Give Presence

http://www.adventconspiracy.org/videos/

If you have a minute, check out this link. If you only watch one video, "Enter The Story" is a good one to start on.

I'm too late to apply this wisdom to my Christmas season this year, but I can't wait to make a change next go 'round!

Tia's Prayer

I pray that in the quiet you will hear Him; in the fierceness of the night you will find comfort in Him, and when you cannot, know that (someone) will on your behalf.

~ Tia ~

Holding My Breath

I'm not very brave. That's probably one of the reasons that faith in an invisible God comes effortlessly, naturally to me. Needing Him is like needing air or water or shelter. I know it. So I believe.

Today has been a scary day. Until this moment, with the house bursting with energy, with newly-hung lights promising memory-making, merry-making, with the distraction of chores and need upon need, I felt I was navigating the uncertainty of the day well. But as the house grows silent and the wind howls outside and the ambiance of those same lights takes on new meaning ~ weighty, what-if, I-don't-know-how-to-do-this meaning ~ I'm not moving through the questions so seamlessly.

Fear cloys at my throat and my heart and my limbs as thoughts rapid-fire their worrisome threats. Will my boy be okay? He's going to be okay. Of course he's going to be okay. But what if he's really not okay?

My fifteen year old man of a child spent the day being poked and prodded and bled and tested. He has a funny little spot on his eye ~ a hemorrhage caused by who-knows-what. It's likely just a symptom of some sort of vascular infection. There was (or is) probably an infection in a valve in his heart that the body's breaking up and then pumping through his blood stream. Bits are getting stuck in some places and causing a little damage. No biggie. Treatable. Walk-away-from viral stuff.

It could be something different, though. And that's where the fear is sitting, watching, waiting. It's inviting me to follow it's lead in muddling through questions that cannot be answered tonight. Tonight there are no answers. Only a choice: faith. Or fear.

I know this: God is always good. He's sometimes fierce and deadly. He's sometimes tender and full of healing. Sometimes He gives. Sometimes He takes. He has always given much more to me than He's asked of me. I have known the merciful God.

I'm scared to death of the One who steps aside and allows life's vicious blows. I do not know that One well. I think I trust Him despite that lack of comprehension? I grow angry with Him. I charge Him with neglect, at times; I rage against His apparent withdrawal, at times. But I tend to lean toward believing that He knows something I don't know about the way this all plays out, and so I have faith in my unseen God.

Maternally, I am toying with coming undone. I so desperately want my six-foot-two, sarcastic, brown-haired, wise giant of a babe to be well and joyful and whole. He probably is. He might not be. Either way, I believe that the One who knew him even before he was formed holds him securely, surely, eternally. His ways are good and true and full of Life.

I'm not very brave, so that's where I'll settle in. Near to the Giver of Life whom, like air, or water, or shelter, I cannot live without.

Unlikely Packages

Dyed-white, thick, straight hair obediently encases her heavily made-up face. She's hurriedly running a brush through it as I approach the sink between her and another woman in the restaurant loo. Fashion and appearance matter to her; everything about her look is deliberate. She's making a statement.

The other gal is struggling with the tap. Is it motion sensitive? Are you supposed actually turn something? Her worn grey and maroon winter coat is sagging over slack shoulders. Her mousy, unkept hair and cheap mud-brown plastic glasses frame an uncertain face. "I can't figure this thing out she mumbles."

"Just pull up," they dyed woman says. It is then that I realize they are acquainted. They laugh, "Just pull up! Pull up!" They're laughing and brushing and washing. The woman on my left sighs an after-giggle sigh, "Aaah. Just like Play Station."

"Yup," the now successfully scrubbed friend replies, "I guess that's why we make such a good team. We both know some stuff."

I yank my hoodie sleeve down over my hand to grip the suspiciously finger-printed handle of the bathroom door and make my way back out into the restaurant. I leave the exchange behind me. And I take it with me, too. Two women as unlike one another as could physically be. I would never have put them together as friends, thinking that the one would likely want nothing to do with the other. But there they were, sharing, nurturing, affirming, instructing.

We need each other, my friends. We are different ~ sometimes glaringly so. We think differently, believe differently, parent differently, treat money differently. We walk and dress and do our hair differently.

And we are the same. We need help with the bathroom tap every now and then, and sometimes beating a level on the latest game is un-doable without a buddy at our elbow. We need someone standing beside us as we stare into the bathroom mirror ~ someone who believes that we are lovely and acceptable and worthy.

If you don't have that friend, go make that friend. You may be surprised where you find her. She may not be packaged the way you'd expect and you may not be the one she thinks she's looking for either. Extend friendship until you find her. She's worth the search; she's worth the wait.

I's comin' back for ya'. Don't you never give up on me.

~ Chicken George, ROOTS ~

Don't ever give up on me. Raw need, longing, hope, fear.

What if we never gave up on each other? On our mate, our sibling, our friend? What if they never gave up on us?

Faithfulness without flinching.

Don't give up on the one who's hurting you; the one who's driving you nuts; the one who's wrong.

Just don't.

Saint Theresa's Prayer

May today there be peace within.

May you trust God that you are exactly
where you are meant to be.


May you not forget the infinite
possibilities that are born of faith.


May you use those gifts that you have
received, and pass on the love that has
been given to you.


May you be confident knowing you are a
child of God. Let this presence settle
into your bones, and allow your soul the
freedom to sing, dance, praise and love.

On Praying For Our Kiddos

Every part of me is praying...right down to my atoms I am praying.

 

~ Valerie ~

The Offer

I found Natalie in Geez magazine's (http://www.geezmagazine.org/) latest collection of thoughts on "holy mischief in an age of fast faith". Her gently provocative thoughts moved me to change, to grow, to take the face of a friend in my hands and say, "Look away."

So impacted was I that I hunted her down and asked her permission to re-print her thoughts here:

The Offer

In my house live two cats. In the morning, as I eat breakfast in our solarium, surrounded on three sides by panes of glass, the cats sit on the other side of the table, flicking their tails wildly as they stare out the window. They stare at the birds flitting to and fro amongst the trees and telephone wires, free to do as they please, to do as they were created to do. They sit there; the heart-shaped cat food they've been purring for all morning is left abandoned at the sight of what they really desire. They gaze, poised as if they might strike at any moment, sneaking and hiding amongst the chair legs as if lurking in the shadows of the forest underbrush, though they've never experienced any such thing. Yet they never jump, never even paw at the transparent barrier between them and the object of their longing.

