The Flower of Forgiveness

He was outside as he often is on warm sunny days, digging, planting jasmine for me.  I came out to be with him for a bit.  Grabbing an empty five-gallon bucket I flipped it over and sat.  He enjoys when I come out to say “hello” and we fell into the ease of being together.  I sat and watched him, the sun warm and comforting over my left shoulder.   Dots of conversation budded amidst the sound of the shovel carving out the home for the jasmine.

I do not remember what we talked about or how it happened but longing awakened in me.  A deep and gentle ache for amends and repair.  I planted grace in that hole left by the wound so long ago.  Grace was easy because I know his heart.  His heart is good.  But today, and maybe for many days, that plant called grace was thirsty for the water of “I’m sorry.”  With the courage of vulnerability I took him to the garden of my heart and showed him the tender plant.

He put his shovel down, came to me, and knelt on one knee.  He took my soft hand, his calloused fingers intertwined with mine.  His sorrowful gaze held my tear-filled eyes; He saw that fragile plant, fighting for life in the parched earth it grew in.

His words, filled with remorse, drop by drop fell over me like gentle rain.  He confessed his own brokenness and lamented for the wound he caused.  The dry, cracked earth around the tiny plant called grace soften with each word, soon it was saturated no longer dry and cracked.  The plant called grace drank deeply and was satisfied.  Nourished with the water of repentance it bloomed.  The flower of forgiveness burst open, as if it’s beauty had been eagerly awaiting to reveal itself.  It’s fragrance surrounded us with sweetness.  We breathed  deeply of its perfume while our gaze held for an eternal moment.  Letting go of my hand he reached up and with his thumb gently brushed away the tear that lay motionless on my cheek.  I smiled at him, leaning my face into the curve of his hand and whispered, “thank you.”  Bending forward he planted a tender kiss on my forehead.

He stood and took my hand again helping me up.  We kissed.  As I walked back to the house I could hear the sounds of him lifting the jasmine and placing it in the home he had made for it.  And then the squeak, squeak, squeak of him turning on the hose.

ORDINARY

 Ordinary--today I don't like it. It feels mundane, boring. Ordinary is overlooked.
So let's look at it. What is ordinary?

     This morning, it's waking up. The day is still black, the house is cold, and I can't find my slippers. While the coffee brews I head to the bathroom. It's quiet except for the fans whirling, a small sound from each bedroom. A few dark minutes pass. I walk back to the kitchen. Opening the cupboard I glance across the shelves and find my cup. Pour my coffee. Add my Creamer.
Ordinary. I do this every day.
     Sitting on the floor in my closet, coffee cup resting at my lips, I ponder the word "ordinary." And I notice. I notice that my lips fit comfortably just under the slight curve at the top of my cup. I notice the cold, smooth surface contrasted with the warmth in my hands.
I hear the fan in my bedroom. It's soothing, that sound. Constant. Steady. A bird begins to chirp outside. As I listen I wonder if it's asking," Are you up yet? Can you get up now? I'm awake." Like when my children were young and ready to take on the day.
     What else do I hear? The occassional car passing by. People, neighbours, heading to work I imagine. It's early, poor souls.
     Outside my window the dark indigo sky begins to lighten. Ever so slowly. The hue changes to a deep violet and now a periwinkle. The trees are not shadow-shapes anymore. The tall one across the street even has a slight red tint at the end of each branch. It's strong trunk, gray-brown. The white shutters on the neighbour's windows show off a coral tint. The sun is rising, the sky is bluer now.
More birds are singing, insisting it's time to get up. A robin is hopping on the green of my lawn. Her rusty, red breast bobbing up and down as she bloop, bloop, bloops across. Another robin joins her. They rise together, twirl in the air, land, and hop their separate ways.

And so my ordinary day begins.
Perhaps it's not so ordinary after all.





Post script: After completing this I walked back to my kitchen. The air was filled with the scent of fresh baked bread. I took a moment to soak it in. And smiled.

So Much More

      I'd been wanting it. Desperate for it. To touch Jesus, to feel Him, know Him. If only to brush the edge of His garment with the tip of my fingers. I haven't found it anywhere. I tried, boy did I try. Craning my neck, reaching, stretching, looking for the moment I make contact with the Holy of Holies. I got close at times. At the Jordan, in Magdala, He was there just a step beyond my reach. I'd take the step and He'd have vanished. So what was I to do. I tucked my longing into my back pocket and decided to take in the "wow" of the moment.. I was in Israel, staying in the old walled city of Jerusalem. How cool was that?
      He, however, had something else in mind. He came to me, in late afternoon, in a little shop at the corner of a square. Instead of me stretching through a crowd barely brushing the hem of this garment He walked up to me, cupped my face in His hands, lifted my eyes to His and said, "Eshet Chayil."
      She became my nemesis15 years ago, this perfect woman, Eshet Chayil. Before then Proverbs 31 was my ideal. I wanted to be worth more than rubies, desperately wanted it.  So I strived and tried, and failed every time. My worth, nothing more than gravel on the side of the road. So I finally gave it up, gave her up.  . . .   This woman of valour, this perfect woman became my enemy.
     And then in this little shop, as the shadows descended and the breeze turned cold, I met a Jewish man, a teacher. He told me I got it all wrong. (I don't like to be wrong) My western mind, the way I think, distorted my understanding. It distorted the story. It started with the translators. Because it's not about rubies, it's about pearls. A noble woman, a woman of valour, Eshet Chayil-- her worth, her value is far above pearls. And that makes all the difference.
     The value of a Pearl is much less about the finished product and all about the process of becoming one. A Pearl starts as a small piece of gravel and through the process of irritation slowly, oh so slowly, is transformed into a pearl. This tiny speck of dust metamorphs into a most precious gem. Beautiful, irredecent, white, pure. NOTHING becomes SOMETHING. ASHES become BEAUTY. GRAVEL becomes PEARL.
    And as if that wasn't enough. This Jewish man, this teacher told me that Ruth, my precious Ruth, whom I've loved since I can remember, she is the only woman is scripture who is called Eshet Chayil. This Moabitess, the product of deception, manipulation, and incest, is a woman of valour, This NOTHING, this SHAME, living in the midst of irritation became a SOMETHING, her shame removed she becomes the mother of a king. A PEARL.
     So my nemesis, my enemy, has come full circle. No longer the "perfect" woman, this woman of valour is a woman who is becoming. A woman transforming, being made complete. . . whole.
Gravel, a Pearl, a Daughter of the King.
     I looked for Him. Searched for Him. He was nowhere. He came to me. Touched me. My face in His hands, my eyes looking in His. He spoke my name, "Eshet Chayil".

