North Is Always Up

"North," my son insists, "is that way." He's pointing determinedly toward the corner of our yard in a direction that I feel, instinctively, is East. Or almost East, at least.

The younger two boys, backed-up by my husband, join the argument. The argument wherein they assure me that they are all right, and I hold out that they are all wrong. Because I can feel that West is not in the direction they claim, and nor is South. They must be wrong, because my instincts tell me so.

My instincts, it turns out, are out of whack. A compass is yanked from the school drawer and it is quickly determined that I don't have the slightest idea what I am talking about.

It would be safe to imagine that, having been proven wrong, I would drop the subject there. Directionality comes up often in conversation ("I saw a pair of coyotes just East of here this morning," or "Hey, Mom, which direction am I pointing in now?" All knowing smirks to follow.) and every, every time I am committed to my sense that the compass must be skewed because my insides tell me which way is what.

Road trips are an adventure with me at the wheel. I'll follow my nose ("This way feels like South...it must be South."), sometimes with challenging results. I once drove a full hour in the direction exactly opposite to the one I should have been heading simply because it felt right!

Which brings me to a thoughtful point: Sometimes we're wrong. Sometimes our perceptions about ourselves and our surroundings are out of line with our Compass. We see ourselves, our loved ones, our companions, our children as something that they are not.

If we're optimists, we may have the joyous luxury of seeing things in the lovely glow of beauty and success. More likely, we're realists, pessimists, even fatalists: things are ugly, failing, not measuring up.

What did your inner voice tell you about yourself when you looked in the mirror this morning? What did it tell you about how you handled the Christmas crowd or your child's last misdemeanor? What did it tell you about your temper, your sense of humor, your talents, your contribution to the world?

Is it telling you the truth, or is some invisible magnet pulling it off the north arrow?

"Believe all that Jesus says about you, and some of what others say about you ~ even if it's something nice." That's one of the attitudes I've been struggling to adopt over my years' long journey toward a healthier body. It can be difficult, even impossible, for us to believe the kind, building, I-adore-this-about-you words of our Savior and our friends.

Our insides tell us, with stout determination built on decades of experience, that it's all flattery or feel-good mumbo-jumbo. But sometimes the good stuff is true. Our experience tells us that it'd be better if we stayed out of potentially painful relationships. Jesus says, "Go. Do. Tell." Our years tell us we're not very funny, we're too loud, we say all of the wrong things (all of the time). Our friends say, "You said just the right thing yesterday. Thanks!" or "You make me laugh!"

More difficult to accept (at least graciously!) are words of correction. Sometimes our thoughts about ourselves, our children (My little Johnny would never do that!), our lives are nice and shiny on the outside but a little rotted and rusty on the inside. A warning, a rebuke, a criticism from a friend can be hard to accept.

My guess is that my internal compass is never going to improve. West will always feel West even if it's actually South. What may improve, if I choose to let it, is my willingness to acknowledge that my sense of direction is off. Way off.

My ability to assess myself, my friends, my world may not improve much either. Maybe my judgement will always be a little wacky. Maybe, when it comes to myself, it will always be on the cruel side. What may improve, if I choose to let it, is my willingness to acknowledge that I'm not always perceiving things correctly. I may learn to live in agreement with the tender things that others sometimes say, or the leading things that Jesus might point out.

What about you? If I tell you now that you are so lovely, so funny, so wonderfully intelligent, can you hear me? Because I'm telling you the truth. You are made to look like God and I think that you are brilliant!

If a friend says, "Watch out! There's trouble ahead ~ you may not be as strong here as you think you are," are you able to listen?

Can you ignore that critical, sneering voice of Accusation, or the flattering, stroking hand of Pride and align your thinking with a more truthful compass? Maybe your internal compass is off? Just a little? And maybe the God who made you and the people who adore you are telling you the truth.

That said, I'm going out to buy a new compass. Ours is obviously broken and I wouldn't want to impede my sons' education by forcing them to use faulty equipment.

Stepford Wives We Ain't!

The morning hours are teeny tiny and I'm too tired to think as I connect with a gal I know through a mentoring program. She is angry. Frustrated by an ongoing marital conflict, she has grown weary of the effort involved in keeping her relationship afloat.

"Why," she demands, "do women have to do all of the work in bettering a marriage? Why don't men do any of the work? Does God intend for us to be Stepford wives, always subservient, always assuming the role of the one who will attempt to make our relationships stronger? Women are tired and frustrated of being the ones who always have to change. I realize that the Lord has gifted women with certain sensibilities, but when do we get a break? No pat answers, please. I'm looking for clear insights."

My acquaintance has been married for over forty years. I hesitate to respond, knowing that "clear insights" into such a muddy area may be hard to come by! If dozens of self-help books and forty years of experience haven't provided the answers, I'm pretty sure my musings will fall short!

I make an attempt, pondering my response over the course of the next two days. Struggling to put words to a complex, pervasive, romance-choking problem. And this is what I said...

~~~~~

Dear Lena,

I have given considerable thought to your question and I think I've written you six essays in my mind today! I am going to assume from the tone of your well-worded thoughts that you are not being abused. If you are being abused, please disregard the following and write me again so that we can approach this from a completely different angle, okay?

I don't want to be verbose in replying, but I don't want to oversimplify this intense issue either. Can we look at it from a few different perspectives? I'm not sure any of them will give the answer(s) you're looking for, but this might be a place to start this conversation:

1. You're right: Women work hard at relationships ~ love, friendship, family, all. God does not intend for us to be Stepford wives (!). Women do grow deeply weary in this area. If they didn't our North American divorce rate would be a fraction of what it is because our tenacity and faithfulness would not waver.

I relate uncomfortably well to your careful anger in this area. In the fifteen years that we've been married, I have attempted to address this very thing fifteen (or fifteen-hundred!) different ways with my husband. A certain level of acceptance has settled in my heart and mind. Your thoughts, your assessment are correct, but I believe that the solution to our angst lies in the pat answers that we so despise (and despise them we do!).

2. Part of that angst is culturally based. We live in a land of plenty ~ of excess. And while we may not be privy to exceptional wealth or lives of ease, we are touched by the overbearing self-centeredness of our continent (as are our husbands).

While the majority of women in the world live in subservience, poverty, and suffering gross neglect, we enjoy the ease of countless luxuries.
We enjoy clean drinking water, access to education, freedom of religion, freedom of choice in whom we marry. We, arguably, have the same rights as men in career choice, societal status, and "say" in how our homes are run. We can read. We can write. We can holiday. We can feed our babies.

My point? With all of that wealth, there can come an attitude of entitlement. Our culture tells us, every day, that we are deserving of all of it, and even more. And, to a point, we buy in to that. We do, we tell ourselves, deserve to have it all and more.

And when our relationships, our marriages (our weight, our skin, our bank accounts), don't measure up to the fairy tale we've been promised, we feel cheated. We scramble after it, trying to achieve/acquire the romance we've read about, dreamed about, sang about.

But the fairytale is just that: a story. Our men are no more capable of being Prince Charming than we are of pulling off a Perfect Princess.

We have so much. So much. But we are quick to focus on the one, two, five things we do not have. And that makes us angry. (Lena, I'm preachin' to the choir here ~ I'm speaking to myself as much as I am to you right now!)

3. Men need our compassion more than they need our brow beating. They feel the pressure to get it right. They know the expectations of their culture are high. Their personal brokenness causes them to react to that pressure in dozens of ways ~ most of which do nothing to aid in the building of their marriages. But if you ask them, they're trying. They're trying very hard (sometimes only in their own minds, mind you!) to make us/keep us happy. They need our patience. They need our mercy. They even need our gratitude.

4. Women truly are gifted with "certain sensibilities." This is a powerful truth, Lena. As beings created in the image of the Maker of the World, we carry the relational aspects of the Creator about with us everywhere we go. We have the ability to by pliable - moved by mercy and tenderness and fierce love. We are responsive to suffering. We know how to mourn with those who mourn and rejoice with those who rejoice. We know how to listen. We know, sometimes, when to speak and when to remain silent. We know how to give ourselves away.

The words, "...consider others as better than yourself..." and "...Greater love has no man than this: that he lay down his life for his friend," are written for us (for our guys, too, but let's just deal with the only people we actually have any sway over ~ ourselves). Our self-sacrifice is not empty ~ it is part of our "labor for the Lord" which is never wasted.

I've been considering Jesus' words about laying down our lives for our friends. For the past several months, I've been wondering about what that means in the life of a Canadian/American woman. We will not likely be required to take a bullet or a sword for our beloved. Physically, we will probably not be called upon to give up our lives for the ones we hold close.

But what about our "rights?" What about our feelings? Our hopes? Our plans? Can we lay some of those aside out of deep (or simply obedient) love for our husbands? Our children?

Jesus doesn't promise us self-fulfillment, happiness, comfort. He asks us to die. He asks us to die so that He can live through us. Does this apply to our marriages?

Feminism has taught us that we have to hang on to our dreams and gifts and rights at all costs. Jesus asks us, not as women, but as His followers, to lay all of that down. He makes that request with the promise that as we humble ourselves under God's mighty hand, He will lift us up in due time.

So, the question to myself and to other women then becomes, "In the short time I have here, where will I place my focus? On my immediate happiness? On my own well being? On the failings of the people I love? Or, out of love for the One who gave Himself up for me, can I let go of all that I consider important and trust Him with the outcome?"

If you had asked me that question two weeks ago, I wouldn't have been able to make a Jesus choice. My husband and I were in a dark place and your current struggle was roiling in my own mind. But sitting here, a few days later, I can see (for now!) that the choice is clear.

