When all else fails... hope

It is such a difficult, yet breath-taking place to be... in that place of hopeful anticipation.  Knowing that there are struggles ahead, yet, something great is coming!  Our Doctor-Deacon preached a sermon around the concept of challenging anticipation and being patient as we wait for the Christ child; the example he used was his son.  Sitting on mall-Santa's lap, the son asked for specific Christmas gifts and was quite put off when the mall-Santa did not give him what he asked for.  And as the child's parents, they were left trying to explain to him that he would need to wait another three weeks for this incredible present he dreamed of.  

While it brings a smile to my face to think of the conversation as it would have unfolded, I cannot help but feel like the child in so many ways.  For just like the child in Doctor-Deacon's sermon, I too am keenly waiting for requests to come to fruition and journeys to end in rejoicing celebrations.  

Here I am, trying to push the journeys along... I am keenly doing the work that I need to do (some days, "keen" isn't the correct term) and holding up my duties and responsibilities, but it doesn't seem to impact the speed at which we head to the finish line.  

Take for example, a holiday road trip.  If one is driving across prairie land, the road is usually straight and paved, well lit and fairly light in traffic.  It would seem to the driver, this is when they can push the speed limit a little, and reach the next pit stop/destination before dark.  Radically differs from the road trip through a mountain village where the roads are cross-backs, wildlife are everywhere, and one cannot see around the corner ahead.  

I am presently in that place where I have the road map and I know how to get from where I am, to our next destination, implying that the road is straight, dry, and fairly free of traffic or obstructions.  And yet, my car seems to have an override on it that is not allowing me to hurry it along, to push the limit a little bit, or even a lot.  

It's hard to be patient.  It's incredibly challenging to "wait it out" and enjoy the journey.  Just like the child, I want the end to come and I want it to come now.  

I started to ponder why this was the case... and I think I have figured it out!  In my case... at least. 

There is an insane fear of failure... that the longer this journey continues on, the increased chance there is that I will ultimately fail. I will undoubtedly get lost (road map or not), run out of gas, decide that I am not ready for the destination, or worse, that I need to turn the car around and head 100 miles an hour in the other direction because I am not ready for change.  A fear that I will let someone down, if not more than one someone, the destination is not all it is cracked up to be and the grass really isn't any greener, or that all this investment or travelling will be for nothing.  And a fear that if I fail, I shall never be successful.  

With the church journey through Advent, it's easy.  We know, by repetition of history for the last 2000 years, the Christ child will come... unless the Mayans are right and the world ends first this year.  That in some three-odd weeks, we will get all fancied up, have a grand feast with family and then head to a crowded church, among strangers who only come once a year, and all together, welcome this infant Christ into the world, the church, and our lives.  

But in our own journeys, this sense of assurance isn't there.  We don't know how or when the paths to healing and right relationships will happen... we cannot anticipate when we will once again be "whole" and embracing greatness.  If we knew it would happen at midnight on December 24th, that might make it less fearful.  And so instead of having a finite time to "grin and bear it", we charge forward - sometimes aimlessly - toward a finish line, trusting that when we are there, we will know.  

We cling to the sense of hope felt in this time of year, that just as sure as the winter bears snow and Christmas, the Christ child, we too - will successfully reach the end... whole, healed, and most importantly, hopeful.  

Everytime

I suck at the virtue of patience. 

There is truly no "gentler" way of putting it because any way that I cut it up, I end up coming out on the negative. 

For example, I will text or email or facebook someone a message.  I know for a fact that they have checked their phone, their inbox, and updated their facebook three times.  And yet, despite them still being "connected", they have failed to address my communication. 

Maybe it is a lack of understanding on my part. 

