Za Book

"You should write that in your book"

"Ahhhem, uhhhh, what?"

"The book. The book you are going to write and publish one day."

"Ohhh, right. That book. I forgot I told you about my desire to one day write a book about the hilariousness that is my life; you reeeeeeeally think that I should write about how I overcame the passing-out-puking-pathetic-ness-of-my-ObGyn rotation?"

"You ARE still planning on writing a book, are you not? It would be a perfect title of a chapter"

"Yes, of course. I even have a list of people who want to write the forward for my book - and I haven't even written it yet!"

"I WANT TO WRITE YOUR FORWARD!"

"Right. I will add you to the list"

It is moments like this which make me laugh out loud. This was a legit conversation that was instigated by my family doctor when I went to see her for a prescription refill for the summer months. Surprisingly, it is also moments like this that help me to realize that there are moments of new life and 'resurrection' happening in my life at present.

A Time for Change

For years... literally, more years than I can remember, I have had this set of flannel sheets. They started off being a royal blue with little yellow stars and cute little sheep as the print; however, after all this time, the blue is now a blue-grey hue, the stars are essentially white (occasionally a yellow one pops up) and the sheep are now replaced with holes of worn fabric.

I know that I need to change the sheets and put my summer ones on, which is normally a happy thing. But today... today there is the realization that when I take the sheep off the bed this season, that will mark the end of their reign as my sole set of comfy flannel. It is like the end of an era.

"...now I lay my sheep to sleep, I pray the Lord their soul to keep..." Well, not quite, but... kinda.

I have fought this life transition so hard and so stubbornly, it is starting to reach the point where my sheets almost have their own aromatic odor. Let me state that I have washed them through the winter, but up until now, I just have not had the inner strength I need in order to change them... one. more. time.

But something changed inside of me this week and I cannot quite put my finger on what that is. I can identify the turning point as being a chat with a friend on our break at an exam... but I cannot put my finger on that "one" thing that changed in order to make this level of inner peace possible.

It was kind of cool actually - it was like a turning point in our friendship. There she was, all wise and crap, being all logical and continually saying, "... but I don't understand your resistance". And for those of you who know this stray little sheep well, know that this would normally make me turtle. My "usual" response to a phrase like this would be, "yea, you're right. Should just get 'er done" and then make a mental note not to share my inner turmoil with that particular friend in the future. But this time... this time, something was different. Maybe it was her patience in waiting out the awkward silence as I tried to find the words to articulate my puking-in-my-mouth fear of the change. And lo and behold, I did!

So together, we sat for no longer than 30 minutes, but we managed to come up with a workable solution: going to talk with someone who would know more of how to help me face this transition... this upcoming hill. And no joke, I slept better that night than I have in weeks.

This week, I found myself sitting in the office of a most superb health professional - you know, that kind that (unlike the majority of their colleagues) goes above and beyond the call of duty. And by the shear grace and "rah-rah-rah" strength of distant friends, I was able to share with her why I could not face the sheet-change era of my journey.

SHE THANKED ME! I am still in shock. This health professional actually thanked me for sharing this piece of my journey with her... she said that she was humbled... and thanked me some more. We chatted briefly about what my two options were - she wrote a note essentially giving me and the higher ups permission to delay the sheet change and then she gave me a list of options that were available for support should I feel called to take the plunge and change the sheets.

It blows my mind... a month ago, I would still be fighting the higher ups, the health professional and the friends... I would fight until I was blue in the face that I needed these sheets to cling to every night for safety... for security... for peace of mind... and for the ability to remember to BREATHE. But this morning, I find myself thinking about actually changing the sheets.

The weather outside is gorgeous - so I could wash my summer sheets and hang them outside for "to die for" summer smell and I could cut these sheep up so that I had a new saxophone-polishing rag, piano dusting rag, and maybe even a square or two for the quilt I am working on (there are some decent patches left on these sheets).

I don't feel like I have the strength or courage to conquer the world yet... but I feel... okay. at peace. rested. I have finally been given the keys that I need to unlock doors which were previously bolted, boarded, and blockaded.

Then again, maybe I am just finally maturing.