Gift from a Healed Heart

She sat across and to the right of him; this man who had hurt her so long ago.  They were in a quaint café for breakfast and he was sharing a tainted memory.  The sounds all around her became dull, all she could hear was his voice, his words, his story.  The tears created a pool in her eyes and when the weight of them was too much to bear they slid down her cheeks and over the cliff of her chin.  He spoke, not as one in pain, but of his pain, pulling back the curtain of secrecy and shame.  Her mind’s eye unfolded the scenes before her.  She felt it too, the pain, it cracked her heart.  She longed to rescue the little boy he spoke of, wanted to gather him into her arms and cuddle him in a rocking chair shooing away the lies he had just heard, soothing the pain.

His story over, he looked up at her and witnessed the stream of tears on her cheeks.  Tenderly, as though speaking to a small child, he said, “Oh baby, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”  The gentle words brought fresh tears.

No, dear man, you did not mean to make me cry, not then and not now.  What Satan meant for evil, God has turned to good.  Today’s tears are tears encased in joy.  Freedom infuses each drop.  To weep for the one who hurt me speaks of a healed heart.  The wound of long ago was washed with repentance and bandaged with forgiveness.   The path to healing was walked.  Today what is left is a scar.  A scar of love and compassion.  Empathy for you, dear man.  My tears are a gift, a gift from my healed heart. 

Tears

"Who decided that expressing emotion is weakness."  Amelia Shepard, Grey's Anatomy

     She couldn't have been much more than four years old.   Her damp, honey-coloured hair freshly brushed, she smelled of soap and baby powder.  Dressed in Cinderella pajamas and fuzzy slippers she was excited.  It was Christmas time and tonight was special.  She sat on the green-flowered couch, her feet barely hanging over the edge, and watched.  The story played on the television in front of her.  The little boy, his companions a camel, donkey, and lamb, and his drum.  She absorbed everything she saw, the bad men who took advantage, the angry boy who lashed out in his loss, the joy at friends reunited.  The final scene unfolded, the lamb injured, the boy distraught asking for a miracle.  The baby Jesus looks at the lamb.  The lamb is raised to life.  The boy plays his drum.  The background music, "I am a poor boy too, pa rum pa pum pum, I have no gift to bring, pa rum pa pum pum."  Something happened in her heart at that moment, it swelled, filled her chest and reached up into her throat.  Her heart spilled out of her eyes in tiny drops of tears.  They fell slowly down her cheeks.  Her mother, who did not understand, gently scolded her for crying over a T.V. show.  It was in that moment that she learned.  She learned that her heart was flawed.  Something was wrong with her and she didn't know how to fix it.  

Truth be told I never did learn how to fix it.  Fix it being to stop the tears.  That is something I've never been able to do.  I've tried and it's just not possible.  The inability to do so has left me feeling weak and pathetic.  There is no strength in this woman. 

Recently I was told, "your tears get in the way."  They get in the way of the song I'm trying to sing, the message I'm trying to give.  What you don't understand, person who is trying to help, is that I can't stop them.

I don't know how many times I've gotten the message that emotion equals weakness.  Not feeling, now that is strength.  "A brave face" and "courage" denote this image of facing whatever life throws at you without feeling anything.  And if you do feel anything, God forbid, you better not show it.  "you've got to be strong.  Don't let yourself fall apart."   It's everywhere, movies, books, television, this notion that feeling something is weakness.  We are told to bottle up every expression of emotion and cap it so it doesn't leak out.  Doing so means "I'm strong."

A woman battling deadly cancer.  "Look how strong she is.  She never complains and is always smiling."  Another walking through a long drawn out and very ugly separation.  "She the strongest person I know.  She holds everything together."  And yet another woman whose beloved father dies and she never sheds a tear.  "I couldn't cry, I had to be strong for everybody."

So there it is, the proof that I'm not strong.  I'm weak and pathetic.  I'm a loser, sub-par, not good enough.  Why?  Because I simply cannot, absolutely CANNOT stop them.  The tears will flow.  They are a part of who I am.  If tears mean weakness, and tears are a part of me, then I am weakness.

Glennon Doyle writes, "I am a deeply sensitive person, living in a messy world."  I've altered that.  "I am a deeply sensitive person living in a broken world.  And I am moved."  My heart cracks and leaks when I see hurt and pain.  Strife and anger, hatred and down-right meanness are like knife wounds ripping the flesh of my heart.  Loneliness and broken relationships weigh heavily, like lead pressing and pushing.  Injustice, Biblical injustice, the kind where the poor are oppressed, the children go hungry, and the old and sick are left to fend for themselves, that injustice burns my heart into a raging flame.  The brokenness is everywhere, and I am witness.

And in all this mess, among all the glass shards of pain there is still kindness, and goodness, and love.  Perhaps that affects my heart even more than all the pain, and because of all the pain. My heart swells and bursts at acts of kindness and stories of triumph.  When the homeless are not only served a sandwich and a coke but their feet are washed by hands of love.  When a runner stops to lift one who has fallen and they make it to the finish line, together.  When a couple, married forever, walk wrinkled, arthritic hand in wrinkled, arthritic hand.  When a child hands his mother a dandelion. When a stranger holds open a door for me.

I feel every wound of brokenness and every drop of love.  I am unable to close my heart to it and the tears WILL fall.  If I try to close my heart..... well..... I will die.

That little girl, who is almost 50 now, still cries when she watches The Little Drummer Boy, her heart still breaks when she hears the story of Terry Fox, and cancer, and running across Canada, and death. And when she sings and pictures in her mind the never-ending love of God  the tears take over .... and sing for her.

So it seems I'll never be strong.   Instead I'll be ALIVE.