Perhaps their world is crumbling down
Perhaps they had 2500 other texts to respond to that, priority wise, needed to be dealt with first
Perhaps the computer died RIGHT before they clicked "Send" on their response to me
Perhaps the answer that they need to give is too hard or long to type and so rather than responding to say, "let's chat instead, when are you available?", they defer it, indefinitely
Perhaps they are on holidays and despite updates, have chosen to ignore any personalized messages
Perhaps they would just prefer to cease communication
Or... perhaps they are simply jerks and have opted to not do my communication an ounce of decency by responding in a timely fashion.

But then just tell me. 

Instead of asking you whether you have enough staff to properly fill your event, I will assume that you are okay until you specify otherwise.
Instead of texting/facebooking to find out that you are transitioning well in your new vocational path, I will trust that if I can be of support to you, you will seek me out.
Instead of emailing you weekly, as you requested, numerous times, I will email you biweekly or triweekly.
Instead of requesting some time in your wonderful presence, I will go ahead and fill my spare time with people who respond or donating my time to further developing the youth of our community through coaching or volunteering.
Instead of doing you the service of requesting your lived wisdom, I will become more resourceful in seeking such information for myself. 

In a society where all our of closest contacts are truly at our fingertips, I think a lesson needs to be taken in proper etiquette around such mediums.  Or perhaps some education on how silence sometimes does or says more - even if that is not the message we want to be sending to others. 

Everytime someone fails to respond in a timely manner, I promise myself that I am just not going to approach them in the future - leave it in their court, wait for them to contact me, or return the favour when they have requested time sensitive information from me.  I promise myself that for as many rude individuals there are out there, there are just as many who have communication manners.

But then I get the frantic email asking for my presence or help with something, and I jump to assist or a request to do something as a third party request and I realize that my frustration or hurt must have been unwawrrented or I was too impatient. 

And everytime... I end up giving in and persisting in my communication with them.  Trusting that if nothing else, they might notice and start to respond in a timely fashion. 

In The Silence

For some reason, this song title has been stuck in my head all night. 

Perhaps it is because rather than running around on the floor tonight, I am sitting in a quiet room with only the sound of this patient's oxygen blowing... no other responsibilities but to ensure his health and wellness overnight.

Perhaps it is because I am subconsciously longing for a secret, quiet moment in which I am not trying to plan out a hundred things and my lengthy "to-do" list.

Perhaps it is because I was meant to listen to this song... dig it out of the archives of praise music and really listen to it.

Or, perhaps it is a culmination of all three. 

While it's not the best rendition of their recording, it will do for the purposes of this blog.

Here's the thing...

As of late, I've been feeling that calling... that urge to step up to the plate and truly go to bat for my relationship with God.  To stop making up reasons why I can't bat... can't run the bases... can't secure a home run and to just 'get 'er done'; ultimately, I recognize that the ownership is on me and God is ready to put me in, throw the perfect pitch, and then stand on home plate, eager to celebrate and rejoice with me in the successful run scored for the team.  However, my own insecurities and doubts are triumphing and so instead of donning my crisp uniform and lucky bat... I am hanging out in the back of the dugout.  Just chilling and cheering on my team.

Then, I got an email. And I swear, if God is anything like the goof in Bruce Almighty who types prayer responses on a keyboard... it's clear that this email was from God himself.

I have been worrying about my trip to New York.  Worrying about my passport, the flights, the taxi ride from the airport to my friend's place... worrying about what to expect when I meet the people I am going to see, worrying that I am not prepared or ready enough for the journey, worrying that I will get completely lost in the middle of a huge city, and become a missing person.  Granted, I am staying with a friend so hopefully she won't let me get 'too' lost... but still.

Today I received an email from two wonderful friends... they are two individuals that I grew up idolizing when they sang music on Sunday morning in church.  When I finally had the opportunity to actually PLAY music with them, I was in shock and choked on my own words.  Two very incredible people and friends. 

She emailed to say that they would both be in New York overlapping my stay there and wouldn't it be great to meet for tea?  Three Canadians drinking tea in a fancy city like New York together?