~~~~~

The remainder of my response was on a more personal level so I won't include it here. I would love to hear your thoughts and insights on this. My personal feeling is that we, as women, have the opportunity (the responsibility?) to become relational experts. Really.

The truth is, girls, that we know how to make our relationships strong ~ friendships, loves, even acquaintences. Sometimes we put our heart and skill into building our circle of connections, but often we turn inward, focusing our energy on our own wounds, our own needs, our own wants ~ all at the expense of what could be healthy, thriving, mutually satisfying bonds.

I'm not suggesting that we go backward in time, neglecting ourselves and smothering our own desires: we are men's equals in every, every way. Except in this area. In this area, we are stronger. We are more skilled, more intuitive, more patient, more determined.

Let's not waste those amazing qualities by fussing and grumbling about what we do not have. Let's hone the skill of relationship making. Let's perfect the art of loving well.

If we can do that, my friends, we can change the world. We can change our churches. We can change our neighborhoods. We can change our workplaces and our homes.

What do you think?

Loving unselfishly does not mean making the least of ourselves

but making the most of someone else.

~ Jo Ann Lemon ~

Getting Bossy With Nature

If you have faith as small as a mustard seed,
you can say to this mountain,
"Move from here to there," and it will move.
If you have faith as small as mustard seed you can say to this tree,
"Be uprooted and planted in the sea," and it will obey.
Nothing will be impossible for you,
if you have faith as small as a mustard seed.

So says Jesus. Simply. Directly. No frills, no formula. Teensy tiny faith yields gigantic results.

I wonder what our day-to-day would look like if we practiced that sort of believing? Anxiety, move! Away from me and over...well...over there. Depression, be uprooted from me and go for a swim. I don't want you any more. Sleeplessness, distress, unforgiveness, judgement, all of you re-locate because there's no room for you in this forest anymore.

Faith as small as a mustard seed (that's just about this . big) is enough. Enough to move a mountain. Enough to uproot a tree. What sits heavily and unmoving in our lives can be extracted by faith in the One who embodies all strength. Roots that burrow deep and tangling and tight fisted in our minds can be yanked out by the One who knows true depth.

If we have faith.

Crossing 26th ~ A Floating Encounter

We're late. I misjudged our travel time (Again. How can this city be growing so quickly, it's vehicles multiplying so rapidly?) and the city is not shrinking. We sit idling impatiently at a stoplight, caught in the humdrum monotony of Sunday afternoon traffic.



Bob and I spot the man simultaneously, his red-tipped cane tapping determinedly out in front, dark glasses firmly straddling his nose, a plastic bag tucked securely on his arm. It takes us a moment to realize that he's struggling to find the wheelchair access to the sidewalk. Bob asks, "Should I pull over?" I say no, thinking we should be sure he actually needs assistence before we invade his space. He asks again. I say no. We repeat this dialogue, four, maybe five times, and then, just as our light turns to green we see that he is in need of aid; his cane is failing him and nearby construction impedes his progress.



Bob pulls to the roadside and I jump out, approaching the man slowly. "Excuse me, Sir? Can I give you a hand?" Relief floods his face. A face deformed by illness I cannot begin to diagnose, is marked by lumps and warts of seemingly endless supply. His left cheek is caved in. His skin is dark with deformity and frustration.



"Oh, yes, if it won't take you out of your way?"



"Not at all. Where are you going?" He states his direction and I take his arm (it is encased from elbow to wrist in a brace and touch, I realize, will not be a useful guide), verbally directing him toward the crosswalk he is aiming for. We traverse the busy roadway, making small talk about busy roads and cumbersome construction. He is polite. I am unsure and wondering: are my "Step up, to the left, ramp here" burbling's helpful? Am I walking too fast? Too slow?



Road crossed, he's effusive in his thanks as I point him in the direction he's asked to go. The sidewalk ahead is unencumbered (Or so my seeing eyes tell me, but what do they know, really?) and I feel confident that he'll be okay on his own. Bob and the boys pull up behind us, I say a quick goodbye, shouting "Your welcome!" in reply to his repeated thanks, and we are away.



Away from each other. I find myself left wanting: wanting to hear more about the friend he'd been visiting in the hospital before we crossed paths. Wanting to understand how he moves through the earth. Wanting to know more of his story. Wanting to understand.



'Had we left our house when we should have, we would never have met that man. We would have been on time for our visit across town, but aiding him would have been left to someone else. Why were we the ones fortunate enough to have that honor? Because it was an honor. And we felt grateful that it was ours to experience.



We were very late getting across the city! Our friends were gracious and we were quickly caught up in the joy of their good company. The man was forgotten. For the moment. But only for the moment.



~ In My Utmost for His Highest, Chambers talks a lot about what serving Jesus really looks like. He's merciless and stern in his assertion that this life is simply not about me, it's not about you, it's about Him. Chambers is unrelenting in his rebuke that we must, must die to ourselves that Christ may live in us. Do you think, as I do, that the Floating Encounters of our lives are part of that dieing work in us? Set your agenda aside, go out of your way, go far out of your way. Extend, give, devote, serve. And while you, while we, are about the "doing" of such encounters, may we be naming these people before the One who can save, who can heal, who can set free. ~

Still Standing

A few years ago, a major forest fire swept through Kootenay National Park in the Rocky Mountains. The fire consumed over twenty thousand acres of forest, leaving behind mile after mile of statue-straight charred, gray, dead tree trunks.

The stillness there is consuming; the gray unending as the path of the fire scorched first one side of the highway and then fiercely, leaping over towering pines and two lanes of asphalt, claimed the other side with it's deadly blaze.

A fantastical scene of foreboding and destruction, the passersby have their gaze forced ever upward, waves of awe and sorrow groaning their message of loss. Row upon row upon row of once mighty trees have been reduced to branded sticks ~ fire-scarred spears weakly stabbing at hovering clouds.

Bordering this devastation, carefully, proudly standing their ground as the miles of roadway stretch on, is a rarely-broken row of healthy, green and growing evergreens. In areas where the fire surged from one side of the highway to the other, that row of pines did not light, did not fall. A bright, living contrast to the menacing lifelessness behind, their unsinged girth testifies to what once was; to what will come again.

They are not newly planted. They saw the fire and lived to tell. I wonder what spared that so long stand of trees? Were they saturated in lifesaving water, showered by hard working fire fighters? Were they spared by tricks of wind and weather?

Those lively remnants of once lush mountainsides lend their voice to hope, to promise. Death may have it's way for a time, but life will come again. Devastation may work it's horror for now, but set your gaze on the hope still at hand. Life will find a way. Fresh starts and new growth will, before long, sweep those passes and plateau's with new green, new branches, new heights.