Their ritual of walking away from the cheap, substitute, ridiculously processed product and staring out eagerly, impossibly at the world they long to be a part of pains me. Some mornings it pains me to the point of tears. It pains me for them, and it pains me for humans too. We too are offered our hearts' desires in cheap substitutes, products that claim to offer fulfillment. But what pains me most is that the cats know to look away from the processed promise of fulfillment, even if they remain physically trapped. We do not even know how to look away, let alone walk away, though no panes of glass (except maybe the ad-laden TV screen) stand between us and the experiences that would fulfill us.

Let us help each other look away.
~ Natalie Boustead ~ 

I Asked Forty Women

What gives you goose bumps? A thought-provoking question from Trina, right? You puzzled over this, describing goose bumps as "thoughts" and things that pop up when you're inspired, moved, frightened. Most of you struggled to answer in a definitive way, but some of the answers themselves will give you goose bumps, for sure! Here's what some of you had to share:

 when someone tells you they're pregnant - instant goose bumps for them!
 really, really good singers.
 walking in the early morning after a night of rain showers. (It) makes me shiver with delight and (I) imagine that the fresh scent of rain I'm smelling is one more gift from God saying, "I'm here. This is for you."
 when I'm studying and researching, and I find out some well-hidden, oft-overlooked tidbit of information that gives me a glimpse of who someone really was, how they thought and what they dreamed. It's fascinating, and I feel privileged when I'm allowed that peek into the heart of someone who has gone before me.
 hearing the ways God answers prayers. (It) just makes Him seem so real and so close when it's something so tangibly answered.
 stories of strange, unnatural coincidences. You know those stories that can't possibly be true but are? Especially the good stories....they make you BELIEVE!
 a cold wind
 fear
 intimacy
 freedom from everything (the only time I felt this and had goosebumps was when I jumped out of the airplane at 3500 feet).
 the thought of moving out of the city with my family and having a house on a piece of land away from all the people.
 when my son says “I love you mom!” with that big smile on his face.
 seeing the delight in the eyes of my grandson as he relates the details of an adventure he had while camping with his Dad, his brothers and his Grampa.
 listening first hand to everyday, sometimes 'humdrum' living experience come to life (that) propel me forward into a better frame of mind.
 when I'm doing something I know is wrong (more often than not, gossiping). *sigh*

 standing on the beach in the dark, watching the full moon glimmer on a glass top smooth ocean, and realizing again, and again how great our Creator is.
 a kiss from my husband.
 certain emotional, heart touching songs.
 seeing my dad's handwriting since his passing.
 exceptional live music
 Watching someone succeed
 When I hear stories about animals or little kids being tortured for somebody's fun.
 when I sense that God is doing something I never expected and I am watching it unfold.
 when someone speaks a truth or revelation about something they see (God) doing in or through themselves.

And finally, "Watching a CF18 fighter jet fly over my head at close range, and the split second pause of the sound to follow."

Goose bumps!

Adjusting My Listen-er

Two men were walking along a crowded sidewalk in a downtown business area. Suddenly one exclaimed, "Listen to the lovely sound of that cricket!" But the other could not hear. He asked his companion how he could detect the sound of a cricket amidst the din of people and traffic. The first man...had trained himself to listen to the voices of nature, but he did not explain. He simply took a coin out of his pocket and dropped it on the sidewalk, whereupon a dozen people began to look about them.

"We hear," he said, "what we listen for."

~ Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh (The Discipline of Transcendence) ~

Silver

                                                           Refined Silver

...I will refine them like silver and test them like gold. They will call on my name and I will answer them; I will say, "They are my people," and they will say, "The Lord is our God."

~ The Bible ~

Sometimes it's not about getting rid of our pain. It's not always about medicating or comforting or squelching grief. If we want to grow ~ to change, to enlarge our understanding of our world and our neighbors ~ we will need to, sometimes, surrender to the process of sorrow.

Like silver being perfected in most intense heat, our souls, minds, and emotions undergo transformative, purposeful purifying if we will let the searing struggle of our everyday do its work.

I wonder: What will come if we set aside our comfort food, our cigarette, our drink, our tv show, our isolation ~ if we set aside our pacifiers and fall into the torturous heat of this day's grief.

What does your life, purified, refined, perfected look like? Who are you on the Otherside of surrendering to your right-now heartache and imperfection? Who are you becoming?

I Asked 20 Gals a Question

I asked twenty women, “What makes you smile with contentment?”
They replied,


 When I see two old people in their 80's, married 60 plus years and can see they totally love each other.


 A hot, clear, sunny day -- especially at the beach


 A crumb-less kitchen floor, or counter, or table


 Bills paid


 Fresh sheets


 Soft toilet paper


 Reading


 Good conversation


 Psalm 119


 Solitude


 Family home together and safe


 Answers (and eating) after a day of prayer and fasting


 Smarties...I don't mind if they do melt in my hand, I can lick it off.


 Brunch with a friend


 Sitting on my mom-in-law's deck having my morning cuppa


 Meals I don't have to prepare or clean up


 Children playing together...nicely


 Anything that turns out well


 The end of a great work day


 A good meal made for company


 A song that I've written and enjoy singing over and over


 Sometimes it involves people...but other times it's a solitary thing


 Reading a book before bed


 Listening to CBC radio chatter


 Discovering a new place to walk or drinking peppermint tea


 Hershey's Bliss Dark Chocolate melting in your mouth


 A dish of President’s Choice Chocolate Fudge Crackle Ice Cream


 Relaxing on the deck with my morning coffee and a good book


 Surveying a room after I have spent the day house cleaning and seeing everything clean and in its place


 Crawling into bed with clean linens


 Cuddling under a quilt with a cool breeze blowing in the window


 Knowing my family is all safely at home during a storm


 The feeling I get after my grandson’s spontaneous hug of greeting


 When I'm out walking in the woods, especially near the river (with my dog 'cause seeing her enjoyment of the walk definitely adds to mine), and my brain quiets down enough for me to just enjoy the beauty around me ~ then it feels like life is good and everything's okay, I can breathe; and God is near.