Oh the Lord Heals in Mysterious Ways

I think this is going to be the title of a song soon to be written at a later date; I honestly thought that there was something already by this title, but I cannot find it anywhere... which only means... it remains to be written.

:)

So if there is anyone out there who thinks that the Holy Spirit is just a silent partner in the Trinity, they really just ought to walk a week in my shoes to find out that this is not at all the case. The most recent example in which I am left with my mouth hanging open in awe took place last Sunday.

It was a Sunday morning in which I had no other commitments in my morning; I was not scheduled to play music anywhere, there were no exams to work or papers to write. I was not scheduled to be at work until 1300H, which left my morning, wiiiiiiide open.

Late Thursday afternoon, I received a very delayed response from an old friend apologizing for missing my earlier email regarding Ash Wednesday service times. She told me about the upcoming services for Holy Week and mentioned that it would be great to see me if my schedule permitted. I sent a quick reply back mentioning the idea that I might be present on the Sunday morning and left it at that.

I arrived to the church 4 minutes before the service was scheduled to start, found a make-shift parking spot, and quietly "snuck" into the church without really making eye contact with anyone or chatting about anything; I managed to find a seat in which there was plenty of space between myself and everyone else near the back of the church (easy for a quick escape).

The service started out as "normal" as normal could be. The words found their way to my lips without any struggle or prolonged searching... it was like I hadn't been away from the church at all.

...and then the first reading started...

"The Lord said to Samuel, 'How long will you grieve over Saul?'" and it was as though there was no other place I was supposed to be. It was as though I, personally, was being asked the rhetorical question of, "how long will you grieve over not being in the ordination stream?"... or "how long will you grieve over the relationships that are seemingly lost?"... or "how long will you grieve?" In it's own way, it was a wake up call for me. I have literally spent YEARS (I think I'm coming up on four years?) mourning what could have been and would have been if I had not completely screwed it up. Spent years in hiding, hoping that my relationship with God and the other individuals would completely dissolve as an expression of the punishment I deserved for screwing up in the first place... and now, was being asked just how long I was intending on wasting time on this spiritual journey living in this state of self-inflicted grief.

From there, I forget what the second reading was, but the Gospel was about the Blind Man who was gifted back his sight by the Lord. I cannot pretend that all the mud was completely wiped clean from my eyes and my heart in one service, but there was a tiny crack in the dried mud that let just enough light through for me to realize... I was not alone. My eyes... and my heart... were opened, even if just a little.

But following the Gospel, there was something I had never witnessed before in a service... there was not a sermon. Instead there was a "personal witness"; the parishes lay reader stood up in the middle of the church with his booming voice, and told the congregation of his great life trial and now God remained there. Even in the darkest of hours, God remained faithfully there. And then, one of the associate priests stood up and shared her story about how she found healing in forgiving others. But not just forgiving people, but forgiving people who had committed suicide and would never know they were forgiven. The journey of forgiving people who meant a lot to her, including herself.

And then, as if my head wasn't exploding enough at that point, the old friend who was presiding - stood up and transitioned the congregation into a healing service. All three clergy stood at the altar rail, anointing members of the congregation that approached them... for healing! My butt stayed firmly glued to my seat and I merely listened to the music that was being played/sung and just took it all in; while I am not quite ready to march up there and ask for prayers of healing and anointing, there was an insane and bizarre feeling of healing in just being present. Being among others who were hurting and in need of healing for whatever reason. I don't think I can even put the feeling into words... but the majority of the congregation was going up to the front at their turn and similarly to the blind man in the Gospel, I was starting to realize what it meant to see the healing of God incarnate.

They were opened enough to see that I am not alone in experiencing some type of spiritual distress and darkness... there were others (and lots of them!) who were facing periods of wilderness and darkness. My eyes and heart opened enouigh to see that it is completely acceptable to carry oneself as far as the foot of the cross before kneeling in humble need to ask God and the church, to carry them in the time of trial. It was absolutely phenomenal! I think part of me was previously living in doubt and thought that only one or maybe two people would ever open themselves in such a humbling manner to God's healing love and grace. Soooo incredible and soooo, beyond words.