~ 1 Peter 1: 3 - 2:12 ~

Two Rocks

Today I placed two rocks
At the top of the hoodoos

One for Ann
Whose funeral was today
One for Deb
Who left us a few years back
In my birthday week

One for Deb
Harsh, cutting, even cruel
She died too, too young
She died alone

One for Ann
Tender, funny, wildly generous
She died too soon
She died adored

I'm not very good with heights. Bob and I were recently given tickets to a concert and our seats were high above the stage and main floor crowd. It took everything in me to settle into my seat and just chill with the music because at that great elevation I felt, continually, as though I was falling forward. Tipping over.

The hoodoos were a stretch, for sure! But I'd chosen my stones at the bottom of the trail and was determined to place them at the top of the trail. I couldn't get to Ann's funeral ~ we were too far away and a I found out too late ~ so I wanted to acknowledge her passing in my own way.

Ann has known me from my childhood and has been a steady force of humor, determination, giving, and Christ-likeness in my life; in the lives of hundreds of others. I can remember watching her in church and being so drawn to her beauty (she had gray hair as long as I can remember, always cut in the same style, always framing the same peaceful expression).

Deb I knew for only a short time. She was Ann's opposite in every way! Her difficult life, her sexuality, alcoholism and acerbic wit all factored, hard, into our every encounter ~ where Ann was surrounded by life and goodness, Deb was saturated in darkness, meanness.

Both taught me. Both impacted me forever.

As I placed a rock for Ann that day (every muscle in my body taut with fear, my lips snapping instructions to my family not to touch me for fear that the slightest contact would send me flailing into the rocky crevice), I considered how impactful she was in building my foundation in the Christian culture. Where other women were the source of much criticism and cutting, her influence was always one of wry kidding and practicality.

Our church was prone to following faith healers and "deliverance" ministers. Prophets were beating a path to our door, it seemed, all with a "word" about how special we were ~ how set apart and "anointed." Ann was always outside that craziness.

I was not. I was pulled into back rooms with "words" and exhortations. I was one of the chosen. A leader. A special one.

In my youth, I did little to argue the counsel and direction I was given. But I did watch Ann. She didn't weep and holler with the crowd. She didn't submit herself to the "hot seat" (The chair. The chair in the middle of the crowd wherein you sat if you wanted to receive from God at the hands of the church.). She didn't subscribe to any of the madness, but she didn't denounce it either. She simply lived outside of it, faithfully serving and loving and living her sweet relationship with Jesus. I wanted to be like her when I grew up.

Her rock sits, precariously balanced atop a natural wonder, as an acknowledgement of that. That rock is my farewell on this side of heaven. I know that I will see her again.

I learned from Deb, too. In the course of my relationship with Deb I began filling the role of "pastoral care pastor" at a small community church. The role was a joke ~ but it cost me my heart and my soul. Deb was part of that journey, largely because it made no sense to her. It was outside of any reality she could comprehend. I had community. I had so many people to care about and who cared about me. That was baffling to her. The religiosity it came wrapped up in made her scoff and say, "Don't think about that! It's not real. Let me tell you about my life..."

Deb should not have died alone. I should have been there. I say that without guilt. Without shame. With sorrow. I knew that she knew she was dieing. She never said it, but she expressed that knowledge in a thousand painful ways. I don't know why I didn't think it would happen as soon as it did. In retrospect, I don't know why we, who talked about absolutely every detail of her life, could not talk about her pending death.

I still have the email I sent her two days after she had passed. She would have been dead in her apartment when it found it's way to her inbox, "Hey Hon. 'Haven't heard from you for too long ~ I know. You probably just want some space, but I'm getting worried. Just drop a line to let me know you're okay?" I was always concerned that she would take her own life. Always.

Deb's life was marked by abuse, alcoholism, drug addiction, and heartbreak. She held nothing back in the years that we connected. She made me laugh ~ a lot. Her dark and quirky humor told it's own story of survival and put my silly roles and struggles into stark perspective.

I think that, over time, I will place many rocks for her. An ongoing apology for leaving her alone. A constant reaching out for reassurance that she is at peace now, where life offered her none. A repeated acknowledgement that there are so many ways to move through this world and that every heart carries it's own story.

Two rocks. With them I thank these two women for giving to me, teaching me, modeling womanhood for me. With them I say goodbye, for now.

Bite the Hand

The chill of early autumn is settling in for the night, and a yappy, frightened, wee mite of a dog is huddled outside underneath our neighbor's car. I've tried to draw him out. My own dogs have attempted to woo him (only to be snapped at). Even my husband has been down on all fours, treat in hand, murmuring reassurances, only to have the little fuzz ball shriek his doggy disapproval.

And he reminds me of me. Of us.

It's cold out there and I can offer him shelter for the night; a warm, safe, out-of-the-traffic place to sleep until morning. In the morning, I could track down his master or get him to someone more qualified to do so.

But he doesn't want anything to do with a rescue. He's decided that the little red car is his safest option and he's not leaving her. Meanwhile, it's 11:30 at night, and he's out in the autumn cool intermittently yelping his plea for aid when help is already at hand.

I think I can relate. We get separated from our Master and start our it-seemed-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time wandering, only to find that we can't find our way back home. Our Master, being the responsible caregiver that He is, sends out a rescue party. But we want nothing to do with them.

They don't look anyone we want to accept counsel or guidance from. We snub their offerings of direction and shelter, choosing rather to settle into our ill-found shelter. A fateful relationship, a nebulous job, a killing addiction.

We tell ourselves that at least the little red car is a sure thing. It's afforded some protection from the rush of traffic. It's near a street light. Relative to the uncertainty of responding to the Master's rescue crew, it seems the better choice.

But it's going to be a long, chilly night for that teeny pooch. He could save himself nine hours of hardship if he'd take a chance on taking up my offer of aid.

He doesn't want a rescue.
I'm going to go try again anyway.
And I hope that when I'm snipping at the helping hands my Master sends my way that they'll be persistent and patient, promises of comfort at the ready. I hope I'll follow them to safety.

Hercules

Last night I stayed up until 2:30 in the morning because I needed to see how the old black and white movie I was watching would end. The movie was nothing remarkable, but it's opening line (which began its' enticing work somewhere around midnight) gripped me ("Last night I had a dream that I was once again at Manderley, but no one will ever go to Manderley again...") and there was just enough mystery woven into the plot to persuade me to stick it out.

Until 2:30 in the morning.
That is an inappropriate hour for a wife and mother.
But it had to be done.

Because I need to know how the story ends.

Tonight, our family, crowded around that same t.v., was jolted from our stupor when our youngest son suddenly said, "Mom! Stop it right there! I've never seen the end of this commercial!" And the mute button was released so that we would be privy to how, exactly, the frozen food advert would complete the story of the oh-so-sedate housewife embroiled in her dinner dilemma.

We subjected ourselves to thirty seconds of processed food info. Why? Because we need to know how the story ends.

But in this mysterious and unplottable out-on-the-waves row we call "faith" there are so many stories that are left dangling. Urban encounters, brief and unfinished, with stories just begun and plots half-done.

It takes faith to acknowledge that the chance encounters with a young mom, a business man, the parent of a former client, or the blond stranger I secretly call Hercules (because that's who he looks like...except that he's lost and powerless and, obviously, lacking a centaur) are meaningful and within the realm of God's interest.

Take Hercules, for example. I have crossed paths with him, I think, three times ~ maybe four. There is no reason why our worlds should collide. He is young (twenty-something) and on the go doing, presumably, twenty-year-old things. I'm a mom, travelling in mom-ish circles. Circles where strangers are privately identified by their resemblance to cartoon characters.

Herc and I have never spoken. The first time I saw him (along a walking path in a nearby neighborhood) I was moved by...what? Compassion? Disarmed by his vulnerability, I prayed for him intently that day; he, I was sure, had captured the imagination of his Maker. I prayed about his search for meaning, his fears, his sense of belonging, his mental health. I prayed for a lot of things.

The next time I saw him I was out walking with friends. The girls and I were focused and purposeful. We were out for exercise and our attentions were taken up with each other. I noted that he was across the street, said a quick "Hey! Lord, there's that guy again," or something equally profound.

And then, weeks later, we brushed past each other at the local coffee shop. Again, I was in the company of friends and could not stop to talk with him, but this time we actually physically bumped into each other.

I have never heard his voice. I don't think he has ever seen, or taken notice, of me. But, by chance, Hercules has been at the heart of several floating encounters.