 When my kids are really actually loving each other, or someone who needs it


 When the house is quiet (and clean!) and I don't feel lonely, just relaxed


 A really good hair and face day


 Watching my children do something kind or caring, or that they excel at or love -- then I know I'm doing something right as a parent; seeing them become the person God made them to be


 Good sex


 Watching the two people I love most – my daughter sleeping peacefully on her daddy’s chest, with her ear laying right over his heart


 Everyone sleeping peacefully


 Cheese is right up there


 Watching my children play and laugh -- Seeing my husband being attacked by our children


 Watching a glorious sunrise


 Visiting with good friends


 Knowing God is in control over everything


 Knowing I am deeply loved just as I am


 Long, leisurely walks with a dear friend


 Looking up at the stars at night


 Quiet moments with God


 Good questions with insightful answers

Sweeping The Lawn and Other Excercises in Domestic Futility

I woke up to three three dead plants, a soggy loo, and a generally disasstisfied family. I couldn't see our kitchen counters: they're covered in school supplies and last night's supper muck.

By ten o'clock (still morning) I had a rolicking headache and had threatened a complaining child (the one who, just last night, spent a solid ten minutes making a case for why he is no longer a "child") within an inch of his schooling life. The words "boarding school" careened around inside my head but, thankfully, never escaped my lips. By eleven o'clock he was out in the backyard working off his attitude in a most tedious and ungratifying manner.

I cannot find the replacement part that I need to repair the (borrowed!!) power washer that I broke.

Moments ago I discovered that the dogs, in silent protest over the recent grooming they received (hairless dogs are a beautiful thing), have been digging ENORMOUS holes in the backyard tree and flower beds. Too lazy to trek all the way to the shed for a rake, I just grabbed a nearby broom and did an expletive-laden sweep of dirt back into offending hole.

I find myself unable to tap my creative resources to come up with yet another Phys. Ed. 20 "long-term objective." Even though my high school lad "kind of need(s) it right now." It's tough to be ingenious when the tap AND the fridge are leaking, the floor's sticking, the laundry's piling, the dog doots are smelling, and there are males everywhere.

But at 12:20 (insert soundtrack of otherwordly music here and find yourself bathed in a holy glow), with a mess of peanut butter, tuna, and old soup making it's slow march across every surface that is not covered by a book or a drawing or a school list, I cracked open my first ever box of the Mr. Clean "Magic Eraser."

Oh yes. I did.

I was skeptical. So skeptical. And I was cranky. Very cranky. But a friend had generously dropped some by for me to try, and they were sitting right there (smushed between the marker bin and the tea pot), so I had nothing to lose.

And now? All wrongs have been righted. ALL wrongs. A lawn that needs sweeping? Who cares! I can clean scuff marks off of the baseboards! Scuff marks, I tell you! A half-hearted little scrub of the fridge has the door shining ~ sparkly new! The footprint left on the front door by firefighters (Yes. That was two years ago.)? Gone! I've tried everything to remove that mark...and now, thanks to Mr. Clean, it's gone.

Magic. My sons can attest to the transformation I'm undergoing as we speak, "Look," Jamy said just moments ago, "the little cleany thingy is making Mom squeak." They're mocking me, I know, but I just don't care because, in the days ahead, the smudges and smears and gashes that have been adding to the befuddlement of my haggardly housewifey brain will all be gone. 

And you can bet that the next Mr. Clean claims "magic" as part of their results, I'll buy into it. My deepest hope, in this domestic moment, is that the next product on their list is a wand. A magical, magical wand. One flick of the stick and all will be righted. Clothes, hair, walls, loos, dogs. All. We're counting on you, Mr. Clean.

Where Wasps go to Die

The water in our backyard swimming pool is sickly green. Clumps of wind-blown dog hair and dead leaves slither their way across it's bottom, carried by the sludgy currents rippling down from the bug and algae laden surface.The twelve by three foot rubber and plastic oasis is so nasty looking that even the neighborhood boys won't stick their toes into it.

And I'm standing on the edge of it, using my body weight to depress the side so that the muck can seep it's way out of the tank and into the grass. Dead wasps and flies, fully encased in stringy, feathery algae, slip over the toes of my Crocs. Clusters of now-green dog hair slide eagerly by my ankles, shooting for freedom.

I am confused by the state of things: How did a consistently cared-for luxury become such a labor intensive disaster zone? I drain and scrub and drain some more. I scrub some more. Hours later I begin the process of re-filling the pool and think, "I'll just take a look at the filter to see if it needs a scrub, too." And there it is: The solution to the mystery.

No filter. The canister that holds the filter ~ the one we'd carefully hooked up to the side of the pool, the one we'd been faithfully running for months ~ is empty. No filter. Just dirty water in. Dirty water out. Dirty water in. Dirty water out. Hours of electricty and good intentions spent to no useful end.

As the dead insects and slime swirl around my toes (believe me, if there was a less disgusting way to achieve the same end, I would have found it!) I think about some of the conversations I've been having with friends lately. We've been talking about morality and about how to raise children in a culture that seems to be going mad in it's insistence that everything goes. 

The making of a porn movie has become the stuff of comedy. And people think it's really, really funny. 
Degrading men and masculinity in every conceivable manner is standard comedic practice (Imagine the writers of TV land attempting to denegrate women the way they do Homer or Ray Romano or Jim.). 
Teenage girls pole dance on a teen award show. Young girls watch and can't wait to be "just like her when I grow up!"

We could all add things to the list, right? Moments from our everyday where we've thought, "Whoa. Is that really okay? Did I just see that?"

Last week I observed a group of young guys hanging out at a cluster of picnic tables, their long arms and legs dangling casually all over everything. I was fascinated by their relationships to one another, their characters, everything, until I drew close enough to hear their conversation.

A solitary girl stood at the edge of their group, shifting uncomfortably, one hand twisting the strap of her purse nervously; one hand absentmindedly tugging at the hem of her so-short shorts. One of the boys said, "You remember, don'tcha'? You got so drunk and then you remember what we all did to ya', don'tcha'?" Her reply was too soft for me to hear over the boys' not-so-fascinating laughter. 

It's no great reach to observe that the sludge in our cultural "pool" is building up. While the mucky muck in my backyard made for a pretty cool Science project and a few hours' entertaining swabbing, the sludge of a culture that is stewing in it's own mess without any filters is a lot less amusing.