And while none of her words stated it directly, there was this immense sense of peace that came over me; it was so incredibly articulate - as if to say, "I will never leave you alone, lost, or in a desert of 'new' beginnings and healthy journeys.  I know you are not ready to take my hand, so instead I shall send my angels to watch over you, journey alongside you, and be available for a cup of tea should you need to". 

In the words of Hillsong:

In the silence of Your majesty,
In the splendor of Your holiness,
In the stillness of Your glory,
Let me hear Your voice,
The gentle whisper of Your voice.

So if you are sitting over my shoulder and reading this, let me say this... Thank you.  Thank you for recognizing what I need and providing it before I can even form the words to ask.  Thank you for understanding that while I am not ready to step out of the boat or into the game yet, I am truly grateful for your Fatherly love and concern for my well being this next week.  And thank you for doing all this is a quiet and subtle way... I'm not one for flashing lights, frying pan headaches, or fire and brimstone; the gentle whisper of Your voice resonates in ways words cannot describe. 

Signed, 

Your Reluctant and Journeying Daughter

I'm Ready

Years ago, I had a very dear friend and mentor who was considering a huge decision in her life.  She was also a huuuuge Bryan Adams fan. So, being the typical, encouraging friend that I was, I made her a CD of "Vocational Songs" in which it included some of her favorites... some common title songs that could very easily be vocational songs... and some just hilarious and awesome songs that were sure to make her smile.  The title track was Bryan Adam's "I'm Ready".  


While the song appears to be most relevant to a relationship of some kind, it doesn't entirely apply to my situation, and yet, I can't help but feel that same sense of "readiness" that he sings about so confidently. 


My day started by reading one of those generic emails that sends a quote to my inbox every morning.  This morning, the quote of the day read:
      "Don't prepare.  Begin.  Our enemy is not lack of preparation; the enemy is resistance, our chattering brain producing excuses.  Start before you are ready" (Steven Pressfield)


This really set the stage for the remainder of my day.  I spent 12 hours on the unit whereby two of three of my patient's were cleft palate repairs.  While these are *usually* the patients that I dislike the most, it's because it's such a difficult hospital stay for the patient, the family, and the family's support system.  Imagine being 9 months old (the child is most successful if they are a certain size and developmental stage for surgery, typically around the 9month mark) and "set in your ways".  Because you were born with the condition, you have adapted and learned to bottle, suck, play, LIVE with a cleft palate (of varying degrees). 


And then, someone tells you that you can fix it!


The infant comes back from surgery with arm splints (from their armpit to their wrist) that prevents them from lifting their hand to their mouth and playing with stitches, etc) on both arms, and having to relearn how to eat and drink.  The pain is manageable.  Honestly, you could rotate between tylenol and advil and the child would probably be okay... it's the same sensation as having braces on... there is movement, there is "newness" and there is bone altering.  It's uncomfortable.  


However, the most distressing things to the child seem to be that re-training of how to drink a bottle, how to get through life without being able to really move their arms in a functional manner. 


After spending a solid 45 minutes with new parents who were distressed by their son's inability to soothe, I went on break and read an email from the program south of the border. 


They had emailed responses to my questions and somewhere along the line, I made the comment, "Recognizing that I am over reacting/worrying about something I need not...."; their response made me fall flat on my back.  "You diagnosed it right, do not worry/overthink...We do it for a living all day long"


All. Day. Long.  


It made me smile.  And realize that really, I was no different than the parents.  As the nurse in the situation above, I know what the typical stay for a cleft palate looks like... I can describe any aspect of the experience, assure family, and really... when it comes down to it, it is my responsibility to keep their child safe and healthy for that 12 hour day.  I know what I'm doing.  I've gone to school, I've passed exams, I've done this before... more than once. 


My situation with this program was more similar than I was willing to believe initially.  They are professionals.  They not only know what they are doing, have not only gone to school and written exams, but they come highly recommended.  It is clear that they are just as vested in my well-being as I am.  


There was a huge sigh of relief.  Now I feel that I'm ready to trust the process, trust the professionals to lead the way, and trust the outcome that is mine for the taking in the next year. 