What is my role in his life? I could be dismissive...if I really thought that chance was behind these passing moments. I could be forthright, getting his attention by striking up conversation, "So. Uh. You don't know me, but did anyone ever tell you that you look like a Master of the Universe?" I could pray. That'd be smart. Productive.

That may be all that I ever do for that tow-headed young man. I may never hear any of his story ~ even if I stay up well past bedtime or unmute the walk-by non-meetings. That may not be my role in his life. But I think I am meant to play a role. Because he's there. And I'm here. I know the God who made him. The God who loves him.

Tonight, I'm going to be a smart and responsible mother and turn the t.v. off before I am drawn into a beginning that needs an ending! And I'll end the my own day's story with a prayer for Hercules.

Oswald and The River

John 7:38
Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said,
streams of living water will flow from within him.

A river touches places of which its source knows nothing...God rarely allows a soul to see how great a blessing he is. (The river) is victoriously persistent, it overcomes all barriers. It makes pathways around obstacles. It may drop out of sight for miles and presently emerge again broader and grander than ever.

If you believe in Jesus, you will find that God has nourished in you mighty torrents of blessing for others.

~Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest~

The Angel ~ A Floating Encounter

He is a man with stories to tell. One glance at the back of his unruly head says so. I have time to spare ~ the bank line-up is long and slow. I wait for him to turn enough to give me some excuse to strike up conversation.

Standing six-foot-something, his black T-shirt and well-worn jeans are covered in a film of what looks like fresh dirt and grassy bits. A link of keys dangles from his left hip. Chin length ash-white hair stands out raggedly, at all angles, from his aged head; his face is smothered in a tightly curled, wiry gray beard. The crowd around us is ethnically diverse and he stands out ~ a giant, white, anomaly.

I watch him tease a nearby patron's child. The child is not intimidated by his size or fearsome appearance. And then my study turns to me suddenly, looking directly into my curious gaze, and states, "They are never scared of me. They just aren't. Them and animals. The others now, they hate me. Just hate me. But not the kids and the animals."

You just never know what you're going to get in a floating encounter. There you are, just cruising down your own private river, floating with the current, letting it carry you where it will, and kersplash! You're sharing your gliding space with a different paddler then you ever could have anticipated. I was eager to hear more from that unorthodox fellow with the brook-no-argument views.

"Yeh. 'Been an angel for the past thirty years."

"An angel?" I query, voice even, while I inwardly scan any mental files that may help me interpret whatever may be coming next.

"Yup. A guardian angel. I'm a tough one. Been protectin' folks for a long, long time." Ah. There it is. He's a Guardian Angel ~ as in, civilian-red-beret-wearing-defender-of-public-safety "angel." I am mildly disappointed, thinking wistfully that a chat with a real-deal, sent-from-heaven angel in the bank line up could have made for good dinnertime conversation.

"I'm down sixty pounds right now ~ been real sick with pneumonia for six months ~ but you shoulda' seen my muscles before. 'Woulda' scared you good."

I grin, never losing eye contact. "It sounds like you're pretty tough. I'm sorry you were so sick."

"Yeah, well. I was pretty much dead, but I'm standin' here now." And he rattles through stories of tough stuff and heroism spanning the greater Alberta area, all the while professing his deep hatred for everyone. "I do. I hate all people equally."

I find this very amusing as he's talking rather animatedly to me at just that moment, and, presumably, I am one of the hated! "Yeh. You watch. You see me cross my arms like this," (he obligingly demonstrates, an unmistakable twinkle in his eye) "or jam my hands in my pockets, you know you better run."

"That'll be it then, hey?" I tease. "I'll know you've reached your breaking point then?"

"Oh yeah. But never around the animals. No way. 'Got 23 cats at home, and a dog, and a horse, and two parrots, and doves. Them doves is so in love. They're a gift to me. Just a gift to me. 'Got 'em for cheap at the Pisces Pet Emporium."

We talk more about hated humanity and adored critters before I finally interject, "I have to tell you sir, I don't see hate in you. Not a bit of it! I see kindness and humor." The laughter in his eyes never falters. He is having a good deal of fun with his audience.

"No, no, no!" He is not pleased with my assessment. "Just catch me out there on the road with one of these drivers." He makes a sweeping gesture with his arm, discriminating against not one, but multiple cultures in one arcing movement.

I am unimpressed and say, again, that I just don't see it, but he is unwavering in his determination that he is to be feared; a hated and hateful man.

Our conversation is abruptly halted by available tellers and waiting business. We go our separate ways. I finish my own transaction before his is completed and I leave him behind, leaning earnestly toward his teller, with that young man calmly saying, "No problem, sir. Let's see what we can do to work this out."

My mind reels with wondering at the wildly spun scenario that must be playing out in that small space. That teller is in for the most entertaining fifteen minutes of his day.

Bob Is Out of The Boat (P2)

It would be much easier to hold to my hard-won, aggrieved, and jaded opinion that People-Just-Don't-Change if I wasn't married to a man that is reinventing himself daily. A man who, for the first thirty-five years of his life felt no responsibility for the well-being of the people around him whatsoever, but who, now, is engaged, aware, and ready for ~ even looking for ~ the chance to be involved.


A walk through town with him used to be...well...a walk...through town.

No more! A walk is an opportunity. Stalled at the light? Sit tight! Bob's dodging traffic and pounding on your driver's window with offers of help before you have time to say "There's a crazy man dodging traffic. Eep! He's pounding on my driver's window!" Struggling with a load of drywall (Bob hates drywall)? Stand aside. Bob will single-handedly move it from truck to basement before you can say, "Hey, some weirdo is moving our drywall from the truck to the basement."

I'm less and less surprised by his responses to my query, "'Do anything out of the boat today, Hon?" But one particular tale caught my attention (and put further scuff marks on my fast-held insistence that People Don't Change).

It was a crowded workday morning. The train car was, as usual, jammed tight with yawning, smelly, self-focused passengers. Bob took up a standing spot by the car's folding doors. A burly, laborer shuffled in beside him ~ bald-headed and scowling.

The train car continued to fill and tension began to fill the unit when, unwittingly, a gentleman misjudged the distance between himself and his fellow passenger. That fellow passenger was Bald and Burly Laborer Guy. The rider backed up too far and nudged up against Burly. Burly was instantly angry. Face contorting into the ugliness of temper he started in on the smaller man, "WHY DON'T YOU JUST..."

The week had not been an easy one for Bob. Pressure was mounting at work and the summer has been a full one. He is a solitude-seeking, even-keel kind of guy. He could have just turned aside and let this play itself out. He could have just hoped it would blow over. He didn't. Because he is not that man any longer.

"Uh...Excuse me...I have some room here. I'll just back up so everyone has more space."

Simple. Enough.

Burly stills immediately, quitting his freshly launched verbal offensive on the spot. "Oh. Okay. Thanks."

"No problem." The smaller gentleman and his wife visibly relax.

And conversation begins. Burly is a hard working man and, like so many others in this city, came here looking for a good living and better prospects. He's got a lot on his mind and he tells Bob the bits of his story that their short and often-interrupted commute allows for.

The offending passenger and his wife are the first to exit the train, and he and Burly leave each other with a handshake and a "Good day." Bob and his new acquaintance eventually part ways with Burly apologizing for his quick temper. "No problem," is Bob's goodbye.

And it is enough.

Blessed are the peacemakers...

'Still Got It ~ A Floating Encounter

Out of the corner of my eye I glimpse him working his wheelchair across a muddy patch of thinned grass. He is purposeful in his progress toward me and my party. With some effort he guides his chair, feet scooching one in front of the other, to where we're sitting near the lodge's freshly cut front lawn.

He catches my eye with his one good one and smirks, "I talk too much, but this story's gonna' make you laugh like the devil!"

And it did. As did the dozen-or-so following: stories of daring-do in the second World War. Stories of prairie born mischief and a dead wife ("Twenty years ago that was! I found her dead in the bed!" I attempted a commiserative "Oh, I'm sorry..." but was brushed off with a brusk, "No, no!" and a quick segway into yet another tale.). Stories of dinners of beets and rotten pork ("You never did see such a mess as that!") and practical jokes on nosey neighbors.

"But, I talk too much," he'd wink between bits.