And, just to keep in the mind-blowing aspect of things, the closing hymn was "We Cannot Measure How You Heal". The second and third verse of the hymn were:

"The pain that will not go away

the guilt that clings from things long past,

the fear of what the future holds,

are present as if meant to last.

But present too, is love which tends the hurt we never hoped to find,

the private agonies inside,

the memories that haunt the mind.

So some have come who need your help

and some have come to make ammends,

as hands which shaped and saved the world

are present in the touch of friends.

Lord, let your Spirit meet us here

to mend the body, mind and soul,

to disentangle peace from pain

and make your broken people whole"

I sat there and had to re-read the lyrics over and over and over again because I could not believe that someone I had never met could write a song that not only spoke my story, but read the unspoken of my heart. The only part that I wasn't sold on was how one who was soooo very far from home could feel God's love in the touch of friends. I have spent the last two years ENSURING that I was encircled by secular people as I worked on my nursing degree... and when I felt that I could finally walk on my wobbly legs, I went to leave the church.

Wanting to avoid the shaking of hands with the clergy, I went over to the far door to leave. However, apparently someone much bigger and wiser than I had different plans. For by the time I could get to the entryway, the lay reader was waiting for me with an outstretched hand, waiting. And before I could get outside the church, the priestly friend had a huge hug waiting.

I guess some might call it a coincidence that my schedule was open on this particular Sunday at 1030... that after all this time away from my home, I felt this urge to go to church... that the service just happened to be a healing service... that two people shared stories that would resonate in ways that they will probably never realize... that God ensured I was tangibly shown His touch before running out.. and that the readings and music could have just as easily had my birthdate and name in them as identifiers... but those are a LOT of weirdly connected coincidences.

Yes, most definitely, the Lord begins the hard work of healing our broken and shattered hearts, in thee most mysterious and holy of ways.

Lesson of a $100

Tis a new season, and with a new season comes new colours; I tried for nearly an hour to figure out how to get everything that is orange - to be bright green but it sadly was not working out for me. It has been a very long time since anything new was posted on this blog so for those you just joining now, herein lies reflections primarily on my journey in faith. When I have nothing positive to say about my faith journey, my nursing thoughts find their way onto here. Essentially, I have been told by numerous people that I ought to write a book one day... and this is my way of keeping the potential book material, all in one place.

Tonight, is a reflection on what started to give the jump start back 'home'.

There was an old priest who was taken from his home parish to preach in a smaller, more rural and remote parish one Sunday morning. When the Rector's Warden called the old priest to arrange the details of the service, he made a point of telling the priest that the people of the community were hurting and torn apart. The preacher responded in a peaceful, "thank you".

Saturday afternoon, the day before the service, the priest was seen walking through the countryside; a parishioner stopped him and asked why he wasn't at the rectory, hammering out the details of his sermon. The old priest smiled, "I just had to pick something up for tomorrow morning, now I'm all set." With that, the priest and parishioner went their separate ways.

Sunday morning came and after the Gospel was finished being proclaimed, the priest reached under his robes, and pulled out a freshly minted $100 bill and asked the congregation, "Who would like this $100 bill?"

People all over the church shyly raised their hands. He said, "I am going to give this $100 bill to one of you, but let me first do this..."

He proceeded to crumple up the $100 bill, then he asked, "Who still wants it?" And still, hands went up in the air. "Well... he replied..."

"What if I do this?" and he dropped it on the ground and started to grind it into the floor with his shoe. He picked it up, now crumpled and dirty. "Now who still wants it?" he asked. No one lowered their hands.

"My friends, you have all learned a very valuable lesson; no matter what I did to the money, you still wanted it because it never decreased in its value. It was and still is, worth $100. Many times in our lives, we are dropped, crumpled, and ground into the dirt, by the decisions we make and the circumstances that come our way. We feel as though we are worthless, but no matter what has happened or will happen, you never lose your value. Dirty, clean, crumpled, or finely creased... you are still priceless to those who love you. The worth of our lives comes not in what we do or who we know, but by WHO WE ARE... Children of God."

Thought provoking.

Hope... better deemed... Expectation.