Some of my friends want out of the pool ~ They just want to go find a nice, new, clean pool to splash around in. Some suggest that the pool isn't dirty at all and that we just need to become more openminded about the floaties and the detritus (Those "some" have never tried to keep their footing when green goo is coating the bottom of the thing!). Some would say that if we just put some filters in place we can clean up the pool we've already got.

Our own pool now has a filter in the filter canister. The bottom has returned to it's original inviting white and blue tiled pattern. The deceased wasps have been siphoned off to that great wasp's nest in the sky and the dog hair was all pulled up by the lawnmower.

Mental note for next summer: A pool without a filter stagnates. It becomes useless and repugnant. Unless you're a bug that's looking for someplace to die. Filtered water is cool, refreshing, alluring, and a lot less work. Unless we decide we can afford a new pool every few months, we'd be wise to remember the filters.

Hungry?

In his book, "Hunger for God," John Piper suggests that the spiritual discipline of fasting allows us to acknowledge our true hunger for the Divine ~ for God. By setting aside the comforting anesthetic of food, by engaging in a degree of physical discomfort (that leads to emotional discomfort), we permit ourselves to address our deepest longing: The longing for restoration with God.



When we deny ourselves food, he says, we are forced to ask, "Do I really hunger for God? Do I miss Him?"



Do I miss Him?



We spend our everday actively working to silence the need, sorrow, anger, and longing for purpose that powerfully threatens to overwhelm us in our materialistic and relationally bankrupt culture. Alcohol, cigarettes, prescription (and non) drugs, work, affairs, and such: Television is my own most effective soother, but food is it's comforting companion. By assuring myself of their mind-numbing, emotion-squelching constancy I can surely navigate a day's dis-ease.



By choosing to set them aside, I might find myself nose-to-nose with the desperate realization that I miss Him. I miss His sanctity and justice. I miss His clarity and hope. I miss His goodness. I miss things about Him that I've never known: the touch of His hand, the look of His eye, the cut of His jaw.



I miss Him. We miss Him, don't we? I wonder at the opportunity to set aside the good things of our lives long enough to be reminded that He is Goodness itself. The bounty that we know here is a shadow, a dim reflection of the substance and Glory of God Himself.

Hail-bitten Fruit

Summer storms are staggering in their beauty. They're powerful and destructive and wild. With winds whipping around at 100 km/hr, flinging crushing hail and biting rains, they are unstoppable. The ferocity of lightening and chilling temperatures combine to flatten, char, freeze, break, topple.

Sometimes our own lives are hit by storms that look a lot like a summer squall (Can you be in a squall if you're not at sea? I should look that up.). Crisis, fear, grief, complicated relationship, the daily grind ~ These things have the same effect on our mental, emotional, and spiritual health as a crazy weather system has on our crops, our cities, our gardens.

The Bible says that you can tell if a person knows God by His traits in their life. Specifically, they'll have love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness, and self-control. God calls those bits of Himself "fruit." He compares Himself to a tree, and compares us to the branches. The evidence that we're connected to Him will be good fruit.

A friend and I had a conversation about those attributes over coffee the other day, acknowledging that we would love to be able to reflect God by carrying those qualities around with us all of the time.

But storms come, right? And when storms hit, fruit takes a pounding.

Our family has been waiting expectantly for Fall when we'd be picking the largest harvest of apples that our trees have ever produced. The branches have been so weighed-down with perfectly forming fruit that we've culled the clusters so that the remaining apples will be larger and even sweeter.

Last weekend a fierce storm whipped through our yard. Every apple on every tree is ruined. Their ripening flesh has been torn apart by icy shards of hail. They're hanging desolately from stunned branches, surrounded by shredded leaves. There was no hope of them surviving that storm. They were unprotected, exposed. Good fruit is vulnerable to all sorts of menace, I guess.

When life is calm and uninterrupted by heartache or difficulty, producing good fruit seems a natural course. In a storm-free season, when God seems kind and gentle, we might find ourselves exhibiting a lot of His goodness, His faithfulness, His self-control (Imagine producing so much good stuff that it had to be thinned-out just to facilitate the eventual beauty of the remaining produce? I wonder how, exactly, God does that culling?).

When we're battered by difficulty and broken dreams and death and sickness, some of that fruit is going to hit the dirt in a hurry. Some of it will keep clinging to the source of it's life, but it will be pock-marked and inedible. Some of it will need to be chucked.

But storms pass and new growing seasons come.

Our apple trees won't give us more good fruit this season. They'll need to rest now; to regroup through the winter and into the spring. If you've been slammed with too much reality, it's okay to rest, to recover. Cut yourself some slack and don't worry too much about the state of the fruit that's dangling off your wounded branches.

Do, purposefully, connect (re-connect) with the source of your own Life. Be sure that you're attached to the Living God Who nourishes, nurtures, enables you to survive this season and grow into the next one. You'll be showing evidence of His Life in you before you know it. Love. Joy. Peace. Patience. Kindness. Goodness. Gentleness. Faithfulness. Self-control. That's what God looks like. And you reflect Him. One bit at a time. Even after a storm.

Michael Jackson

Michael Jackson died this week.

His passing matters in different ways to different people, and in some way to most people. Responses to his tragic leaving are varied, too. Some of us feel shock, others vindication. Some sorrow, some pause, some nothing at all. Some feel angry.

Bill has just passed the eighty-years-old mark in his own life. He continues to live alone, unaided, maintaining his own home and yard. He drives himself to coffee and back. He's in relatively good health, and he's bitter that any one man should have such fanfare surrounding their death.

We're all gonna' die, you know. When it's your time to go, it's your time to go.

His tone is strident, bordering on rage.

I don't know what the big deal is about this guy. Lots and lots of people die and you never hear a thing about them and their g**d**n funerals.

He is an aging gentleman facing his own mortality and wondering why a man who sang a few songs should garner such praise and acclaim while the rest of us just slip away into the next life without more than a whispered acknowledgement.

He has a point. Michael Jackson is famous for his musical and performing genius. He's infamous for allegations of hurting children. His off-stage madness has earned him ~ and pop culture rags ~ notoriety and millions of dollars. Our unbridled curiosity has given the madness steady forward momentum. But on the other side of this life he is as we are: one person fully connecting with the One God. One magnificent, sinful, glorious, base, God-reflecting, wounded life standing toe-to-toe with Holy Love.