And, obviously, he did not. He could not talk "too much." While it took effort to attend closely to him and to look beyond the frightful shave job someone (he?) had attempted on his patchy, stubbly face that morning, and the lunch on his chin, and the milky haze of his wandering eye, that effort paid off with many devilish laughs.

His were stories worth listening to. "Ninety years old, I am! Yup. Ninety." I'm impressed with his longevity and say so. "No, no!" he quickly blurts, changing the subject to the Harvard Step Test and the absence of love lost between airforce men and the navy. He was, he jokes, a little worried that at ninety he might be losing his sex appeal, but he's quite sure that's not true.

I am transfixed by Alec and could sit with him, happily, for as long as he wished to story tell. But the sun is hot and my mixed company of the aged and the very young is losing interest. I suggest that perhaps it's time to get in out of the sun. My companions are quick to agree, wondering why I delayed so long in ending this conversation.

I turn to Alec for a thank you and a goodbye.

"No, no," he quips. "I talk too much anyway, but I did make you laugh like the devil."

God Is...

A Kate Braestrup Quote

(From her book Here If You Need Me)

My children asked: why did dad die? And I told them: It was an accident.

" There are small accidents, like knocking over milk at the dinner table . There are large accidents, like the one your dad was in. No one meant it to happen. It just happened, And his body was too badly damaged in the accident for his soul to stay in it anymore, and so he died.

" God does not spill the milk or bash the truck into your father's car. Nowhere in Scripture does it say 'God is Car Accident' or God is Death'. God is justice and kindness, mercy, and always, always love. So if you want to know where God is in this or in anything, look for love."

I think one reason I like working with crisis and death is that all the complicated and complicating tools of our natal tribe -the intellect, rational analysis, the all-pervasive irony- all these are useless.

It doesn't matter how educated, moneyed, or smart you are: When your child's footprints end at the river's edge, when the one you love has gone into the woods with a bleak outlook and a loaded gun, when the chaplain is walking toward you with bad news in her mouth, then only the cliches'are true, and you will repeat them, unashamed.

Your life will swing suddenly and cruelly in a new direction, and if you are really wise ~ and it's surprising and wondrous how many people have this wisdom in them ~ you will know enough to look around for love. It will be there, standing right on the hinge, holding out it's arms. And if you are wise, you will fall against it and be held.

Answers? Anyone?

Today I flipped my Bible open and came across one of the most amazing prayers to be found between it's pages. So I named my list of "People to Pray For" and used God's own words in my conversation with Him about them.

But there's a verse in the middle of Paul's prayer that got me ~ it's making me think differently about God's love ~ it's helping me see our own vulnerability and struggle differently.

Here's the prayer (Ephesians 3:16-21):

I pray that out of His glorious riches He may strengthen you with power through His Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith.

And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge ~ that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.

Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us, to Him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.

Question: What do you think "...being rooted and established in love, may have power... to grasp..." means? Why does grasping the depth of God's love require power? What sort of power is it?

I Learned This From My Friend...

It's one of those hard-to-come-by moments.

I am shopping with a girlfriend. We have an agenda, but that doesn't stop us from enjoying quick diversions and moments of connection.

We push through a narrow aisle and stumble upon small objects of beauty ~ things that make us turn to each other with an "Oh! Look!" Things that make us laugh out loud and say, "Remember the time...?"

My friend is gifted in many things, not the least of which is handcrafting expressions of thoughtfulness and care.

She's a little sad, for a moment, as she talks about a recent project. She forms her words precisely, pointedly. "What people don't understand is that when I create, I am praying. Always. I pray for the person who will touch my work. I pray for the people who will look on it. I guess, in a way, the things I make are my prayers."

Her sadness came as she recounted how, sometimes, her offer of the use of her talents is rejected...or disregarded.

I had to admit to her, then, that I hadn't understood the depth of her commitment to her craft or to her friends. I didn't know that she was pouring as much of herself into her work as all that. Of course, I thanked her. But, more than that, I learned from her that day.

I learned that prayers can be solid, lovely, sturdy things.

I learned that the loonies we sometimes leave, just for fun, sitting on park benches or on downtown window ledges could be more than just free coin. They could be touched by our prayer for hope and a future for whomever chances to pick them up.

I learned that homemade cookies and cakes and breads handed out at the door to whichever neighbor happens along first could have prayer worked into them just as deeply as the flour and eggs are.

I learned that thank you notes and cheer-up cards could be so much more than just words on a page. They could be an expression of the petition I raised, that day, for the one who will receive them.

I learned from my friend, that day in the shop. I learned from her determination to keep on crafting, even when her intent is not understood. I learned from her discipline in looking beyond what she holds in her hands and into the mind of Christ for the ones who will, eventually, have her work in their hands.

Her example has changed how I pray, as I've begun to attach prayers to tasks. It takes some of the mystical, 'Oh darn! I forgot to pray for so-and-so' out of the day's conversations with God.

So, who knows? Maybe tonight, when I'm stirring the ground beef or folding the towels, I'll be reminded of you. And I'll talk with our God about you. I learned that from my friend.

From "The Problem of Pain"

Love may forgive all infirmities and love still in spite of them,

but Love cannot cease to will their removal.

~ C. S. Lewis ~

Blazing Ranges and Clingy Rear Bumpers

The rear bumper just fell off of the ample backside of our van.

Not a big deal. It's urgent fwip fwip fwip fwip alerted me to the fact that it was being dragged down the road behind us at 100km/hr. well in advance of me exposing anyone else to danger.

"Why?" you ask. "Why was your bumper dragging along behind you instead of riding securely on it's bumper-sturdy screws?" I am so glad you asked. Settle in, dear friends, for I have a tale to tell...

It all began on a typically non-threatening day in June, just one short month ago. The day, so sunny and full of promise, skipped along uneventfully. Until around 4:15 pm. At which time I received a call from a very nice constable who mentioned that I might want to hurry my way home from wherever I was as my house was on fire. Literally. With smoke and flames and everything.

Hurry on home I did. I hurried right home to find that the kids were safe, the dogs were fine, and dozens of people had rushed to our aid: neighbors, police officers, and fire fighters alike. Some smoke damage, a melted pot, a warped oven, and a slightly toasted kitchen were all we had to show for the adventure.
Note to self: Do not leave ground beef "simmering" on the stove unattended. For an hour and a half. At a high temperature. Particularly if you plan to be across town for any length of time.

I spent a few days washing smoke-saturated laundry. On day three, I made my way outside to hang out with the neighbor gals while I awaited the final load's rinse cycle. Dozens of piles of linens and clothing clean at last! My visit with the girls was leisurely, but eventually I made my way back into the house. I made my way in just in time to witness the flood waters ~ mucky, soapy, creeping flood waters ~ slither their way from the main floor laundry room out into the living room...and down into the basement.

The basement with the newly constructed drywall ceiling.

The basement (with the newly constructed drywall ceiling) required immediate attention. I slopped my way into the laundry room, turned off the machine, re-routed the drain hose back into the drain pipe in the wall, tossed a few bath towels (all freshly washed, smoke-free, and folded) into the spreading puddle, and headed for the basement. Cordless drill in hand, I hollered for help from my unsuspecting sons. "Get down here, NOW!" I shrilled. Together we removed our carefully mounted ceiling, artfully dodging the cascade of water that was happily settling into the dust encrusted joints.

As the drama-dust settled over the next few days, I noticed something peculiar: our houseplants were dieing. Now, I am not a domestic genius and no one will ever accuse me of having a Martha Stewart flare, but I do alright in the houseplant department. I water them occasionally, I ignore them mostly; every spring I re-pot them in the hopes that their roots will stretch and dive and glory in their new-found freedom. Every spring they thank me by sprouting new leaves and deepening their color.

Not this year, apparently. Almost half of them, on the heels of fires and floods, curled their little leaves into tight little fists, or simply shed them in heaps at their feet, and perished.

Whatever green the plants have been losing, the boys seem to be absorbing. One or all of them have been sick for a month ~ everything from allergies to strep to tummy flu's to incessant, drive-you-around-the-sanity-bend, coughs.

All attention getting, strange-that-it's-all-happening-this-month events. And then came the situation with the bumper...