And besides, if I'm not 100% ready, I just need to start.  Stop overthinking, stop my brain from running resistance and unhelpful commentary, and just start.  


Just. 


Start. 


Why?


I'm ready!

Just one of those days...

I am writing in purple becaue it really seems to be the most neutral and peaceful colour in the whole array that blogspot lets me choose from in order to write this blog.

I am having 'one of those days'.

Metaphorically speaking, it's like... well... hmm...

Imagine, if you will, a young bride who is preparing for her wedding in a year's time.  (Let me interject to say that I am neither a bride or discussing weight, but my sister recently got married so I am going to use this analogy anyway.

Imagine a bride whose wedding is to take place in one year. 

The first few months of the twelve are spent working on a guest list, choosing bridesmaids (and their dresses), and getting your name on the reservation list for a venue and reception caterer.  When the still, somewhat peaceful bride reaches the midway mark, her attention shifts to finding the perfect wedding gown, ordering flowers, and arranging a photographer to be present at the ceremony, interim and reception.  When the T-3 month mark hits, this is where the bride turns frantic.  Her attention is dedicated to nothing more than the "details".  It is usually at this point that the bride discovers that in actual fact, she is hoping to be a few pounds lighter in the face and arms to look her utmost best on the big day. Getting herself to a gym and hiring a trainer that assures success in the next three months, the bride gives it her all.

For three months, she trains, lifts weights, runs, and when she thinks that she can't do it anymore, she just keeps forging forward... all for the "win" of being truly breath-taking on her day.

When it comes time for the weigh in at the end of her membership, she steps on the scale only to see that after all that... her number only changed by 0.02of a lb. 

Completely and utterly deflated, the bride heads for the showers.  Truly takes all she has to keep the tears in her eyes.  Was all her hard work for nothing?  How could, even after all that, the result not be some dramatic, life altering change?

Then, in the stillness of her heart, the bride remembers this: muscle before fat, strong as a jack... fat before muscle, sturdy as a sack. 

What the bride did not account for was that muscle, though leaner, weighs more than fat.  She did meet her goal of loosing her stomach and arm fat, but in her dedication, it was replaced with bulked up muscle tissue.

The important point is that the bride did not fail in life... in fact, she very much accomplished what she set out to do. What was incorrect, was her goal.  It was too specific, too narrow in scope, too restrictive on what she was capable of accomplishing. Rather, the bride needed to set the goal of becoming more healthy, prolonging her lifespan, learning about her body, etc... the list of possible goals that she could set is long. 

You see, really, I will be okay.  If anything, it is just surprising how fast our inner beings latch onto that glimmer of hope... that possibility of engaging something that is so incredible, it gives us back a piece of ourselves that was lost.  Of course it is not the sole method to regain one's footing on a step climb, but there is something about it that allows us to identify with it, hope in it, and hold on tight.

Perhaps in the end, that's all one needs - that "something" that convinces us to hold on while we are pulled to shore from our storm... that "something" that gives us the hope we need to get out of bed, put our feet on the floor, and then proceed - one in front of the other. 

In essence, after a baseline intake assessment, it was deemed that the program is not quite the right fit AT THIS TIME.  However, two very articulate steps were outlined and once I accomplish those two steps (however big and daunting they seem now), then the invitation is there to fly down to NYC for a proper intake assessment with hopes of developing plans for the two week intensive. 

You can't build a mansion if you first don't clear the trees, brush, and pour a solid foundation.

Annnnd, rather than stewing on the fact that I was temporarily sent back to do a little more clearing work, I need to keep my sight focussed on the future, my heart tapped into that sense of hope, and my grasp held firmly to the one who will ultimately guide me through it all. That one day, whenever that day might come, I will find myself sitting on the front veranda of a beautiful mansion, in the most precious of company.

God-incidences

The pop-psych phrases to explain the Holy Spirit are truly everywhere: "There is a reason for everything", "If it is truly meant to be, it will happen", or "When a window closes, another door opens".