It would seem that Advent would be an odd time for a lost and wandering sheep to offer thoughts on this Advent journey through the desert, but whatevs... I'm all about oddness.

Can you believe that for 20-odd years, I lived my life not realizing there were "themes" to each one of the Advent weeks? It's sad, yet entirely true. I clearly was not paying enough attention during Sunday morning homilies to recognize and distinguish one week from the next. However, I must admit, I am a convert. I kind of like having a bit of direction... a bit of a theme to live that week within.

Hope.

A few years ago, our Diocese was fortunate enough to have a Brother from the Taize community in France come and lead a youth retreat. His theme for the weekend was none other than "hope" and for some reason, I got volunteered to give a testament of how I personally experienced and lived out "hope" in a tangible way. I'm pretty sure I blabbed on about something completely removed from what I should/could have said because in all honesty, I was not really the right person for the job and frankly, had nothing positive to contribute to the concept.

However, years later, I had a child teach me what it meant to hope in something... to place expectations in something and that is the story I feel compelled to share.

It was a cold and snowy December night in the final days before Christmas; the roads were icy, the temperature in the low 30's (C), and anyone in their sane mind would have been spending the Friday evening at home with the fireplace going and Christmas music playing. It was the night that the local "inner city parish" was hosting a musical/narrated production of "Touched by a Child" as a fundraiser for a local charity that works to find affordable housing for low income families. The show was sold out, the choir had met every Sunday afternoon for months to practice their four part harmonies, and people with "stories" to share had practiced their dramatic reading numerous times with the local clergy person who wrote the whole production.

The concept was that we, as a music/narrator team, were to tell the story of the Christ child from various perspectives. There was a story from the Inn Keeper, from the Dove, from one shepherd who saw a star in the night sky and followed it to the manger. A total of 5 "stories" were intertwined with music and congregation-inclusive Christmas carols.

Originally, I was to be part of the choir. My untrained alto voice, with enough rehearsals, had almost become acceptable to listen to. However, days before the 'big night', the writer approached me and asked if I might consider reading/sharing the story of the Shepherd because she felt that I could fit the part. It also meant that because I wasn't feeling very well, I could sit with the readers in the congregation rather than being up in the choir roster staring out at the crowd.

I spent that Friday running around to various appointments and late in the afternoon, laid down for a nap. Unfortunately, the nap went longer than expected and I found myself rushing to get out the door in time to battle the road conditions and frigid temperatures. Doing my hair took seconds, I threw on a decent looking outfit, and bolted. I probably sped the whole way, but I literally had to be there. I couldn't bring myself to call the clergy person and say, "sorry, I'm exhausted and it's a no-go".

Arriving at the neatly decorated church, I ran in, dropped my coat, stood in line with the other readers when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

There was one of the choir members I had grown to know over the practices and her 4-5 yr old grandson I had met once (because he was required to sit through a rehearsal). From behind his back, he pulled out a stuffed bear. His words were minimal, but the impact, lasting.

"This will make you better"... and off he ran. His grandmother, my fellow choir member, began to try and explain why I had received the bear. Apparently the funds from the bear were designated to the local children's hospital and when Connor saw the bear and knew that I wasn't feeling well, he insisted that they buy me a bear because his teddy bear always made him feel better.

The tears rolled my cheeks, because it all finally made sense. Conner had placed all of his hopes and expectations in that little stuffed bear... his hopes that it would make me feel better, the expectation that I would be better. He had no understanding of what was going on in my life, but he didn't need to. Because for him, none of the details mattered. All I would need... was in that little bear.

And, just as Conner had placed all of his hope for me in that little stuffed animal, I knew that I in turn, had to place all of my hopes and expectations in the Christ Child that would laying in that manger Christmas Eve... and that if I did that, I would allow myself to be Touched by a Child... Touched by a King.

It seems so stupid that I would need a tangible example of hope before I could physically and spiritually live in it and through it. But truth be told, there is not a Christmas that goes by where I don't pick up that little stuffed bear, give it a hug, and give thanks for a little guy named Connor... who taught what it means to hope and just how I can place all that hope in the birth of that Child, that Saviour, that King.