He receives the attention of millions at his passing because he impacted millions in his lifetime. You and I will impact many, many others, too ~ some in healing, supportive, and loving ways, others in harmful, unforgivable ways. When we go, the services held in our honor will be tiny compared to Michael's send-off. On this side of life, it will appear that his life was worth more than our own.

Bill feels that way. Maybe you do, too.

On the other side, who knows? I don't know what Bill will encounter there. I know that he dealt cruelly with his wife and daughters. I know that he is demanding in his old age as he was in his youth. I look at my own life, scales of judgment alternately swinging, loosely empty, or groaning beneath their staggering burdens.

Bill's life, mine, yours will not be considered as one more valuable than another. We are equally and passionately adored by our Creator. Did we acknowledge Jesus? Did we love well? Did we care for the poor, the fatherless, the broken? These are some of the qualities that will be measured ~ these, and the motives behind them.

Bill's frustration is understandable. Why should "some famous guy" get more attention than the man who has lived a hidden life well? In our culture, that trend isn't going to end. But Bill will get his all-eyes-on-him moment. It may not come with a golden coffin bedecked in red roses and surrounded by millions of mourners. It will certainly come with the One who made us giving Bill His full attention.

If I had words and opportunity, that would be something to tell Bill. There aren't many audiences that really matter. In fact, there are probably only two: Our God and the ones that He's asked us to love. Everything else is just clamour and fluff. So, while the living's still good, live for those two things. Find examples of secret-living integrity. Mirror that. Let the pomp and flash and noise of the famous entertain you; remember that behind that drama is a person much like you. A man or a woman who will be judged in the public eye, but ultimately measured ~ and cherished ~ in the eyes of God.

Parker

Wearing stained khaki shorts and a wide-striped t-shirt, a stranger sits eating cafeteria sushi from a Styrofoam tray. A black and white keffiyeh is slung casually around his neck.

X-ray technicians scoot purposefully between examination rooms, quietly intoning the names of first one patient, then the next.

A beyond-old gentleman, parchment skin stretched too thin across dying bones, moans gently from his stretcher, "Help me? Somebody help me?" The immediately on-hand nurses reassure him, again and again, that he'll soon be rescued from his stuck-in-the-hallway plight.

Settling into a suspiciously soiled waiting room chair, I search for a magazine to busy my hands; something I can pretend to read while I take in the abbreviated bits of people-stories murmuring around me. My glance meets that of a fifty-something blue collar worker. Work boots agap at the tongues, shirt sleeves rolled past his elbows, he initiates conversation.

Small talk and pleasantries are quickly set aside as I set my gaze on the two slender metal pins protruding from his swollen right hand. In answer to my query, he tells of a tumble from his camper step followed by a pain filled and sleepless night. With a satisfied grin he relays the story of pokes and prods and pinning that he's since endured. I squirm to learn that he's been without painkillers all day. He is good-humored, I think, for a man who has been shuffling from one hospital waiting room to another for the past seven hours.

Our conversation turns to his time in the city and his much missed home in Saskatchewan. We talk about his wife, his dog, his three grown children. "And I'm going to be a Grandpa for the first time. Sometime this month, actually."

He refers to his coming grandchild by name, "Parker's coming soon, but he'll be born with only half a heart. It's going to be tough on the little guy." Parker will be Lacey and Ron's first child and the family's first grand baby. My new acquaintance calmly, gently, calls the wee on-the-way boy by name again as he talks about the research he's done into the baby's condition, the surgeries that will be involved in building the boy a heart that will do what it needs to, and the documented lifespan of a child born with such a condition.

"Twenty-one, twenty-two years. That's it. I don't know. You just wonder if it'd be better if maybe something happened right when he was born, you know?"

I don't know. I don't pretend to know. So I don't suggest that I do. I ask another question or two and then my name is called. "I don't know if I'll see you again," I say, moving toward the nurse that's waiting by the exam room door, "but I'm going to pray for Parker...and for Lacey...and for you. I'll just pray."

He doesn't say anything to that. What can you say to that? His parting smile is genuine and patient and full of goodness.

So here I am, thinking about Parker and Lacey and Grandpa-to-be and wondering if maybe you'd pray, too? Parker's story, his family's story, will never be known to us. But we can ask our Everywhere, Everydetail God to connect to that story.

Happy Almost-Canada-Day

http://www.metronews.ca/calgary/canada/article/253369--canadian-citizenship-like-winning-jackpot-rick-mercer

Put a Pin in it

I'm learning that:

• making a choice to change your dream for the future is really scary, but it brings peace, too.
• raspberry plants can't stand up to digging dogs.
• nobody thirty or older is managing our long winters with any sort of good humor.
• everybody gets the schedule wrong sometimes. Some of us do so more than others.
• prayer is a simple and complex intimacy. Belief, likewise.
• the ice cream truck always comes at bed time.
• relationships are hard. They don't have to be, but they are anyway.
• mercy looks like weakness to an angry world.
• teenagers are laugh-out-loud funny most of the time.
• we need each other like we need oxygen, water, bread...M&M's
• spiders are frighteningly adaptable...and teensy enough to get in anywhere, anytime.
• many well-laid fire pit plans are undone by bossy prairie winds.

Tangible

Every morning, blurry eyed and just shy of surly, one or the other of my boys climbs up on Grandpa's old swivel bar stool for breakfast at the kitchen island.

Various green and growing things sprout contentedly from an assortment of used-to-be-Grandma-and-Grandpa's metal bowls.

A bejeweled in blue broach that Grandma used to wear is propped up against a plant pot on a corner shelf.

On Monday I made green bean soup in her old stock pot.

Grief sneaks up on us. It comes at awkward moments; it's drawn to the surface of our well mastered emotions by an unexpected kindness, a lingering hand, an injustice, a deferred hope. The cold, hard weight of a cooking pot becomes a connection to something long-ago, something eternal.

A reminder of what was, what can be.

An invitation to learn from ones who've gone before ~ to employ their strengths and learn from their been-there example.

So, first we mourn. Then we grow. We learn. We do them proud in our determination to live well, justly, humbly, and full of Faith.

Grandma's hand dipped a spoon deep into some savory soup or other.

In that pot.

One hand gripping a side handle, the other firmly coaxing a meal into existence.

She lived well. She loved better. She prayed most.

She will be missed.

I don't need advice -- I need people to give a damn.