I'm Sorry

I owe her an apology.  She's been so good to me.  Under my leadership she has worked hard, and she hasn't complained.  She's willingly done what I've asked of her.  And I've pushed her.  I continue to ask more and more.  Every year I add one more thing.  And the amazing thing is that she is up to the challenge.  She rises higher and higher achieving each thing I ask her to do.  And what she gives me in return is immeasurable.  Because of her I'm solid, really solid.  I'm stronger.  I walk taller.  I'm more confident.  I feel sexy and beautiful.

You would think the least I could do for her would be to listen, to give back something, to give her something she needs.  She's asked, but not demanded.  She's not like that, she doesn't demand.

I went to a therapeutic yoga class on Wednesday.  The lights were low, the room was warm.  In the background Enya sang "sail away, sail away, sail away."  Peaceful, that's what it was, peaceful.  I was instructed to sit comfortably, close my eyes, and breath.  And I did.  I allowed myself to sink in to that peaceful moment and breath.  And it is there that my heart connected to my body.  The tears gently slid down my cheeks.  "This is what I've been needing," she said.

And so today I say "I'm sorry.  I'm sorry for not listening and giving you what you need.  And from now on it will be different."

What's great is that she doesn't want me to stop all the other things I'm doing, she's just asking for a little peace in the midst of it all.

And so my body, my sister... to you I vow to give peace.

My Story, My Voice

Sabbath morning.  I lay in bed wanting more sleep as it eludes me.  I'm in "a place".  That is the best description I can give it.  "A place" is where I am contemplative, emotional, and in a struggle.  I am not afraid in this "place", I've been here before.

My phone pipity-pops a text message.  Reluctantly I pick it up.  The black words written on the gray bubble say something like, "it's too much, she's writing my story."  Reading a memoir the person on the other end of the text is overwhelmed with validation as each paragraph unfolds.  A sense of peace and connection, a knowing that "I am not alone".  These two share the bond of common experience, even though they do not know each other personally, have never spoken face to face.  They know each other's bruised and broken heart.

My memory takes me back 30 years, it's Christmas Eve.  We have three little girls in the house this year.  Elizabeth, my sister, and Melissa who are both 5 or 6, and Kira, my neice, who is about 2 or 3.  Melissa is my neice's sister.  No blood relation to us, except through Kira and she and Elizabeth, being the same age, are good friends.
It's dark outside and all the girls are bathed and clean, wrapped in their warm pajamas.  The tree is all twinkly with presents bursting out underneath.  The gifts get passed out.  Elizabeth and Kira get a gift, as does Melissa.  More gifts are passed and received.  Melissa gets one maybe two more, but Elizabeth and Kira get more and more and more.  As this happens Melissa in her sweet childlike tone says, "what about me?"  She repeats it over and over, "what about me", "what about me".  It's not a harsh, foot-stomping demand.  Her voice is quiet and sadness punctuates each word.  "Do you not see me?"  "Am I not important?" "Don't I matter too?"

Those words echo in the darkness of my "place".  While I'm grateful my friend finds validation and connection in the story being told.  I lay on my stomach in my bed with my head buried under my pillow saying, "but what about me?"

I feel so alone right now.  And in that aloneness I've been hiding.  Actually, I have been hiding for a long time, so long I can't remember when I started.  Maybe, just maybe if I heard or read my story in someone else I'd be less scared to come out of hiding.  It reminds me of the old 70s song, "strumming my face with his fingers, singing my life with his words.  Killing me softly with his song, killing me softly, with his words, telling my whole life with his song, killing me softly...with his song.
If someone, out there, was singing my song, my story...I could come out from whatever it is I'm hiding behind because I know I would not be alone.  Someone else would know and feel it too, and understand.  The song is not of a slow death, it is a releasing the chains of isolation and hiding.

The thought occurs to me, why does someone else have to be the author writing a story I can relate to?  Writing for me so I can come out of hiding because I can identify with their experience and emotions.  What if I, yes me, what if I came out from behind the curtain, stepped toward the desk, grabbed the paper and pen and wrote my own story..  My story in My voice.

Glennon Doyle Melton calls us Truth Tellers.  I am going to tell my truth, in my story, using my voice.  I'm hoping that in the telling I will empower myself to quit hiding and to come out in the light and be seen as I am.  And while i'm telling my story for me, because I need to, perhaps as a bonus someone out there can find solace and comfort in my words and not feel so alone.

  

The Journey

Walking through the mountain forest, weary and with night falling quickly she wanted to find a place to rest.  Ahead she noticed a hedge of wild roses, beyond which were no trees.  She pulled her small sword out of the sheath on her back.  She cut through the thickness of the roses and pushed her way through.  Scratching herself on the thorns she broke into a small clearing.  This looked like a good place to stay the night.  Soft grass everywhere she found an ideal spot to sleep close to a large boulder.  She removed her satchel and sword and placed them beside her.  She took a final drink from her water pouch and made a pillow out of her outer garment.  She fell asleep exhausted, oblivious to the fragrance of roses that filled the night air.  The moonless sky provided twinkles of starlight-angels to watch over her while she slept.

She awoke with the sun already high in the sky.  Leaving her fatigue in the imprint in the grass she arose to examine her surroundings.  Hearing the lapping of water nearby she went to investigate.  She discovered a pool of water.  The sun-sparkling diamonds on the water invited her to join them.  Pulling her inner tunic up over her head and leaving it on the shore she gingerly walked into the pool.  Pleasantly surprised by the temperature she allowed the water to wash away the dirt from her skin and refresh the ache in her muscles.  She swam, exploring.  Startled frogs quickly leaping out of her way made her silently chuckle.  She found where a mountain stream emptied itself into the pool, and made note so she could later fill her water pouch.

Feeling revived she returned to the grassy shore.  She put her tunic back on and sat letting the warm sun dry her off as she combed her fingers through her hair.  Taking a deep breath, she rested.

Hunger crept into the peacefulness.  She got up and went searching for berries.  Not too far at the edge of the meadow she found bushes full of ripe sweet berries.  Making a bowl out of her tunic she gathered enough to eat and some to dry to take with her when she continued her journey.  Returning to the large boulder she carefully sat down.  She grabbed her satchel and added nuts and flat bread to her meal.  

After eating, she delighted herself in all that the clearing offered her.  The sun's gentle warmth gave her comfort.  The soft breeze kept her cool.  She walked over to the rose bushes, picked a rose, removed the thorns and tucked it behind her left ear.   Discovering daisies, she gave a little squeal.  She watched blue birds dart about searching for a lunch of small bugs.  She listened to chickadees chirp at her in the distance.  