May we all, this hope-filled Advent week, find that tangible source of hope we seek.

Expectations

I've decided today that having expectations is one of thee most brutal things in the world.

Partly because it is inevitable that when you have expectations, you will be let down - whether by someone else or oneself, and partly because I was fortunate enough to live a small window of my life in which I was able to be expectation-free, and I kid you not, it was one of theeeeee most freeing feeling.

If you write someone a letter, you expect some kind of response...

If you ask someone a question, you expect some sort of an answer...

If you give of your finest gifts, you expect to radiate change in the world in some regard...

When you open the window and share a piece of yourself with someone else, you expect that they would do the same...

When you give it all you've got, you expect to be better than, "just not good enough"...

When you turn on the windshield wipers, you expect your vision to be cleared enough to see...

If you are being punished, you would expect it to one day end...

If you are lost in the middle of the valley, you would expect to eventually find your way...

If the answer to your question is, 'I don't know', you would expect to simply be told so...

When you apply SPF 30 sunscreen every 30 minutes, you would expect to not burn...

When you are humble enough to ask for help, you would expect some level of visible assistance...

When you are falling without a hope in hell in stopping, you would expect a friend to be there...

Among many (!) things that I wish I wouldn't have ruined, is the freedom that came in living expectation free. It was a much less frustrating and hurtful time in which it didn't matter if plans fell through or people did not follow through because there was this realization that ultimately, the only thing that mattered was being able to smile and take life in stride.

Maybe I ought to read, "The Simple Life" again...

I wish I had an internal GPS

I managed to get out to the lake this weekend for a bit to enjoy the sun, water, greenery, and quietness for what appears to be the last weekend before I must "clamp down" and devote the next two weeks to studying for the final exam that accompanies clinical. Drove up by myself and so before leaving, grabbed a handful of CD's for the road as my IPod is still fairly music-less.

The drive is a little under two hours and the road is paved the entire way. Rolling hills, flourishing crops, and plenty of animals tends to make the drive quite an enjoyable one. With about an hour left to go on the drive, I popped in a CD that had "E-Arrang't" scribbled on the top in green sharpie.

Moments into the first track, my heart did a bit of a flip as I remembered why this playlist was first created on my old computer and who the recipient of a burned CD was.

It was purchased, created, organized and burned for someone who was a very dear friend at a time who was in desperate need of some cheering. If I remember correctly, the CD was titled "Episcopal Arrangements", though, it was named so with my tongue secured firmly between my teeth. While I didn't make the CD for the bishop at the time, it was a CD that had a variety of discernment type songs in the voicing of Bryan Adams, Cat Stevens, Eric Clapton, and Cathedral choirs from abroad. And, if memory serves me right, my preamble to giving the CD to this individual was something to the effect of, "when you need a distraction from your day to day tasks, just crank it up and relax".

Well, I think I made it to the third track before I had to pull over. It was Bryan Adam's, "Here I Am" from the movie "Spirit".

"Here I am, this is me; I come into this world so wild and free

Here I am, so young and strong, right here in the place where I belong

It's a new world, it's a new start

It's a life with a beating of a young heart, it's a new day, in a new land,

And it's waiting for me...

Here I am

It's a new world, it's a new start, it's a life with a beating of a young heart

It's a new day and a new land,

It's waiting for me...

Here I am"

It's kind of a crapchute, or at least that is what it feels like. Here I am, young, strong, wild and free... and yet, I don't really feel like I'm in the place where I belong. Yes, nursing is great... I love the people, their stories, their willingness to share bits of themselves with an eager stranger... yes, it is a new world and a new start where each and everyday is new and different from the day before and the land is so new, I still get lost on a daily basis... yes, it is waiting for me - there are so many incredible opportunities...

... and yet, I am not where I belong.

Maybe I'm struggling because this song always used to be one of 'vocation' for me - one that I would sing loud and proud from my seat in church every Sunday... it didn't matter where the church was or who the people around me were, it felt "right". I felt at home, I felt as though I was truly living out my calling in sharing my faith and enthusiasm for God, spiritual journeys, and anything church-related, and most importantly, I felt as though my soul sang the words, "here I am..."