Until last Thursday, I had never been in a vehicle accident. I've spun 'round on icy roads or driven over concrete parking barriers (Pesky little things! Don't they know I have no spacial awareness and that I'm likely to careen right over them?!), but I've never been in an honest-to-goodness accident.

That day, too, the sun shone with it's deceptive allure. I settled my still-sick kids in front of the television, promising I was only running out for "half an hour, maybe 45 minutes" to water Gramma's flower garden. They'll be fine, I reassured myself, I'll just be gone a little while. They hacked, sneezed, and barfed their goodbye's and I struck out for the quickest route to Gramma's house.

Little did I know that a wolf awaited me en route!

As I careened my way down the city's main highway, I became suddenly aware of the insistent beeeep beeeep-ing of the small car behind me. Before I had time to check my mirror's to see what the worry was, I felt our van rumble (shriek, launch, grate) over something large and metallic. The van to my left and I both pulled to the roadside. His van was clearly missing it's wheelchair accessibility ramp. Our van looked like it had just been attacked by a big, nasty, robotic bear.

The ramp (which was later picked up by two very well-intentioned, if bossy, tow truck drivers) missed our gas tank. It missed the brake line. It even missed the tire itself. But it did a tidy number on the wheel well and the rear bumper.

Which is why the bumper was white knuckling it down yet another quick-paced road this afternoon.

It's been an eventful month. Evidence of the fire and flood are all but repaired. I've managed to talk most of our plants into stepping away from the ledge (Life really is worth living, I tell them passionately!). The doc says the kids are on their way to good health. And the thousands of dollars worth of damage to our vehicle will soon be repaired.

From the moment my husband and I laid eyes on our sons after that house fire, until the moment I drove home after that crazily freak accident we have not stopped saying Thank you, Lord. Thank you for safety. Thank you for fantastically good outcomes to could-have-been-worse situations. Thank you for insurance! Thank you for the many, many people in our lives who care enough to offer support, even help, in strange times.

After that encounter on the highway last week, I've also added a prayer for ongoing protection from the enemy of God, the enemy of all of us who love God; he'd like to see us destroyed, ruined, worn-down, distracted. I'm reminded that there are unseen forces at work ~ for us, and against us.

I should probably go haul the bumper out of the backseat of the van now. Time for some duct tape and twine and another encounter with the good folks at the insurance company!

If you make the Most High your dwelling ~ even the Lord, who is my refuge ~

then no harm will befall you, no disaster will come near your tent.

For He wil command His angels concerning you

to guard you in all your ways;

they will lift you up in their hands,

so that you will not strike your foot against a stone...

"Because he loves me," says the Lord,

"I will rescue him; I will protect him,

for he acknowledges my name."

~Psalm 91~

The Secret of God

I (believe) in love not because it (is) an alternative to hate.
Love has no alternatives.

Love is all there is.

Love is the only truth of God that matters.
Love is the occupation of God, His sole employment.

There is no use asking if the human race matters.
To choose to love is to take up the occupation of God.

To love like God is to take prejudices and hatreds and hold them in your hands and confess that they are of no consequence.
Only love counts.

Every other emotion is too small to matter.

Love lives.
Now and forever...love.

No other emotion is granted pulse or breath in the courts of God.
All other attitudes are dying or already dead.

Life is love.

Death is the illusion.
It is a trick played by demons in shadows.
Death is the farce of hate, a shabby play set in a dingy theater.

(Understand) the greatest secret of God:
You cannot serve people nor save them without loving them.

You cannot practice your animosities while you are trying to save the dying.
You must presume that the dying are worth saving because they are human and in need.

~ Calvin Miller, The Book of Seven Truths ~

Bronze

encourage one another

~ 1 Thessalonians, Hebrews ~

I'm late. My son is in the bronze medal game and I'm missing it. I'm rushing toward the bleachers to watch the last half of the match when I hear his name. People are shouting, some screaming, "CORY! Get the ball to Cory!"

The small stand of seats is filled with cheering parents and siblings. I move away from the crowd and lean up against the cool chain-link fence bordering the pitch. My son has his stick on the ball and is driving toward the net, four of his opponents pursuing him ~ hard. A rumble rises from the crowd of observers, "Run, Cory! Hit it! Keep going!"

Men I have never seen before are belting out my kids' name at the top of their lungs. They're begging the coach to leave him on the field. They're pleading with him to get that ball between the posts. Cory snags the ball from the other team. He pushes toward the net. The goalie is quick and agile; he stops my son cold, time and again. Three fantastic shots on net, three stellar saves. Then, nimbly weaving through a crowd of challengers, Cory winds up for the hit of the game: the ball is in. It's a goal! My son's team wins the bronze!

Parents and kids alike go nuts with excitement. Dads, one after the other, approach my kid with head rubs and pats on the back, "Nice job, Cory!" "Good shot, kid!" They acknowledge him by name. They're proud of what he did for their team and grateful that their own sons and daughters have experienced victory, too.

We find our way toward each other eventually, he and I. I cup his sweaty, heat-mottled chin in my hand and we talk about how hard he had to work for that goal. I'm proud of him. I tell him so.

As a parent, my insides have gone to mush. Why? Because I'm proud of my kid? Because he won a game? I suppose so. More because his name was on the lips of his fellows ~~ for fifteen minutes one Saturday morning he was the focal point of the shouted encouragement of the crowd.

If I, as a very human mommy, feel awed and joyful when my son is encouraged, I wonder what the Maker of the world experiences when we, as His adopted, cheer each other on?

Does His heartbeat pick up when He hears us spurring each other on in our day-to-day? Do His insides go all wobbly when there's a crowd of us just pulling for the one who's laying it all on the line, hands and feet hard put to the task at hand, pressing toward the goal? Does His chest swell with pride at the thundering sound of His people reminding each other that this faith we are pursuing, while challenging, even difficult, is eternal?

Is there someone in your world that needs encouragement today? Not Internet-feel-good-warm-fuzzy messages, but your heart-felt support. The kind of cheer that only you can raise for that one?

Do you need encouragement today? Drop a line, if you do. There are friends in the bleachers, watching you make your way through the crowd, driving that ball toward the goal. We'll shout your name ~ loud ~ over and over again until that ball hits its' mark. Because you, child of God, are so important to our team.

encourage one another

~ 1 Thess., Hebrews ~

A Reason For Toilet Scrubbing...With Finesse

If a man is called to be a street sweeper,

he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted,

or Beethoven composed music,

or Shakespeare wrote poetry.

He should sweep streets so well

that all the hosts of heaven and earth

will pause to say,

here lived a great street sweeper

who did his job well.

~ Martin Luther King, Jr. ~

Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men...It is the Lord Christ you are serving.

~ Colossians 3 ~

Someone's At The Door

The doorbell gongs. You hastily set aside whatever you're doing and shuffle to see who's there. What started out as a light afternoon rain shower has become a thundering storm of lightening and hail. You pick up your pace, not wanting to leave your visitor in the weather too long.

And then you see them. Through the floor-to-ceiling window adjacent to your well-kept front door you see two clean-cut, perfectly pressed, young men. The Mormon's have arrived. With a sigh of frustration, you turn the bolt and yank open the door. "Good aftern..." Elder so-and-so begins. Without making eye contact, you blurt, "I'm a Christian!" and shut ("slam" would be too harsh an adjective, surely) the door soundly in his face.

You have a fleeting twinge of guilt as you watch them scurry down the front walk, pea-sized hail pelting them as they lunge for their car doors. But the twinge is easily ignored as you give yourself a gentle pat on the back for standing up for what you believe in.

I laugh ironically as I coax this story, and a few others out of the two young men sitting at our kitchen table. They've come to share the good news of the book of Mormon with us ~~ undaunted by our insistence that we will not convert. They are young and idealistic and convinced of the rightness of their mission. And their impression of those of us who call ourselves "Christian" is framed by personal encounters of the impolite kind.

I tell a quick story of my own. My neighbors have seen us talking with the Mormon boys. One by one, sometimes in groups, they've asked me "Are you guys Mormon?" "Nope. Christian." I reply. And God conversations have been started as a result. God talk that I have not known how to initiate has been sparked by our attentiveness to those kind, helpful, earnest young men.

