and those who want to tell me all about God's love and mercy and forgiveness. But Brady, in his childhood mentality, has made me feel like the Grinch on Christmas morning as my heart seems to be growing. I now must set out to discover whether this is the case with God. Whether God is open to letting me kiss the bleeding wound I caused, rub it better, and say the words, "Dreea sorry God" or if I have missed my window of opportunity or worse, bit too deep for a mere kiss, rub and apology to rectify.

I don't know the answer, nor really who to ask. However, in my quest to wholeness and interacting with those who carry the light in this rather dark journey, I shall keep this question close at heart should I find someone who is safe enough to ask.

In the meantime, shall continue to give thanks for individual who sent along a message of hope, and a young man who taught me a lesson that I never would have learned otherwise.

WWJD

Tonight is a strange night. Not because I am sleeping in a strange bed or because I am away from family for the Holy Triduum, nor is it because we lost the championship game and I have to hang the skates up for another season. Truth be told, I'm not sure why tonight is strange... but it is.

On the drive "home" from the arena tonight, I started thinking about how Christians everywhere had come together to be with our Lord tonight. To sit in his presence as he broke the bread, to pay witness to a king humbling himself for the lowest of the low, and to sit in the shadows of darkness and keep watch just like he asked.

The memory that came to mind was one from elementary school; I was having an extremely difficult time "sharing" my best friend with the new kid at our school who obviously didn't get the memo that Krystal was my best friend and there was no room for sharing as far as recess time went. One of the teachers, noticing my upset, asked me to try an exercise with her. All she said to me was, "what if the shoe was on the other foot? What if you were the new kid and had to make friends and no one was willing? What would you do?"

Although I refused to see the logic in her words until many years later, she had a point. One must always seek first to understand and once they understand, can seek to be understood. I have since learned that she was influenced by St. Francis and that the lesson is a wise one.

Tonight, as I lay here, I wonder what it might be like to be in Judas' shoes. What would Judas do if Jesus offered forgiveness? Would there still have been a suicide? Would there still have been a crucification? If Judas dropped to his knees in remorse and repentance for reporting, would the church be different? Would the course of events have lead to a happier ending? If Judas spent time in his "cell" contemplating his actions and the consequences they had in the lives of others, would the other disciples have let him back to the table? Or, would they have crucified him themselves? Is there ever any way that Judas could right the wrongs? Would his personal testimony of the man Jesus was be a tale of incredible love and mercy or would his story be one riddled with fear of what was to come?

The only thing that I understand about our dear and fearful friend Judas, is why he may of felt that the only punishment suitable, was death. The guilt one carries when they betray a friend, a colleague, a mentor, a prophet, a king is more powerful and draining than anything else in the whole world. Truly, I understand that in a very tangible way. But surely, with enough self-inflicted punishment and remorse, God allows u-turns for even Judas is first and foremost a child of God, isn't he?

Hm. While it will be a night of staying awake for me tonight, my heart shall ache for the lost disciple this year, in hopes that a piece of him finds God in that garden and rather than turning against Jesus, he may find the strength to drop to his knees at the side of his fearless leader and seek forgiveness and strength for his frail and tempted soul.

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.