She sat by the daisies and made herself and daisy-chain necklace.  Butterflies flew like delicate fairies from flower to flower.  She got up, putting the necklace around her neck.  She twirled and danced with the bees and butterflies, swayed with the grasses and waltzed to the music in her heart. 

The sun began setting.  She returned to her sleeping spot.  Taking some more bread and nuts, she grabbed a handful of berries.  She walked back to the pool, found a log to sit on and ate a fulling supper while she soaked her feet.  After eating she walked over to where the stream entered and drank deeply from the mountain water.  

The day over, she once again fell asleep in the soft grass by the boulder.  This time her sleep was not one of exhaustion, but one from the peacefulness of a day; refreshed and rejuvenated.  The crickets and frogs sang a lullaby to the gentle melody of the distant water lapping against the shore.  A sliver moon joined the angel-stars to watch over her.

She awoke to the far-off screech of a hawk.  It was early, the sun barely seen in the horizon.  Rested and ready, she knew she needed to continue the journey.  Gathering her things she put on her outer garment, placed the sheathed sword on her back and put her satchel over her shoulder crossing to where it rested on the opposite hip.  Her picked up her water pouch and held it in her hand.  

She walked over to the edge of the pool, put the water pouch down and splashed water on her face.  Getting up she reached into her satchel for a handful of nuts and berries.  She followed the pool to the steam and filled her water pouch.  

Entering the forest on the far side of the clearing she continued.  The sun rose and shone through the tress illuminating her path.  A little way into the forest she discovered a small patch of bluebells.  She smiled, they nodded in greeting as she passed by.   

She small shiver traveled through her.  She looked down and noticed a fog slowly reaching around her ankles.  She kept walking.  It wasn't long before the fog crept up to her knees and soon totally engulfed her.  The sun totally obscured from her sight, she kept on walking.  For she knew that this too was part of the journey.....

In the Arms of Jesus

The silence whispers comfort.  The cloud-like atmosphere surrounds me in warmth.  The distant sun lends it glow.  

The air is still and quiet.  It's freshness fills; each breath brings deeper rest.  

His arms envelope me, the sleeves of His garment cover me.  All is white. 

I feel His cheek on the top of my head, a gentle kiss on my forehead.  He holds me.  

My head rests on His chest.  The steady strength of His heartbeat is the only sound I hear.  

Here is peace

Here is rest

Here is freedom and release

In the arms of Jesus........ 

I Can't Help it!

Standing in the shower the other day, I was thinking.  (Not that unusual, I think way too much).  Anyway, I was thinking about my kids, and love, and how much I love them . . . so much that sometimes I think my heart will burst for it.  Love so strong, and hard and fierce it hurts, literally hurts my heart.  That, however, is not the point.  The point is when I'd express to them how much I love them, or how fabulous they are, my kids used to tell me (and they probably feel the same way now), "you're supposed to feel that way, you're my Mom."  Or worse yet, "that doesn't mean anything, you're my Mom."

To be fair I have to say I understand where they were coming from.  They wanted acceptance and love from friends.... but here's the deal.  I don't love them because I'm supposed to.  I love them because, Holy Cow! I can't help it.  There is no choice involved here.  It's in the very marrow of my bones.  My body aches and my heart pours out.  There is nothing, absolutely nothing I can do to stop it, or change it or anything.  It simply IS.

About a month ago my husband was preaching a sermon and He was talking about God's love.  God's love for us.  Basically saying the same thing.  God's love is not a choice, God's love is WHO He is.  There was no decision, "Well, these humans are going to screw up, I guess we better figure out how We can save them."  No, not at all.  God HAD to save us.  Why?  Because there IS NO choice. . . . it must be done.  Not because Love "demands" it.  But because that Love can't NOT.  That's what that love does. . . .that love pours itself out.  that Love bleeds. . . it cannot be stopped. . . it cannot decide not to love.

So, does that Love mean any less when it cannot help but love?  When there is no choice; do we discard it as "meaningless"?

There are some people in my life that I choose to love.  It is a willful act, a conscious decision.  And then there is the love for my husband. . . .  different because it started outside of me. . . . choice is involved somehow, but not totally.  It's more like a beautiful dance, like the colours of the sunset, like sun-diamonds sparkling on the snow.

But the love for my children, well that is direct, more like a blazing bolt of fire that cannot be quenched.  It has a power all its own, a life beyond me.  Which one means more?  The choice?  The dance?  The power?

I don't know the answer to that question.  But I do know which one is strongest in me . . . because that love, well, I can't help it.

Liar!

It's a lie.  A big, fat, "liar, liar pants on firer" BOLDFACED lie.  Pop psychology, modern spirituality and even traditional Christianity perpetuate it, but it's still a lie.
The lie?   That you (or anyone) will have life figured out and you can "have it all together".  It's NOT TRUE!  You can meditate and deep breathe all day long, you can "have the power of positive thinking" or follow all the "rules" and it won't make a difference.  Why?  Because life is hard!  Period.  Life is hard and we get bumped and bruised and sometimes scratched and stabbed and left bleeding.  And techniques, tools and coping skills are not going to get you to a place where you"ll have it all figured out.  And I'm mad, really mad at the lie, because it leaves people, you and me, thinking we are supposed to figure it out and have it together, and when we don't we either give up trying or pretend we have it figured out.  Doing either of those, we end up hurting, bumping and bruising others more than we could otherwise avoid.

So what's the point?  The point is not to "figure it out"  the point is to live, to live full and free.  Life is a menagerie of vicious and victorious, chaotic and contended, destructive and delightful.  We cannot stop the onslaught.  What we can to do is lean into it, all of it.  Lean in to the beauty and the pain.  "But pain hurts" you say.  Yes it does.  But it hurts more when you deny it, or brace yourself against it, or fight it off like it can go away.  And it hurts more when you numb it - numb it with activity, or religion, or alcohol or people or whatever.  But you can't just lie down and take it either.  We are not to be victims of our pain, but survivors, over-comers, thrivers.