Okay, that is a lame opener, but trust me when I say that I have worked and re-worked this idea in my head while out of internet range over the long weekend and the only conclusion I came up with is that I'm undecided.

I understand that there is a group of believers who think that "winning the lotto" in life is really none other than that immense feeling of ecstasy one gets when their will is aligned with God's will.  When one is truly doing something that lightens their heart and furthers the kingdom of God... what could be better?  For this group of people, one can achieve this sense of overwhelming joy through much prayer, soul searching, and discernment.

Then there is the group of us who, contrary to these people, deliberately walk (or in my case, run) away from God's will for our lives and yet, coincidences (God-incidences) still manage to happen.  We don't pray about it, we make rash decisions; we don't discern it, we make up our own minds and then simply announce what we've decided.  And yet... despite the vast differences, God beats us to it.

If you ask me why I went into nursing, I truly wish I could tell you a tear-jerker or inspirational story about how nurses saved my life and thus, I wanted to return the favour to the universe.  Or that my grandma was a nurse, and my mom was a nurse and so I fell into a career saving people's lives.  But my story is different.  Radically so.

(In a paragraph or less...), I was raised high church, met some friends from a slightly lower church, went on retreat with said friends.  Attended an ordination of the xx type in which two xx's were being ordained to slightly lower church, cried through the Gospel, cried through the sermon and felt this indescribable sense of pull on an internal organ that beats... a lot.  Made sideways move to the slightly lower church, studied unofficially for two years the ways of slightly lower church, took jobs in said church to learn more about it, went through three onion layers of discernment with said church... all to get a resounding yes (paralleled to the Gospel that one cried through years before).  Packed life belongings in car, drove 45 hours, and enrolled in ordination-stream schooling.  For reasons unwritten here, dropped out of said school, went into hiding from the church and so-called "calling" and in the process, thought it wise to enroll in a two-year, completely secular program.  Two year secular program graduated me as an RN and here I be.

After finishing nursing school, I had no intention of practicing nursing.  So much so that I chose to specialize in a field that is extremely hard to get into so that when I couldn't get hired, I could find the motivation to work through my "issues" with God, the church and the community, pick up the pieces and my dragging feet and return to that immense sense of pull that I felt years ago while attending an xx ordination.

Where is this going, you ask?

To pay bills and student loans, I took on a full time administration job on the university campus.  What was originally supposed to be a month placement turned into two... then three... then six.  Getting pressure from the parental units as well as my employer at the admin job, I started applying for positions within the specialty I graduated with distinction in.  At first I was hired as a casual, picking up a few hours here and there, but nothing overly significant.

On one of my shifts, I found myself as the only RN on the floor who was comfortable playing with a 3 yr old boy whose family had all been killed in a car accident and whom no one had told this horrifying news to.  All the services that would normally be consulted while we waited for extended family to drive across the country to get the child were "off duty" as it was a weekend, so I figured I would sit with him for a bit.

Monday morning, I got a call from the manager of the unit I was a casual on and I was asked to submit my resume for a full time position on the unit.  I had an interview on Thursday and the following Wednesday, I found out that the job was mine if I would accept.

As I sat there waiting for the late manager to show up for the interview, I was actually quite nervous.  Don't get me wrong - people are always nervous for interviews...but I was nervous because if I got the job, I would have a really hard time putting and describing God in a simple and understandable way.  So, after years of not being able to pray, I pulled my phone out of it's case and read the prayer that has been taped in there... the prayer of St. Augustine (as seen in a previous post)... "Oh Lord my God, I have no idea where I am going, I cannot see the road ahead of me..."

It obviously was not a coincidence that I was on the unit the day that we got the 3 yr old... nor that my phone rang Monday morning requesting my paperwork.  Nor was it a fluke that I was now sitting here for an interview for a full time position, merely months out of school.  No doubt I had no idea where I was going or where the road was leading. My only option seemed to be to leave it with God and if this was where I needed to be, then I trusted that things would come together... doors would open... things would happen for a reason.