~Jason ~

I have no fear of drowning
It's the breathing that's taking all this work

~ Jars of Clay ~

Kevin

His opening statement is, "I'm not gonna' lie to ya'..." Right there you know there are some fish tales on the way. Kevin does not disappoint. Stories trip from thirsty lips, one chasing another, as he coolly appraises his mark. He thrusts a soiled and sticky hand toward me. I take it in my own. We exchange names.

There is murder in his eyes (I'm not big on eyes being the "window to the soul." I never get anything from looking people in the eye. But his are scary different.). I'm sure that if he hasn't already done it, he will.

But we aren't talking about murder. We are talking about need. Because Kevin needs. He needs to be dealt with honestly in his jobs. He needs to be left alone. He needs to stop drinking and he needs to stop doing drugs (It's been two months since he last smoked pot and two years since he last used Crack. My "two-weeks-sober" theory blown all to pieces in one conversation!).

Kevin's not getting off the street. He knows that. He doesn't even pretend to want to. He battles the urge, well articulated and more than a touch menacing, to just break in and steal what he needs, when he needs it. But, he assures me, pale, dull, almost-lime green eyes never wavering from mine, he's just not that sort of guy. He'd rather ask me straight up for my money than stick a knife in my back and force me to hand it over at some ATM. I wonder.

I wonder.

Street-filthy finger jabbing the sky, he talks about "that Guy up there" repeatedly. "I spend an hour a night tellin' God how sorry I am 'bout what I had to do that day." Just to make it by.

He tells more stories. He turns to my eleven year old son who's silently observing our exchange. Not much taller than I am, Kevin is almost eye-level with my boy. He points aggressively at Jamy, his voice revealing the only emotional intensity we've seen so far, "You. I'll say this to you: Don't hang out with people who tell you that stealin' and beatin' people up is the only way ta' be their friend. Hang out with the people that are half like that and half geeks. 'Cuz the geeks'll be able to get ya' a job later on."

Dubious advice, I think, as I rest my glance on my very uncomfortable boy who has taken a half-step toward the protection of his patiently observant daddy.

"Kevin," I interject, "we've got to be on our way. When I talk with God about you today, what can I ask Him about for you? What do you need right now?"

Courage. Strength. For the first time in our conversation there is the tiniest crack in his bravado. It's hard sleepin' in my tent all 'the time, he says. It's hard to resist the temptation to do stuff. The temptation to drink so much more than he is right now, to live like a thief, to use his knife as more than just a stay-away-from-me warning.

Courage and strength.

I offer him my hand in farewell; his grip is strong. I'm embarrassed, ashamed, by the repulsion I feel at its grime (I ache to wash my own ~ scrub it, sterilize it clean, but hours later I can still feel the solidity of his muddied fingers wrapped around my own life-is-easy palm).

Kevin's sleeping outside tonight. He'll sleep in the same filthy skin he walked around in all day. His knife will be his best and safest companion, and he'll be yearning for daylight and a thirst-slaking drop. His moral code will tell him that it's okay to pimp if that's what it takes to make a dollar. It will tell him that it's only okay to beat a guy if he steals from you ~ If he beats you first, or defames your character, you turn the other cheek. It'll tell him that God is real and that God can only be God if we keep messing up so that He can help us.

I'm not going to lie to you, I think that's some kind of crazy. My well-fed, addiction-free suburban existence doesn't require a lot of courage, so it's easy for me to sanctimoniously dismiss his code. Not so easy to dismiss Kevin, though. Kevin and his stories, his veiled threats and his advice, and his street-filthy hands. Not so easy to dismiss Kevin.

You Are Not Dismissed

As the two women at the table next to mine readied themselves to leave the coffee shop, their unsatisfying conversation was coming to a stilted close. Certainly both had done a lot of talking ~ the weights and lengths of their children, their on-hold careers (or not), their frustration with their husbands, and their annoyance with "Megan" had all been duly aired. They'd all but tripped over one another in their efforts to tell all. But they left me with the feeling that neither of them had been heard at all.

Why do we only listen with half of our hearts and a fraction of our attention? Why do we so quickly interject our own opinions and superimpose our own experience on the story of another, instead of enlarging our perspective on our shared experience?

We're so much alike, right? Our struggles, fears, hopes, and joys ~ the same. Some of us have grown too focused on ourselves and have become convinced that our suffering and trouble, our talent and purpose are more critical or more at risk than those of our friends. We've been so long gazing in the mirror that we've neglected to glance out the window at the shared journey we're walking alongside our remarkable sisters.

Each of us

• is conscious of our beauty ~ and our lack of it. We are hard on ourselves to the point of cruelty and resist assurance that we are lovely enough.
• is maternal. Those of us with children agonize over countless dark and hopeful things regarding our babes. Those of us without wonder if we should have them; wonder if we're incomplete without them; wonder if we could manage them if we did have them.
• is professional. We are skilled and intelligent. We resist the thought of appearing (or actually being) purposeless and realize, on some level, that we can be more than we are.
• is worried about losing our memory, our bone density, our skin tone, our hair, our mind. We fear cancer and hate cellulite.
• carry grief. Some public. Some secret. Women are in pain and manage it in various ways with varying degrees of success.
• dream.
• hate.
• need to rage against the injustice we have personally experienced and personally witnessed.
• want to count for something to someone.
• wrestle with the juggling act that our lives have become. We want to juggle well, but worry that we might be dropping more balls all of the time; certain that we're dropping more balls than the friend next door who has it all together.
• want to be seen.
• want to be understood. Truly. Deeply.
• want to be made to laugh.
• want to be heard. Our words. Beyond our words. To the bits of the story we don't know how to tell but quite necessarily need to voice. We want to be heard.

Today has been a day of selfish listening on my part. I admit that I was half-hearted in my efforts to hear and wanted, more than anything, to impose my own telling on the stories of my sharing friends. I dismissed their crises as histrionic or temporary. I clamored for the safety of my kitchen and a warm patch of sunlight.

That's not okay. We need to hear each other. Fully. Generously. Consistently. We must not dismiss the stories of our friends. In listening, with whole attention, we become a point of safety, release, and reassurance for a worthy other. By allowing ourselves to become immersed, completely drawn in by their story we are presented with the opportunity to expand our own lives just a little.

Dad Taught Me...