So how do we lean in.  We face it, converse with it, sometimes wrestle a little.  If it lies to you, tell it the truth.  If it tells you the truth, accept it.  Let the suffering you embrace be the fertile place for compassion to grow, for kindness to flourish, for mercy to reign.

The journey of life takes us up a mountain, but its not a straight trail up.  The trail winds its way around.  Around and around we travel, a little higher and a little higher.  We often find ourselves in a similar spot, dealing with the insecurity, or fear, or discouragement or anger or hurt that we thought we had already dealt with, shaming ourselves thinking "I dealt with this already.  I should have this taken care of by now."  But that's not how it works.  We are at a similar spot because the journey is never over, there is always a deeper healing, a greater growth.  What we have to do when we find ourselves in a similar spot is to look around and notice that we are a little higher up than we were last time and take comfort in that.   Then let the deeper healing come and grow a little more.  Then keep walking and say, "see you next time around."

Home

Upstate New York ,

nothing really spectacular up there, just trees and roads and rocks.  Something happened to me as we got into upstate New York, an internal change.  A settling of sorts.  I felt a growing comfort.  I realized that I had entered my world of "familiar".

Now, upstate New York is not home for me.  But, it looks like my home, and feels like my home and I was approaching home.  My Canada, my history, my heritage.  It may seem all patriotic and such, but the feeling is not a puffing out of the chest, raise the flag and honour Queen (or Prime Minister) and country.  No, not even close.  It's more like a warm cup of tea, curled up on the couch in front of a fire kind of feeling.  It's . . . there's really no other word . . . comforting.

It happens to me every time I go back to Canada.  And it doesn't matter where I am, Ontario, Alberta, New Brunswick, although in the past, before I moved to the US, it only happened in Ontario.  The closer and closer I get to home the anticipation and excitement builds.  Joy bubbles from my heart and spills onto my face.  Every mile will soon  be a kilometer.  The grass will be soft.  The air will be cooler.  I'll drive on roads cut through granite rock.  Maple trees, birch trees (I forgot all about birch trees till I saw one - o my), poplars and weeping willows fill the landscape in abundance.  Marshlands with still, pond-like waters, lily pads and cattails waiting to be explored by canoe.  People's gardens. . . o the lushness of their gardens.  Yards decorated with black-eyed Susans, phlox, marigolds - yes I know they have those in a lot of places but up there they are plentiful, rich  - not scorched and begging for cool air.  Even the apples are different. . . MacIntosh, Cortlands, Empires. . . those are the commons apples, not Gala, Pink Lady, and Fuji.  Everything is familiar - and all is well with the world.

Then, when my feet cross over to my homeland. . . my heart finds its rest.  I can breathe a sigh of relief and let everything go.  I'm home.  I belong here.

Lent to me for a little while...

There's my precious baby boy,  born 17 years ago.  I remember an older woman telling me during my pregnancy that every woman needed a son.  I didn't believe her at the time.  I believe her now.

I don't know what it is about a son.  (It's certainly NOT that I don't cherish and adore my daughter - just thinking about her brings tears to my eyes cuz I love her till my heart bursts.)

Cameo said once that Jared brought laughter into our home.  She's so right.  From the very beginning Jared has had the best sense of humour.  And he loves to share it. 

Mostly though, I think I would describe Jared as a warrior-poet.  He is that unusual blend of fierceness and tenderness.  He lives to an internal code of honour.  He's honest, loyal.  He believes in justice and accountability.  He will call out inconsistency and demand fairness.

and yet he is tender. . . . and protective. . . as a little boy in elementary school he would come home and tell me about how he walked and encouraged one friend or another.  How he was sad that his friends had difficult lives. . . 

He is gentle with his tender-hearted mother and forgiving . . . 

it's really the pictures that tell the story. . . so much better than my words,

O and he's so creative. . . 

and brilliant. . .

              and poetic . . . 

                         and deep . . . 

He has a depth of insight. . . and can see into your soul. . .   His heart was born "old".  And he really wasn't made for this world.  But this world needs him.  Needs his compassion, needs his fierceness, needs his words, needs his poetry, needs his story. . . 

God, in His mercy has given me this "old man" in a boy's body. . . to love and nurture . . . 

. . . and then to let go. 

No greater gift have I been given than to be the mother of my children.

Happy Birthday Son!  You are my heart's treasure.

The Standard

I learned something about myself recently, well, I probably knew it all along but it finally registered.  When we start talking about "doing" or "keeping standards" I lose my mind.  . . . Literally . . . my brain stops thinking, my heart starts beating, and my tongue, well anything that rolls off my tongue makes no sense whatsoever, not even to me.  Its just a garbled mess of back peddling out of the mud.

And if that wasn't enough, well, I can't seem to stop myself from talking.  I want to.  I want to just quietly, sweetly sit there, pleasant smile on my face and let everyone else talk about it.  They are fine.  They don't need me to say anything.  Jesus loves all of us . . . let them wrestle it out without my input.

But that doesn't happen.  I get so riled up inside, that I open my mouth and it all comes spilling out.  And then when I'm all done I want to go crawl in a hole and slowly die . . .

Its not that I want to ignore the scriptures where Jesus says "if you love me, keep my commandments".  It just seems like that means I need to make sure my skirt length goes to my knees, I don't show any cleavage, I can't swear, don't eat pork, can't swim on Sabbath and a myriad of other don'ts and can'ts.  It makes me crazy, probably because I want to please God and do His will. AND I guess I have a rebellious spirit and don't want anyone telling me what to do.

I can't live by a list of rules.  First, I hate lists and second, rules . . . well the thought just makes me want to throw up.

I recently watched a movie called, Lord, Save Us From Your Followers, I recommend it, though some may find it a little irreverent at first.  It's a documentary.  A Christian man explores Christianity in America.  There seemed to be this huge contrast.  There were (or are) the condemning, judgmental Christians who postulate that New Orleans was hit by Hurricane Katrina as a punishment from God for their sinfulness and want to clean the world up for all its sinful corruption..

And then there are the ones who after dark take meals to the streets. and literally wash the feet of drunkards and addicts, who sit and listen to the story of the schizophrenic as they share a simple meal.

I also just finished a book by Anne Lamott.  In it she talks of an atheist friend of hers who goes to Africa on relief efforts.