Then I got the job!

So here I am, trying to rationalize this all in my head.  Trying to figure out why I, along with communities of believers, prayerfully discerned that I was called in one direction and now I find myself blindly stumbling in another, completely different direction.  It's not a coincidence, that I'm sure, yet perplexing just the same.

I cannot deny that God is here.  Of that, I have no doubt.  What does raise question in my mind is why.  Why would I, along with a whole community of believers, discern one thing and yet... things are lining up nicely in a camp far, far away from one's "said calling"?  How can that be?  It puts to shambles the whole belief that we can pray and discern where our lives are supposed to be and meet God there.  Because clearly, God just goes where do anyway.

I think.

That, or my logic is faulty and I need to go back to the drawing board.

Feeling Vulnerable

So I had every intention of writing a post when I got home about the concept of "God-inicdences" as my eastern friend calls them... more commonly known as coincidences, but not.  This spirited friend does not believe that things happen by random chance or coincidence, but that God and the Holy Spirit very much have a say in it.

However, then I got home.

And to my horror, I had been broken into (in to?); there is nothing quite like the feeling.

Last Christmas, even though we "don't exchange gifts", I received an autographed/personalized novel from a local news anchor that my godmother gifted me.  It had some coloured liquid spilled on it and as a result, is severely damaged.  As is my latest season of the favourite television show as the discs were sitting next to my book.

For my last birthday, I received one of those picture frames in which you can frame a number of pictures at once from two of my sisters - so that wherever my career took me, I could take my family with me.  One of the pictures appears to have been snapped off, thus breaking the frame.

But these are "things" and while some are more replaceable than others, I can find it in my racing heart to get over them.

What I can't get over is the fact that it appears to be an inside job.  In fact, I know that it was my landlord as the door wasn't tampered with, yet opened with a key.  I don't rent the whole house or even a floor... just a room.  And yet, for a reason unbeknownst to me, they felt the need to let themselves into my personal space, remove property that is clearly not their own, and trample on things of meaning and personal value.

It seems to be a feeling that I cannot get over.

As a victim of sexual assault, I very much understand the notion of personal space... of sacred space that is my own and is safe.  For me... that was my bedroom.  The door had a lock.  It was a space that I could return to at the close of each day to read, to write, to ponder, to celebrate successes or mourn losses.  It is the home of sacred things like the homemade Hope Chest that my grandfather made as a graduation gift before he passed away.  And the afghan that my Grandma knit as a gift to her eldest granddaughter... housing every shade of blue yarn she could buy because we were the only two people of that genetic descent that had blue eyes... none of her children or grandchildren with the exception of her and I... had blue eyes.  Growing up, we often marveled at that bond we shared.  "Angels have blue eyes" she would often say - when I either did something really great or ... really not so great.

It was my space.

I pay monthly rent and everything.

And everything.

I called my sister in hopes of having her talk me down and reassure me that I'm over reacting.  "It's just a room" or "Get over yourself! It's not like they let one rip while sitting on your blanket" or maybe "Why don't you spend the night in my guest room?"... but she's out of town and really, I just need to breathe and remember that I am okay; I am alive; Tomorrow is a new day.

It is truly a horrible and vulnerable feeling - none quite like it, actually.

As I struggle to see any God-inidence in the events of my evening this evening, I think I just need to curl up in the blanket of blue.

Servant or Friend

It is the story of my life that I am either two steps ahead of the group or two and a half behind.  The literal side of me wants to blame it on my Dad because from the age of 3, I would strive to match my stride to his.  His inseam was a gigantic 36 inches long... and I was barely 4'5" tall.  But, that story doesn't ever work because now that I'm "all growed up"... my inseam is a whopping 36 inches and yet I find myself falling behind. 


The humorous side of me says that it happens that way so that there can be a great roar of laughter when I finally catch the punch line of a joke. 