• "Everything is going to be okay. But when it's time to worry, I'll let you know." That sounds a lot like God.
• "Rights" aren't all they're cracked up to be. People will tell us that life is all about getting what is rightfully ours, about defending our own rights, about being right. Consider a life of absolute surrender to God instead ~ consider laying down rights in exchange for relationship with Jesus; consider trusting that the Way of Jesus might be safer, wilder, more rewarding, less arrogant than living for self alone.
• Listening takes time. Listening requires that the hearer be silent, slow to speak.
• Sometimes physical health (or it's absence) is a choice. Choose wellness.
• Compassion is sweet and powerful...and sometimes hidden.
• Crying with another in their grief is right. Do it. But don't make it about you.
• It's okay to mumble the odd expletive, especially if, while patiently teaching your daughter to drive, she nearly spins everybody into a ditch.
• "Integrity" is about what goes on in secret; about who we are when no one's watching.
• Diplomacy and wisdom invite peace. Sometimes they even make peace.
• Forgiveness is what we live, no matter how angry we are or how much we're hurting.
• It is never okay to disprespect our elders. It is never okay to disprespect anybody.
• Change is possible. Teachability is imperitive.
• It's probably better to err on the side of generosity, even if the service is bad and the meal is cold. Who knows what sort of day your server is having?
• Silent laughter, the kind that sees tears coursing down a cheek, heals.

My father lives his faith. Every day. His largely silent example (italisized with the occasional, well-timed German cuss word) shapes me. It shapes my family. It works itself more deeply into who I am with every year that passes.His journey has been as real-life, human, painful, successful, uncertain as any. But his steps are sure and he's carved a path worth following.

Under My Skin

The two year anniversary of my seventy pound weight loss has just passed.

The food madness that has plagued me since puberty continues to be my undoing. I drink staggering quantities of soda. I eat chocolate every day. And, whatever any health guru would have you believe, my control over the amount of food I ingest is as tenuous today as it ever was.

But the pounds have stayed away. So I celebrated! How else? With a trip to the doc for an annual physical. Good. Times.

"Dr. Z," I said, preparing to ask the question I've been too-scared to ask in the past 24 months, "I'm stuck. I got rid of 70 of the excess pounds I was carting around, but I can't seem to shake the last 8."

She gave me her less-than-comforting-bedside-manner up-and-down look. There was a pinch test. There was another look -- rueful. Humoring? Annoyed? "Well. This could be the problem: You're trying to lose your skin."

Twenty years of overweight, obesity, and pregnancy have left me wobbling. And wobbly I shall remain without the aid of vanity-enhancing, pocket book-shrinking cosmetic surgeries because there's no more weight to lose. Just skin.

It's time to come to terms with the numbers as they are; on the scale, on the measuring tape. It's time to acknowledge that I won't be getting that nose piercing I've wanted re-done (it was the reward for a seventy-six pound loss).

A surprising sort of calm has come with this new understanding. I've done the work (and will continue to do the work, of course). Now it's time to focus on other things (We heard a preacher suggest that our souls are very fat: we spend too much time thinking about ourselves, our weakness, our strength, our this, our that. We've become obese in our self-awareness. I wonder what a seventy pound loss looks like there?). It's time to be. To rest more. To strive less in this respect.

I'm guessing this will be easier said than done! But it's a good time of year for new goals and hopeful objectives. I'm excited to turn my focus outward again ~ away from me and onto others. Broader, more productive, more generous pursuits ahead.

Wobbly bits and all!

Jesus says there's nothing more important than Love.

Religion says there's nothing more important than being right.

It's possible to be very religious without knowing God at all.

The Desert

So what is the desert?

The desert is a state of being -- a place where you find yourself alone, even in the midst of many. In this place, a place that has now begun to occupy your regular world, you encounter a disease (a dis-ease): a dryness, a barrenness, and an aloneness -- alone because no one can bloom the desert for you...

No one can help you with the question the desert poses -- and no one can help you realize the answer...

In the desert, God can sneak up on you. In the cities and towns, people are so armored, so fearful of one another -- even those they love -- that God doesn't have a chance...Or we stand waiting for God to do something different, something new.

God doesn't have anything new to show us. He's shown us everything. It's staring us in the face. That's what "We were made in God's image" means. We were shown...it in the very way we're made! (And) I've got news for you. It isn't about what you see -- it's about who is doing the seeing...The world doesn't need to be changed by God or born again; it's our way of seeing that needs to be born again, and, more specifically, the seer needs to be born again.

~ William Elliot, Falling Into The Face of God, Forty Days and Nights in the Judean Desert ~

Endless Winter

...summer passed, winter returned... In winter there is no heat, no light, no noon, evening touches morning, there is fog and mist, the window is frosted, and you can't see clearly. The sky is a dungeon window. The whole day is a cellar. The sun has the look of a beggar. Horrible season! Winter changes into stone the water of heaven and the heart of man.

~ Victor Hugo, Les Miserables ~

Table Manners

Tonight, over a "dinner" of KD and hot dogs the conversation was inconsequential, silly, cabinfever-induced nothingness.

Suddenly, without any clear provocation, our thirteen year old, with a grin on his face, leaped from his seat, lunged across the table, and pounded his big brother in the arm. *WHAM* None of the males in the house seemed to think there was anything amiss as they righted wobbling condiments and steadied drinking glasses.

Absentmindedly re-centering the table, I gave my son a look of shock and questioning rebuke.

"Oh," he said offhandedly

'Oh'?! I silently reprimanded, You just pounded your bro at the dinner table! For no apparent reason?!" My look was meant to convey some form of motherly direction.

"Oh. Uhh. Excuse my reach."

Sarah

Sarah and Doug live in B.C. where the winter has been long and personal circumstances have been harsh. The death of a family matriarch, significant health problems for both of them, and recent lay offs have shaken their young relationship, their world.

Sarah is an intelligent, resourceful, nurturing woman. She works hard. She loves well. Despite the complexity of her day-to-day experience, she is an outward-looking, forward thinking gal.

It's natural, when times get tough, to become inwardly focused. We want to shore up our own resources and we can become greedy in our fear that we will not have enough. Sarah does not have enough. She doesn't have enough to pay bills and loans. She doesn't have enough to help support her extended family as they wrestle with their own dependants and employment cares.

And here's where Sarah looks like God: despite her own heartache, Sarah continues to give. Offhandedly, in the middle of talking about a particularly painful aspect of her own situation, she mentioned that a friend had been laid off and injured (in that order, thereby making job hunting an impossibility)a few days before. "So," she said, "we've been making up an extra plate's worth of supper and bringing it to him every night."