Which is God pleased with more, the Christian who shakes her finger at the teen whose make-up is too thick and skirt is too high. . . OR . . . the atheist who feeds the hungry in Africa. . .

I don't know!

What I do know is that Jesus said, "I desire mercy, not sacrifice". . . and 1 Corinthians 13 tells me that I can have faith that moves mountains, or can prophecy or can speak with the tongues of angels. . . but without love, well, it amounts to a hill of beans.

The Standard. . . well the standard probably has less to do with how far in the water I went on the Sabbath and a whole lot more to do with "did I love?"

I'm not sure what will happen the next time there is a discussion on "doing" and Standard. . . I'm pretty guaranteed there will be one.  I'll likely behave the same way.  I'll say a garbled mess, not make any sense . . . and walk away wishing I'd kept my mouth shut.

 I know how I want to live though.  I don't want to live tied up in knots over a list of can and can'ts.

I want to live LOVE and be free.

cheers,
k

Thank You Jesus

Last week someone told me that she was glad she didn't write me off as "just another pastor's wife"... my first response was "thank you Jesus!"

I've been racking my brain for over a week trying to figure out what this is all about.  I want to pinpoint the "whatever it is"  that creates the image of "pastor's wife".  Because, you see, my gratitude is NOT that my friend didn't write me off (though I am thankful for that, she is a precious friend);  My gratitude is founded on the fact that I don't want to belong to the stereotypical "pastor's wives" club.

hmmmmm. . . . . . .

My friend later told me that "pastor's wives" and those with similar "labels" (she called them labels, and willingly admitted that she was the one doing the labeling). . . left her feeling "unsafe".    Unsafe!

Unsafe?  What is that all about?

Are we, pastor's wives,  Are we aloof?  Unapproachable?  Distant?  Do we portray the illusion of perfection?  Plastic?  Syrupy Sweet?  Disingenuine?    Do we come across as judgmental?  Condemning?  Condescending?  Do we gossip?  Tear people down?  Criticize?

What makes us, or the label of us, unsafe?

I really don't know.

What I DO know is that as a pastor's wife I am called to a higher plane of accountability.  My dress must be modest.  My speech, clean.  The Sabbath held sacred in my heart.  I am to tithe and to adhere to the food restrictions in Leviticus 11 (I'm even struggling with the coffee thing).  My "leadership" role calls me to greater responsibility to walk in OBEDIENCE to God's Law.  I KNOW that obedience does NOT save me.  Grace, and grace ALONE saves me.  Yet I must walk the walk of obedience.  I WANT to walk the walk of obedience.... I want, desperately want my life, my step-by-step, daily life to honour God.  Pure and Holy in His sight. . . . I AM a child of the One True King. . . . take my life and let it be, consecrated Lord to thee. . . . . I want my life to show that I AM His.

But there is more to being His, than the outward "show" of accountability' following the rules.   There is the free-flowing of the richness of His mercy, His compassion, His patience, His love .. . .
. . . and it's about "being" not "doing".

Maybe that's it!  I just figured it out.  Well, a piece of it anyway.

The RESTRICTION of obedience, the "doing" of obedience . . . that makes us unsafe . . . but the RESPONSE of obedience, flowing easily, spontaneously from a heart that loves..... that FREES us up to BE safe.   Safe havens, places of comfort, places of mercy, places of compassion. . . . even places of silliness, places of laughter.  Places where people can be people. . . . imperfect, mistake-making, beautiful people.

Today I had two different Kaylas tell me how they appreciated me.  How I helped them.   To one I was soothing comfort (thank you Jesus) during moments of tremendous fear and distress.  To the other, she said I was the "person in her corner" (again thank you Jesus). . . . then she sent me a link to a song. . . . and all I can say is praise You, my God and Father, and You, Sweet Jesus, Lover of my Soul and You, Comforting Holy Spirit who lives in me.... because ALL I want to be, all I want to do is

Love them like You do... (take a minute & listen to the song)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C6OYmmMicsA&sns=em

God Bless,
k

The Gap

Her name is Sylvia.  I didn't KNOW that at the time.  She'd been to my class before and of course told me her name, but it didn't really register.  But what she did for me THAT day will linger into eternity, like the sweet scent of perfume remains a room long after the woman who wears it has left.  And because of THAT she holds a sacred place in my heart.

Life was happening and I was exhausted.  At the time I was working, running my home, leading a marriage seminar with my husband and teaching Sabbath school every Sabbath.  Now that my not seem like much but  everything I was doing required my heart to be fully engaged.  My clients get me, all of me, fully present and emotionally engaged.  Doing a marriage seminar, well I bleed desperation for marriages to be all they can be,  man and woman fully loving each other, filled with grace and acceptance, and a pour all of me, all my energy into imparting that.  Wanting to inspire couples to take the risk, because it's worth it.   And any woman knows how tiring running a household can be; a son in grade 8 and a daughter in grade 11, two different schedules to coordinate.  I was getting all my "work" done so I could pick my son up at 3:00 and be home in the afternoon.  Making meals, doing groceries, cleaning house etc, etc....   you know how it is.  My family needed ALL of me.

And then there was my Sabbath school class.  Well that class was special.  It was a Women's class and the estrogen flowed freely, as did the tears.  We had created a safe haven.  We came and left all pretense and facade on the other side of the door.  In our little room, we laughed, we cried, we shared, we supported, we prayed.  And these precious women, all ages, all life circumstances......... well they too deserved ALL of me too.

But on this Sabbath morning there was no "All-of-me" left.  There was nothing.  I was physically exhausted and emotionally depleted.  I remember praying, "Lord I have nothing to give."  I prayed throughout the morning, frantic, my unspoken request for God to give me "something" so I'd have something to give.....  His answer to my prayer . . . silence.

The Sabbath school room was full that morning, we were 12 - 15 strong.  The ladies carried on like they did every Sabbath.  They chatted and connected, then went through their heart's desires for prayer. . . .  all the while I listened, and smiled . . . and still, I had nothing.

Prayer time arrived.. . . .   I looked at my precious women. . . . tears welled in my eyes and dripped down my cheeks. . . . in a feeble, weak voice I told these beautiful women "I have nothing, I can't even pray.  I don't even have the energy to pray."