Whatever the case may be, I believe it might work to my benefit when it comes to spirituality because 9/10... someone has "been there and done that" before and often has wisdom they are dying to pass on. 


This past Sunday, I found myself as the sole musician in worship.  And normally, while music and singing is something that I am willing to do at the slight of a whisper, this week... I struggled. I knew the songs. I knew the tempo. I knew that the group would try to slow down the Sanctus.  I knew what to expect, or did I?


Growing up, we were encouraged from a very young age to "get involved" in the church.  As soon as I was old enough to be an altar server, I literally served every Sunday at 9am from that Sunday until I "retired" in my late (late!) teens.  From there, I moved onto other ministries within the church and never thought anything of it.  As the sermon reflected around the notion of no longer being God's servant, but God's friend, I struggled.  


When Sr. Mary wrote Servant Song, I think she understood that we were meant to servants; Mother Teresa was quoted saying, "God has no hands on earth, but our hands; no feet, but our feet..."

"What do you want of me Lord? Where do You want me to serve You?

I am Your song, your servant. Singing Your praise like Mary"

And yet, this week, I was challenged to be an equal... a friend. Someone who is willing to "sit down with Jesus over a cup of tea and "tell all""; I think it's easier to serve. 

It is easier to sit at a piano and play music than to sit honestly and humbly at the foot of an altar.  It is easier to fill the quiet with music or the sound of joyful service to another than to open up the gates. It will make me sound like a horrible and greedy person, but I really wish that Jesus would have consulted before he just walked in and said, "No, no... I don't call you a servant... I call you a friend" and before he implied that friends know the intimate details of one another.  

It is easier to be the sheep who follows a shepherd to the green pasture than to walk alongside a friend.  When walking beside someone, I am the person who is tempted to still go my way - and if the friend follows then the conversation continues and if they don't, then we head our separate ways for a bit.  

It is easier to scrub dishes, pots and pans, and clean the table than to sit in conversation with another. Easier to ensure that the kitchen is tidy after a common meal than to have another beat me to it.  Easier to create gifts, plan co-workers surprise birthday parties, and pass around homemade cards than it is to console them after they get disappointing news.  Truly - I am the person trying to make awkward jokes about a situation or the weather to simply brighten the office!

Then again, maybe I want to have my cake and eat it too?  Maybe I am truly struggling because somewhere deep down inside, I long for the day when I can pour a cup of tea, sit in the sunshine, and converse freely with a friend... as though no time had past since the last time. 

Augustine or ...?

Once upon a time, a time that seems oh so long ago, I went on a "camping" trip with some very holy friends.  One of the prayers that we used as a reflection point was a vocation prayer.  I then lost the paper it was typed out upon, then found it again, and then lost it.  Eventually, I managed to track it down and type it up. It is on a tiny piece of paper with size 6 font... it is coffee stained and crumpled. 

And yet, when I was cleaning out my car this weekend and found it, it felt like I had won the lotto. 

My Lord God, 

I have no idea where I am going. 

I do not see the road ahead of me.

I cannot know for certain where it will end.

Nor, do I really know myself,

and the fact that I think that I am following your will...

...does not mean that I am actually doing so. 

But I believe that the desire to please you,

does in fact please you.

And I hope that I have that desire in all that I am doing.

I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.

 And I know that if I do this, you will lead me by the right road,

though I may know nothing about it.

Therefore, I will trust in you always.

Though I may seem lost

and in the shadow of death,

I will not fear for you are ever with me.

And you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

Amen.

 Really, the first paragraph of this prayer resonates the most with where I find myself at present... the notion of not really knowing where to go or where this road is headed.  Today, I gave resignation that I would no longer be working in a temporary full time administrator's position so that I could truly try my hand with a sense of commitment for nursing.  It has been great, no doubt, knowing that I have a paying job on a Monday-Friday basis - but in the realm of my greater gifts and talents, they may be better shared elsewhere?  I got this incredible sense of relief when I shared the decision with my mentor - am trusting that's a good sign. 