While some would wish to go back in time or for the ability to call a "mulligan" (aka, "do-over"), I find myself longing for an internal, spiritual compass that could articulate for this somewhat lost and wandering nursing student, "in 500m, turn right" or "when possible, make a u-turn", or could help me map out how I can best get from my distant detouring state, back onto the route that will most safely direct me to my destination, as the GPS in my car does routinely.

For even when I pulled off onto a gravel road where I could safely dry my eyes this weekend, my GPS sat on the dash and faithfully gave me the directions I needed to get from my tear-stained detour, back onto the highway and heading for the destination.

The Gift of Communication

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

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

a) talks non-stop

or

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God's Altar Cloth

I had a very wise friend who loved to knit. She would knit tea cozy's, afghans, dish clothes, blankets... you name it, she could probably knit it. I remember watching her in a daze-like state wondering how someone could be so swift and gentle with their hands... never ceasing the loop, pull, crossover maneuvers that resulted in a glorious pattern of wool. I guess my watching her distracted her from what she was doing and she missed a stitch. Carefully pulling her needle out from the row she was working on, she began to tug the line of wool and watch as the stitches slowly undid themselves, one by one. And when she had reached the place where the mistake had happened, she gracefully slipped her needle back in and continued on.

I was astonished that she could do such a thing. I was under the impression that when a mistake happened, you had to go all the way back to the beginning and start fresh. When I built up enough courage to ask her why this was not the case, her response threw me for a loop and I've never really forgotten it.

She told me about how knitting was like life - it is a series of choices and movements we make as a human being. We all have the same starting point - we are all just a mere knot on a stick... but it's where we go from there and how we dance our dance that determines what our blanket will eventually look like. Regardless of how hard we try, we will occasionally drop a stitch or force a new one where there shouldn't be and sometimes we can go back and fix it. Other times, our "extra" move simply means that we end up with an extra stitch - an extra loop, an extra step to take each time.

This all seemed okay and made sense but then I asked her why she chose to go back and try and fix her mistake rather than just leaving it be. Surely one extra stitch was not going to make a world of difference.

She told me that when she made the mistake, it was because she lost a stitch. A loop fell off the needle and was laying limp in between two knitted stitches... and this couldn't be.

Sometimes in life, we miss a step. We are in a hurry to get from A to B or we don't feel that it's a step of crucial importance, but when we think like this, we are wrong. If that dropped stitch were to just be left alone, it may be okay, but alternatively, it may cause our creation to fall apart - to be pulled and unraveled and become nothing more than a heap of kinked wool. We must go back and pick it up and carry on because if we aren't careful, we will drop more stitches and there will just be more damage in the end.

Funny how, years later, her words are only now starting to make sense.

There are days in which I wish I could drop the past and leave it be. Days that I wish I could just start a new education and carry on with my life rather than going back all those rows to pick up that lost stitch... it would mean I would have to undo so many stitches...

But what I have only now realized is that I can't leave those dropped loops hanging in the middle of my afghan... they require my attention so as to one day, truly have the most beautiful blanket to lay upon the altar of God.

I thought each stitch was independent of the stitch beside it, above it, rows beyond it... but it's not - they are all from the same pile of wool. The further I go on this journey of discernment and healing, the more I come to understand how the stitches from years ago are truly interconnected with the stitches I am stitching now. Kind of mind boggling, but oddly reassuring.

Ultimately, my goal is to knit the most elegant and incredibly awesome altar cloth with my pile of wool I was entrusted. And the reality is that in order to do so, it means going back and picking up those dropped stitches, and pulling them back into the fabric. Because if I don't, not only do I risk a catastrophic unraveling, but I risk a finished product that is truly not reflective of the gifts and dreams I was entrusted with at my baptism.

So, to those stitches who have been knit into my cloth recently, bear with me. Please remind me that you are still part of the wool and I will pick you up again when I get there. To those stitches who have been waiting patiently for our paths to cross, hang tight. They will some day soon. And to those stitches who were dropped along the way, take heart, cry out for I am coming back to pick you up and tie you into where you belong. You will not be lost for long, I am coming.

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. :)