Sylvia spoke up then.  She said she would pray.  She said, "I'll pray for you."  And though she sat across the room it was as if she came and sat in my chair with me, beside me.  She told Jesus all the things I couldn't say.  She lifted me up and let me rest in her prayer.  She stood in the Gap of my nothingness, where I couldn't even reach Jesus.  And took hold of Jesus FOR me.  The Glorious Spirit of God was in that little room. . . .  and there was peace.

After prayer I was able to teach class. . . . but this story is NOT about some miracle of prayer that gave me energy to teach.  This story is about the miracle of standing in the Gap for another.

"When hope is more than you can bear, and it's too hard to believe it could be true.  
And your strength fails you half way there, You can LEAN on me and I'll believe FOR you.  
And in time you will believe it too."  (Jason Gray, Nothing is Wasted, emphasis mine.)

I was changed that day.  Leaning on Sylvia, she "believed" for me.  She was strength for me, she was love for me, she was peace for me, she was prayer for me.  She stood in the Gap FOR me.   She gave me a gift that transcends this "here and now" and carries me into the realm of the holy.

Of course she gave me a glimpse of what Jesus did and does for me.  And that too is a gift because I have a fuller understanding. . . .  my experience with Jesus is  richer, deeper.  O the love the Father has for us. . .  that we should be called the children of God.  Co-heirs with Christ. . . . because Jesus placed a cross in the Gap and built a bridge. . . . my heart overflows. . .

But this story, though a shadow of what Jesus did, is for today.  For you and me.  Let's stand in the Gap.  We NEED each other.  I'll stand in the Gap for you. . . you can lean on me. . . and I'll believe for you. . . UNTIL you can believe it too.

Thanks Sylvia.

blessings,
k

Safe?

There is so much pain in the world I just want to make it better.  I want to reach out, touch, ease the burden.    If only I could brush my thumb across your forehead and soothe your furrowed brow.   If only I could place my hand over yours and relief could escape your lips.  If only I could sit with you, in silence, and your grief would know it is not alone.  You are not alone.....

I recently read a blog (a response to the Boston bombing) about being safe.  About wanting to keep our children safe.  What a farce!  We cannot keep our children, or anyone else, including ourselves, safe.
Free from harm!  Not on your life!  There's no way.
So what to do?  Harm is everywhere.  There is no freedom from pain.

I guess one response would be to secure ourselves in a tower of fear.  Yes, that's it.  Be aware of all the dangers out there. . . constantly on the look out. . . vigilant . . . senses highly tuned to every sound, to every shadow that could harm.

I imagine that would keep us safe. . . right?   That way I could avoid all the harm, all the pain.  Right?  That way my kids would never get hurt.  Right?  That there would be no risk of suffering.  Right?

No.  That would be an illusion.  A facade of smoke and mirrors that would cause more pain and suffering.  Fear IS harm.  Fear is a prison that lies and tells you that you are safe but slowly devours you from the inside.  It eats away at your soul.  Leaves you behind bars . . . and alone . . . dissolving to nothingness.

But I don't want to feel pain.  And even more so I don't want YOU to feel pain.  I want you to be kept from harm. . . . you, my friends, my children, my husband.  You, the stranger who is being crushed under the weight of suffering too heavy to bear.

I see you.  I see your anguish.  I see how it dulls the sparkle in your eyes, how is curves your shoulders and bends your back.  How you stumble as you so bravely carry it through your day, through your life. . . . moment my moment . . . so heavy.

What can I offer?  I can't take it away.  I can't change the circumstance.  I can't pick it up like a large boulder and carry it away. . . far, far away so it does not weigh you down anymore.

All I can offer is myself.  All I can do is sit in the suffering WITH you.  All I can do is not shrink away, not be horrified, not talk you out of it, not shame you and not force you to pretend it isn't there.  All I can do is offer myself.  Not my love, not my acceptance, not my sympathy, or pity or kindness.  NO!  Me, all of me.  Present!  Showing up!  In your pain.   I might be afraid, and I might be shy.  You see, your pain reminds me of my pain.  It reminds me of the ugly truth that there is no freedom from harm.  No protection from injury.  But that is not enough reason to stay away. . . and all the more reason be to present.

So perhaps we need to redefine "safe".   Perhaps "safe" is not freedom from harm or injury.  Perhaps "safe" is me "with" you.  And in the ugly of pain we will discover the beauty of connection.  In the horrible of suffering we will find the loveliness of belonging.  You to me and me to you.

And neither of us will be alone.  And we will both me "safe".

Deeply Graced by God......

I love the phrase "deeply graced by God".  If feels like a a warm blanket all wrapped up safe and snug.  I heard it from a woman who describes her past as the "deepest pit of sin".  It made me reflect on my own life.  And compare mine to hers.  I cannot say that I've ever been in what we might call a deep pit of sin, at least not by human standards.

The combination of my temperament and circumstances created a "good girl" in me.  I was not rebellious or defiant.  Quiet and compliant I kept the rules, did what I was supposed to do.  I was good, "perfect" my mother would tell me.  I never gave her or my young husband any trouble.  And it wasn't a Pharisaical "goodness"; me being above everyone else, looking down my nose at the lowlifes who smoked and got bad grades, or those who were divorced or "controlling".  Rather it was a "goodness" coat, used to cover the "nothing" I felt inside.  Zipped up nice and tight.  It wasn't fancy or flashy.  No, it was strong and sturdy,  not ugly, just practical.  And it covered me from head to toe

But here's the thing.  Sin is not defined by a behaviour or state of being.  Sin is the chasm between me and comfort, between me and safety, between me and Love. . . . between me and God!  And it doesn't matter whether that chasm is dug with the shovel of bad deeds or the backhoe of "goodness".  They are equally as heinous and equally as deadly.

But today, I sit snuggled and warm in a fuzzy blanket.  Comforted, safe, loved . . . I breath in the freshness of life renewed, released and freed.                      
                             I too am deeply graced by God.
   

Safe

I woke up last Sabbath morning feeling normal.  I've felt normal every since.  6 days of normal.  It's so relieving   I've existed under this weight, so heavy on my chest, for over three months. . . . the last month being the worst, suffocatingly so.