Going to ponder that for the month upcoming as I wait for this transition period to come to a close and cross my fingers that I am blindly heading in the semi-right direction.

If I Could Tell Ya...

One of my favourite authors wrote a chapter entitled, "If I could tell you anything, I would tell you nothing" in which she described a day of her life in which she meant to have all these meaningful discussions and instead, accomplished nothing productive.

But it got me thinking... so here goes...

"Dear... You...

Yes, I am talking to You. I know, it is truly shocking. In fact, more shocking would be if You were actually listening. But then again, maybe it's better if you just leave me talk to You thinking that You're not listening. I can be more... candid.

I want You to know that, just like in any romantic comedy, "it's me, not you, that's the issue". Eeeeeveryone I talk to continues to assure me that YOU haven't gone anywhere, it's me that wandered off on my own - it was me that thought I could outwit, outplay and outlast You like in the Survivor reality show. Regardless of what piece of the journey I share with them, they seem to have reached this bizarre consensus that just like the Prodigal Son, I am the one who needs to "return" home because You never left. Please note that I am slowly working on accepting this notion, but it's not coming easily.

I also want You to know that there is not a night in which I fall off to sleep in which I don't think about how different life would be if I took the path You put before me rather than making the deliberate action to step off and away. All those people who shared their 'vision' and 'interpretation' of Your plan for me may have been right and instead, I struggle to find the next best thing because going back to the "best" thing is just not an option. Shocker number two? I just don't find the same joy that I once did and for the life of me, can't figure out why.

I alllllso want You to know that just like any bad break up, I am struggling to get closer. Not a sense of closure on our relationship because I think there might be a slim chance of rekindling that, but closure on the past. Maybe if I could just know whether or not it would have worked out, I could actually move forward instead of dwelling on what was and what could have been? Those same "people" keep telling me that if it is meant to be, it will happen. You and I both know that they are probably wrong. Everything in life involves conscious choice on some level, and what we do to occupy our time and pay our bills requires a rather large serving of conscious choice, don't You think? And theeeen, these "people" say, be patient. Hold on. Someone has their eye on you and you are about to sign up for the ride of your life.

I think You need to smite these people. Or something like that. I mean who says that? "Be patient". That's dumb. Just in case You didn't know. In case they missed the memo... it's not patience that's the issue. Or who tells another person that 'someone has their eye on you and you are about to sign up for the ride of your life'?? Clllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeearly they are ignoring their inbox memos frequently. If they know me a tiny little bit, they would know that I get car sick super easily (so I am NOT super keen on signing up for a "ride") and they would gather that I have been both baptized and confirmed (AND received), thus... there shouldn't be anymore signing up required.

I'm not tattling on them... I'm just sayin'... dorks.

Finally, I would tell You that I really only signed up and went into student debt for this second degree thing because I wanted two years of separation. Forget that 6 degree weird stuff. I wanted to quantify my distance in years. Degrees are too close for comfort... and they are hard to quantify. And yes, before You saying anything, I already know that my two years are up. But in fairness, we both know that You started dinging the "dinner bell" to remind me of the meal You prepared before two years had elapsed. Therefore, I declare a thumb-war.

Wait, wrong sport.

But it WOULD be cool if you made thumb wrestling an Olympic sport rather than shotput or discus. Men in tight one-pieces are just odd. Surely that's not what you had in mind when You gave someone the idea to create spandex in multi-colours.

Oh, and ps... a tomato should not be a fruit just because it's red and shaped very similarly to an apple.

PPS... I am keeping my ear plugs in, so please do not feel the need to roar the thunder or smash the lightening... just leave a message at the beep and I will happily return it as soon as I figure out how to manage this whole "direct connection" thing again.

That is all. You may now unplug Your ears.

Sincerely,

The Black Dog (because I am tired of the sheep reference... wasn't there any other animals in the time of Bible writings?)