We know that we disagree on many things, us and the Mormon's. We understand that they are at our door to convince us of the truth of their way, and we know that we will not be convinced. But our differences do not justify rudeness. They do not justify judgement. Our differences, and the fact that they've shown up right in our front yard, provide us the opportunity to express the character, the unreserved tenderness, of Jesus.

So, the next time that doorbell clamours for your attention and your visitor is a faith peddler, leave them with something unusual to talk about at their evenings' debriefing. Leave them with the Jesus that you carry about with you ~~ leave them with a kindness, a prayer (they'll always let you pray with them, if you offer), a can of soda (they'll be pounding the street until well into the evening). Leave the judging up to God and just love them like you love yourself.

1 John 4

A Patch of Green

July 2006 I have a garden. A small, square, city-bound plot. A bird feeder sits securely in one corner, inviting sparrows to dive in-and-amongst the dozens of sunflowers growing there. The flowers are strong and lean and generous. Some hollyhocks (or are they gladiola's? I can't remember which I planted and I'm not good about marking these things.) are sprouting in a patch beside an antique table from Gramma's old farm house; a table laden with old pots and bowls and dipping cans.

The rows of carrots and kohlrabi, zucchini and lettuce are relatively straight and promise a meal or two of a refreshing alternative to store-bought veggies. Saskatoon berry bushes sit unobtrusively beside newly planted mint (goodness knows what I'll do with mint, but how can something that smells so remarkable not be planted?) and a pepper plant is contentedly making its' way toward maturity.

Two young apple trees flank the patch, their pink blossoms a reminder of purity and the determination of beauty to make its mark on this planet.

A picture perfect garden patch? Yes, except that I've neglected a few details.

I have, I should mention here, a minor character flaw. I'm not very good at saying "no." My name means Helper of Mankind and it seems that the title, combined with a thorough religious ~~ Mennonite, more specifically ~~ upbringing have conspired to form me into a relentlessly people-pleasing "Yes!" woman.

So, when our neighbors generously offered us a load of top soil from their yard this spring, you can guess that my response was a quick, "That would be wonderful! How Thoughtful! Thank you!" I said this despite the knowledge that it would be the ruin of my tiny backyard patch of green and growing things. I said it knowing that their offer was not one so much of kindness as it was one of convenience (much easier to haul the dirt across the alley than to the dump).

I have been working the soil in our garden for three years, adding peat and compost and heaps of good dirt into the mix. This was to be the weedless year. The year of bounty!

And then I said a hearty "Yes!" to a load of very bad dirt.

Now my poor kohlrabi and onions are being outmaneuvered by hundreds and hundreds of weeds. Tall, spiky, menacing thorns and delicate, creeping, insidious ground covers. Stink weed is thrilled to assault passersby with it's sour stench and the dandelions are putting down some serious roots.

Every few days I go out and hack away at a bit of the devastation, but I'm losing the battle and will likely give up entirely before long.

I really do need to learn how to say no.

June 2007 That bad soil was the ruin of our garden. This spring, the boys and I spent hours digging up, and hauling away, wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of weed-infested earth. My intention in accepting the dirt was good: I care about my neighbors. A lot. I want to help them. I want to make their lives easier. I helped them solve a short term problem (dirt removal) by letting them unload in my back yard.

But the long term effort/cost to us far outweighs the short-lived ease that they enjoyed. I would have felt terribly guilty in not accepting their dirt. I would have wrestled with it for days (How dare you?! You could have helped them!!). As it is, I'm still yanking their weeds out of my soil. I've re-worked that corner, hauled away old mess, and loaded in fresh dirt, and finally given up on the idea of a vegetable garden.

I'm going to practice the words, "No thank you," "No," and "NO WAY!" Because just like the soil in my garden plot had value and potential for producing abundantly, the territory of my heart and mind have value and potential for fruit bearing. I need to tend carefully, deliberately, thoughtfully to the sorts of things I till into the mix. There are times when "no" is the only right answer to a question of how I'll spend my time, my energy, my generosity, my love. The cost of an ill-timed assent can far out-weigh the discomfort of a gentle, "Not this time."

My son, preserve sound judgement and discernment,

do not let them out of your sight;

they will be life for you,

an ornament to grace your neck.

Then you will go on your way in safety,

and your foot will not stumble...

Proverbs 3

Furry Nothings

Late spring moisture hangs in the warming evening air; late-in-the-day sun evaporates evidence of a recent cloud burst. My pace is determined as I begin my trudge to the corner store. I am focused on shedding the days' frustrations, finding peace, hearing God.

What I hear, instead, is a barking dog.

My eyes turn toward the sound. Three young children capture my glance. Three wee, brown, wide-eyed children. Their own stares are fixed,wary. A woman and her dog (a tiny bit of thing; a tuft of black fur on the end of a too-long leash) have rounded the corner and are coming toward the kids. Their eyes do not leave that dog.

To her credit, the woman skirts their small crowd by walking on the street beside them. As she nears, the little boy backs himself up onto the nearest lawn. The dog-master of that particular patch of green does not appreciate the intrusion and, from his station just inside the front door of the house, lets fly a threatening clamor of snarling and wild barking.

The little boy is frozen to the spot. Behind him, a noisy menace, in front of him a stranger wielding another furry threat. His sisters, meanwhile, are caught in this same drama. The eldest sits, locked in one position, on her bicycle. The smallest of the three, a tiny, delicate girl is slowly inching her way down the street, away from what all seems very scary.

The dog walker, a woman of immense proportions, slows her pace, her too-small eyes, and wobbling chin drawing to a near halt in front of the kids. My attention heightens as she, shockingly, spews, "Whatsa' matter? Scared of dogs? Huh?" she demands. "Are ya'?"

She's directing her sneer at the boy on the lawn, ignoring the nearby girls. His eyes do not move from the dog on the leash. His back tensed, hands unmoving in front of his heaving torso, he chokes out a quiet, "No..."

"You ARE. You. Are. Scared. Of. DOGS." Her tone is low and mean. "Why d'you say yer not when you are?" she charges. I make a sound from my place across the street, hoping to draw her attention away from the frightened ones. Suddenly aware that she is not alone, she picks up her lumbering pace. I stare after her, willing her to say one more thing, to make one backward glance. If she does, I'll be after her. She does not.

I carry on in the opposite direction, leaving the children to patch themselves up with reassuring touch and careful play.

The frustrations and fears of my own day quickly crowd my thoughts. I am often immobilized by the barking dogs and bloated, accusing interlopers of my own my mind.

Aren't we all.

With a noisy threat behind us and a wispy unknown out front, Depression, Failure, Emptiness, Fear waddle their way into our thoughts with their spitting accusations of "This is all you are. This is all you will ever be. Don't deny it. You know it's true." And with the fears pressing on all sides, and that voice sounding so sure, so potent, it's hard to disregard the stinging slander.

And then comes that distraction from across the street. Someone bigger than we are can see what's going on ~~ can see it for what it really is. Someone that is not unsettled by noise makers or uncertainty. Someone who can hear our over-inflated, mean-spirited attacker for who she really is. Someone who can send her on her way.

That Someone knows. He watches. He waits. He intervenes. To a point. And when the danger has passed, sometimes He stays outside of the drama, gently observing as those of us caught in these moments of pain and wrong and uncertainty move toward each other. He trusts that we'll reassure each other, redirect each other, remind each other that all is well. That sometimes the threats aren't real, they're just clamoring distractions and furry nothings. That always the cursing meanness is just an over-indulged bully.

The near summer sun begins it's long, slow settling. I walk. I accomplish my errand and connect with a friend for the rest of my evening exercise. And my gaze shifts from street dramas and a full day toward the Someone that is bigger than I, thankful that He is watching.

The Lord is faithful...He will protect you from the evil one.

2 Thessalonians

What Boat?

Once upon a time there was a man named Bob. Bob was a happily successful suburb-dwelling business man with a happy (also spelled d-e-l-u-s-i-o-n-a-l) wife and happy children, happy dogs and a happy home.

One day while Bob was busy doing mellow Bob things, God said, "Hey! You, Bob!" Bob responded immediately to the voice, grateful that the Creator of the World got his name right (Being referred to as "Rob," "Ronald," or even "Doug" is not uncommon for a man with such a complex and unusual name.).

"Er...yes, LORD?"

"Get outta' the boat, Bob."

"Excuse me?"

"Outta' the boat. I want you to get out of the boat."