I read Psalm 134 yesterday; part of my quiet time Bible study.  It's a call to "bless the Lord".  What struck me was that it is for those who "stand in the Lord's house at night."   A strange picture is drawn in my head.  Normally  I think of coming to the Lord's house in the day time, sun shining, flowers blooming, a bounce in my step, joy springing from my soul.  But this. . . this picture is at night.

 It's dark, only street lamps light the way.  Dim ones that cast a faint yellow glow.  The air is foreboding.  Darkness presses in.  I walk the streets.  A cloak covers my body, a hood over my head.  I shiver, not from the cold, but from the darkness of the night.  I know where I'm going.  The shadows dance at a distance.  I turn the corner, the House of the Lord stands tall before me, majestic, made of stone.  The rose window luminescent under the night sky.  I lower the hood off my head and undo the clasp of my cloak as I walk up the numerous steps to the massive wooden doors that stand between me and the House of the Lord.  I grip the long brass handle and pull.  Heavy, I pull hard.  The door opens silently.  I enter.  Candles light the House or the Lord.  The breeze caused by opening the door causes the light to flicker.  Removing my cloak I place it over the back pew.  A deep breath escapes my body.  Slowly I walk to the front; each step brings greater release.  My shoulders relax, the anxious anticipation seeps out of my heart.  Though my soul is heavy I find rest.  I sit in the front pew.  And here I am, in the House of the Lord . . . at night . . . and I am safe.

That has been my experience.  During this time, where what seemed like heavy hands pressed harder and harder on my chest, pushing the very life out of me, I found solace in one place.  Most mornings I would awake early; before the night gave way to the sun.  I did it on purpose, so I could be alone.  And as the sun slowly arose to light the world I sat in my rocking chair and spent time with Jesus.  My own private "House of the Lord".  I didn't find relief from the suffocating pressure, but I did find rest.  It wasn't even necessarily "comforting", but it was safe.  

I don't know whether this time of respite will remain or if it is simply temporary.  And it really doesn't matter. For this I DO know.  I WILL bless the Lord when I come to His House in the night.... and there I will find rest . . . . . . and I will be safe.

Trash

I was watching Beth Moore on video last night.  She was talking about a move she made from the home her children grew up in.  She lived there for 27 years.  The day of the move, her husband sent her a picture.... of all the trash on the porch, left behind and waiting for the garbage men to come pick it up.  It got me to thinking, what is the trash I left behind in my move?  What pieces of garbage stayed there, waiting for trash day to carry it away?

After lights out, snuggling with my man I asked him the question.  His answer was quick and decisive, insecurity.  It's his story to tell but the piece of that in my story is that I am having a harder time figuring out the rubbish I left there.  I don't have a quick, decisive answer.  And the answer most certainly is not insecurity. . . . cuz I still carry some of the around; not as much but at times I still find my pockets full.

When we moved to our last district (almost 5 years ago now) I was a new Pastor's wife.  Graduate school and 2 years of clinical experience covered I was just getting my professional license.  There was adjusting and adventures and lots of "newness".  After some settling took place I found myself in a difficult situation.  One that conflicted with the very core of who God called me to be, as a woman, a wife, a mom and especially as a Pastor's wife.

To explain I have to go further back in history.  Throughout my childhood and early adulthood I carried a tremendous amount of shame.  I covered that shame by hiding behind perfectionism, striving to be the perfect daughter, perfect wife, perfect mother.  Proverbs 31 was my goal.  Being that kind of woman made me worth something.  I didn't know that was what I was doing.  Didn't realize how destructive that was or that I even felt the way I did.  I had deluded myself, living in this bubble of sweetness and enthusiasm.... it was a nice little bubble, all happy and sunshiney but it lacked substance, it lacked true friendship and closeness - even with my husband, it lacked "real".

Then in grad school... I came face-to-face with it all.  My therapist confronted me with "what's with all this perfection?"  (I had sent him an email.  In two sentences, less than 10 words, I wrote "perfect" 3 times.)  (O and when you study to be a therapist, it's generally best to go to a therapist to work on your own stuff.... which what I was sent to do.  With NO idea what my true "stuff" was.)

For a year and half I worked on it.  Slowly shedding the pieces of armour, the layers that kept me "SAFE", but kept me isolated and really, alone.  It was freeing.  I moved from a "human doing" to a "human being".

Enter now a new church district and (again) Beth Moore.  A new friend urged me to go to a Beth Moore conference.  We found one, specifically designed for Pastor's wives.  (She is not a pastor's wife but serves in children's ministry and we went together.)  What an experience.  I cannot tell you. To be surrounded by hundreds of women, all ministering by their husbands' sides.  Of course being new to this "job" I hadn't yet experienced the full impact of what a pastor's wife's life looks like.  But that is a blog for another day.

Beth talked about being Real.  Repression will make you sick.  Rebellion will make you stupid.  God wants Reverent Realness.  I KNEW that was what God had called me to.  What He wanted of me.  To be Real, Transparent.  It's what God wanted and what His church needed.  (and needs)

And of course. . . that was soon challenged.  I found myself eyeball to eyeball, in a situation that forced me to make a choice.  The conflict that ensued.  The misunderstanding and hurt.  Its not what I wanted.  I loved these people, I cared, I wanted them to embrace and find the same freedom I had found.  The freedom to just "be". . . . . to live, to breathe, to be ok. . . . not to be all tied up in perfection and rigidity.  Only that is not what they thought they were.  No, instead I was the bad one.  I was accusing them of stuff that just wasn't true.  They blessed people.  They were good.  Nothing was wrong with them.  Yet when I was with them I had to hide.... I went back to that teenager that covered herself head-to-toe, physically covered herself to hide and then hid in her room. . . . with them I was doing that emotionally.  No freedom, no peace, no contentment,  just strive, strive, strive. . . be perfect, sing perfect, look perfect, just like the rest of us. . . .

To live to my calling I had to remove myself from close proximity.  I couldn't put myself in a situation that continuously put me in direct opposition to my calling.  God's voice for me to be Real . . . . .Transparent.  It was so difficult.  They felt rejected.  I felt misunderstood.

In time I was put in situations where I could be transparent.  Safe places where we shared. . . received and gave encouragement. . .  loved and let people be who they are . . . . no masks, no hiding. . . . . . arms open in acceptance..

So the trash I left behind...... the hiding...... Garbage bags full of it..... I left it there, to be carted off to the dump where it belongs.