"For sure. What boat might that be, God?"

"The comfortable, relaxed, chillin' out comfort zone of a boat you've been floating around in for the past eight years. I want you out of it."

"Out? Like into the icy, turbulent, lurching waves of the gigantic untamed sea of life?"

"Uh...well...that's a little more drama than I intended, but yeah. That 'out.'"

"I dunno. It's pretty comfortable here in my metaphorical boat."

"Don't I know it!"

And so Bob was faced with a decision. Remain comfortably in his "boat," sailing phlegmatically through life in a contented fog of self-satisfied oblivion, or step out onto those analogous waves and see what exactly the wave-Maker wanted him out there for.

Bob, remarkably calm in the face of pending disaster, told his devoted (also spelled
m-a-u-d-l-i-n) wife that Great news! God wants me to get out of my comfort zone and start taking some risks for Him! He says I should 'Get out of the boat.'

Aforementioned committed (also spelled h-i-s-t-r-i-o-n-i-c) wife, with a startling lack of calm replied, Stay in the damn boat! Yes, she did. Bob was amused. And then he proceeded to pack all of his figurative spiritual, emotional, and mental bags in preparation for his starboard leap.

He leaped. That heretofore unassuming, silent, compassion-less man jumped into that roiling metaphorical sea where he would quickly becoming assuming, conversational, and responsively compassionate.

And there he floats today. Bobbing along, moving from one white-capped wave to the next. Consistently hearing that same God voice as it tosses unsuspecting sea-flounder-ers into his chunk of the ocean. Bob is very much out of his comfort zone as he reaches out to lend a hand to some sinking soul, or to give a listen to some hollering water-treader.

The boat's long gone. He couldn't find it to climb back into if he wanted to.

His wife, meanwhile, is missing her man, so she's straddling the side, dangling a tentative toe in that chilly, chilly sea. She knows Bob's got it right and the boat is very empty without him. She's strapping the kids to her back and preparing to hurl herself, boys and all, over the side in pursuit of her man and her God.

The dogs will have to fend for themselves.

Bob Is Out of The Boat (P1)

A crowded train car. The smell of unwashed bodies, soiled babies, over-done teenagers, ethnic foods, and false-scented women assaults him as he eases into his chauffeured ride. Lowering himself onto a smooth, cool seat, he reaches into his backpack in search of his O'Brien novel. He pauses. Something tells him this is not a morning for reading.

An hour earlier, my husband was out for his morning jog, dogs at the heel, clear morning wind sweeping up against sleepy lips and a strong jaw line. In those early hour moments, he raised his voice to his Maker with the same question he poses every day: Wherever you are, God, whatever you're doing, I want to join you. Where can I join you?

Time ~~ a little over a year's worth ~~ and practice are teaching him that the commute to work is more than an hour to kill en route to the office. His reach toward God and His request to be part of what God is doing, moment by moment, wherever we are, has drawn him into a challenging, often uncomfortable, state of awareness of the people around him.

This morning he has that increasingly familiar sense that his book should stay in his backpack. He begins to pay attention to the people surrounding him. Two business women standing in the aisle directly beside him. A mother with an unco-operative, belligerent toddler in the next car over. A twenty-something laborer, sleepy eyes and haggard brow testifying to another long week. An elderly gentleman, unsteady on his feet, wearily nudging his way onto the standing room only train car.

And Bob knows that his out-of-the-boat moment has come. He rises as the elderly man approaches and asks, Excuse me, Sir? Would you like to sit down? He sees the man visibly relax as he smiles gratefully at Bob. And as he's about to claim Bob's seat, Business Woman #1 slips nonchalantly past them and into it.

Bob is taken aback. In years past he would, first, have held his own seat, not giving any thought to anyone around him. He does, after all, have an amazing book to read! In years past, had he attempted to aid an old man with the offer of a seat only to have it scooped up by a self-absorbed woman, he would have blushed uncomfortably, shrugged dismissively at the old guy, and carried on with his day.

But this is not one of those years. This is not one of those times. The book is still in the backpack and there's a God thing going on. Bob turns to the seat thief and says, pointedly, "Excuse me, Ma'am, but I was offering my seat to this man. I think he needs to sit down."

Business Woman #1 is not amused. With a fierce glare directed at Bob, she flounces past him and back into her standing position whereupon she engages Business Woman #2 in a heated and bitter exchange about the arrogance of that man. What a jerk! her glare shouts.

Elderly Gentleman, meanwhile, has gratefully claimed the re-vacated seat.

BW 1 and BW 2 continue to fuss and bother as the train pitches and surges its way along the city track. Bob stands alongside them, uncomfortably aware that these moments of overt kindness are intensely public interactions. There is no getting away from the offended ones and not much comfort from the honored ones. He settles in for the thirty minutes it will take to get from the here of home to the there of the work day.

Downtown. Finally. With backward glares and continued complaints, the two women exit the train. Bob is dejected, frustrated, unsure. He had that God sense; he felt certain. The simple offer of a seat to a man in pain should have been a good thing, but it had deteriorated into a morning start of criticism and rebuke. He wonders if he's getting this God stuff right after all.

The next stop approaches and Old Man rises shakily from the oh-so-offending seat. No words are exchanged. But then, the look of gratitude and respect. As he moves past Bob toward the cars' folding doors he briefly, intentionally grasps Bob's arm and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

Bob is undone as he recounts this story. Undone with the frustration of bumping up, again and again, against the injustice and selfishness of our fellow man. Undone by the uncertainty of following Jesus in these Godless times. Undone with relief that despite the apparent undermining of a small kindness, the tenderness of God was felt.

Sometimes, when we obey God's whisper of direction, we make what we feel are strong connections with people. Can I pray for you? we ask. Let me tell you a bit about my God, we suggest.

Always, when we obey the God whisper, we are touched more deeply than ever we touch. Bob is practicing using his hands, his voice, his feet to put action to something he sees God doing nearby. On this day, his obedience led to God using another person to bring the tenderness of Jesus into his own day.

We are, together, learning to trust the gently urging voice of God that says, "Go. Do." We are learning to trust that although no lives (that we can see) are turning to Jesus, no healing is occurring, no demons are fleeing, we are in the process of learning to obey ~~ and learning to accept that obedience to the one small request is enough. For now.

For now, for today, we are required to listen and to follow. A relinquished seat. A listening ear. A responsive, engaged conversation with a clerk, a banker, a tradesman, a mum, a youth. A five dollar bill slipped into an unknowing pocket. A lifted supplication as we drive past an accident. A silent prayer for the troubled one we see across a crowded street.

For now. Today. That is enough.

Bob is out of the boat.

Let Him Go

Acts 3

Peter said (to the begging crippled man), "Look at us!"

So the man gave them his attention,

expecting to get something from them.

Then Peter said,

"Silver or gold I do not have,

but what I have I give you.

In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk."

Taking him by the right hand,

he helped him up,

and instantly the man's feet and ankles became strong.

He jumped to his feet and began to walk...

Our early evening dog walk has landed us at the local video store. My husband is inside, scouring the shelves for something that will interest us both. I'm outside, warm urban air swirling around me, dogs at my feet, waiting. Waiting and lost in thought, mildly aware of the dozens of people going in and out of the liquor store adjoining the movie shop. Vaguely cognizant of the cars moving through the parking lot. Bored. Waiting.

And then he catches my eye. A man of some height, thirty-something, in loose, light cotton shirt and pants, nutbrown, watchful. Signs of mental illness or developmental delay. He's scratching. Incessantly. Scratching his tummy, his legs, his arms, neck, and backside. Our eyes meet and I smile. He grins and moves on, suddenly turning back to quietly ask for cigarette. I don't have one. I tell him so. "Sorry," I say. "I don't have one. I have nothing for you."

I have nothing for you. But the whisper voice of God is saying something different, "I don't have a smoke, but what I do have, I give to you. In the name of Jesus..."

I quell the God thought. I quiet the God thought because the alternative is aggressive, pursuing, provoking, strong.

A split second of decision time: Call him back the Jesus in me urges. No way! the Me in me replies.

Call him back for what? What would I say? What would I offer of Christ? I don't know. I'm inexperienced, unpracticed, wobbly in my faith.

I let him go. No cigarette. No Jesus.

I let him go.