She said this simply, carelessly even. Our friend is hungry, so we're feeding him.

Her story. Her expression of goodness. I pray that she will soon have enough and that there will be people around her who can extend whatever version of a plate of food it is that she needs as she habitually, compassionately, selflessly continues to help her friend (and so many others).

Broken Spokes

I think Mike is one of the only encounters we've had that has left me feeling off ~ misused, maybe? Unsafe? Our oldest kiddo, Ben, was impacted differently by him, too, because, he said, "I could feel that he was afraid. Not afraid of us, maybe, but afraid."

Mike was afraid. And brain injured. And filthy and desperate and aggressive. He cheerfully and loudly shouted for our attention as the five of us made our way through a department store parking lot. We'd made some snack purchases for the evening and picked up some new dvd's for the very long road back to Canada. Mike, laying beside his well-worn peddle bike, leaned back toward us and loudly explained that he had a "brand new" mp3 player he'd like to sell. Would we be interested?

We weren't interested in the player. But we were interested in Mike, and his story did not disappoint (a career as a novelist would be a good option for our new friend, I think). He shamefacedly -- and proudly -- showed the scars of violent beatings and mishaps and poor judgment. He talked about his family (all rich, he crowed, with boats and mansions and the like) and pulled their photos, carefully sheathed in hard plastic, out of his souring backpack.

Mike talked about his mom a lot. He wondered if we could maybe give her a call sometime, just to let her know that he was okay? He'd turn to the boys, and talk about the dangers of alcohol and drug abuse, "One beer, boys. That's all it takes. One drink and it could all be over." The boys were polite, detached. They've grown accustomed to the peculiarities of our parking lot connections. They nodded their silent agreement as he admonished them not to disappoint their mom.

What did he need, we asked. Just $350.00 to fix the spokes on his bike. He needed his bike bad. It was his only way to get around. We said that we wanted to help and that maybe we could start with just enough to get some supper in him? Sure, sure. Yeah. 'Cause he didn't really need money, he said, he just needed to talk to his mom.

We slipped him a dirty American bill. Two beer, he said. I'm going to get two beer with this and then the rest I'll use for...he trailed off into another reminder to the boys to stay sober, like he'd been sober for the past couple of years, he said (I'm not sure why sobriety is always measured in 2 weeks, 2 years, 2 months, but it is. There must be some magic to the telling of such a tale that requires the use of that particular number?).

Mike could have talked for hours, but we urged him on to find some dinner and made our own way back to our car -- with all it's spokes intact. But we didn't shake Mike off so easily. We felt him with us in the days ahead, almost expecting him to turn up in another lot offering another bit of electronic wizardry to tempt our pocket books.

Vacation over, we finally pointed the nose of our car toward home several days later, but we continued to be mindful of him (and the many others that we had the honor to meet in the U.S.). When we handed Mike the cash he said something interesting: This is enough. If this is what you're giving then it's enough. See? he said, patting the giant metal crosses dangling from his neck, I know about this God thing.

We crossed State lines considering that thought, alternately agreeing and disagreeing with it. A few dollars is enough: it meets an immediate, felt need. But it is most certainly not enough: the need in the lives of our neighbors, acquaintances, encounters goes so far beyond anything that can be touched by a twonie or a twenty.

So, we're determined to learn what, exactly, it is that Jesus has to offer in these fleeting conversations. If their needs are pinpointed, will the God of Creation hear their prayer to have those needs met? Freedom? Healing? Restored minds, hope, purpose?

Mike's parting handshake was soiled and rough and firm. He'll forget us. He probably forgot us within hours of our meeting. But he will not be forgotten. We'll absorb his story into our own and let him teach us more about how Jesus uses one to reach toward another with hope that extends far beyond two beer and a phone call home to Mom.

I-15, South

It's the morning of day four on our family road trip from Calgary (A "village," we understand from one of our new American acquaintances that "even has a restaurant." He knows this, he explained, because he once stayed "overnight there when he went to visit a friend's llama farm up North...in Montana.") to wherever-the-grass-is-green-and-the-air-is-warm (Southern Utah/Northern Nevada, we've happily learned).

The moment we set tire to asphalt on the I-15 we knew we'd done something right. It's a highway traversing magnificent distance and amusingly, breathtakingly what could possibly be around the next corner diversity. Mountains, prairie, scrub brush, desert, and enormous sky grace miles and miles (1200, so far ~ That's just over 2,000 kilometers!) of seamless two-lane road trip ease.

Some things we've experienced so far:

• An uncomfortable exchange rate.
• But cheap gas ~ it might make up the difference. Yay!
• The soothing beauty of Montana in a gently receding winter.
• Utah. Scrub brush and mountains for mile after fascinating mile.
• Three backseat voices politely acknowledging that "fascination" with "Mmmhm. Cool. Another bush ~ oooh! And there's a tree!" while hardly glancing up from the DS.
• A staggering number of Mormon churches piercing the sky of every town with their narrow, white-as-snow steeples.
• A visit (and unintentional tour) of the Mormon's Salt Lake City headquarters. We learned some things and Cory found inspiration for lyrics there. He titled his song, "Forgiven," a hope, a reality, that we all quit the state border feeling a little mindful of.
• A winding, overwhelmed by ancient intelligent design, glide through Monument Valley. Imagine the Rockies ~ only carved in layer upon layer of reddish-brown sediment; rounded and caved and nurtured into matchless glory by time and wind and water.
• A single threat to "...throw that DS right out the window if you don't look up and see how amazing this is right now!"
• The touch of ever-warming air on pale Canadian flesh. Green grass (it really is greener on this side of the fence). And trees. With leaves on them.

I so wish you were here. For the price of a few tanks of gas and some $5 Subway subs, you could be! The I-15, South. Grab a map and a pair of sunglasses and you're away.

Considering Thanks

I've always had to accept even the idea of faith by faith.

It's easier for me to believe in the One that I cannot see than it is to define what that believing is.

Sometimes it seems as though faith is something I deliberately, determinedly choose.

Sometimes faith lands in my lap like an unwarranted, sigh of relief gift.

Our friend Chris says, "Faith is the currency of Heaven..."

That is, God is moved by faith ~ He responds to belief in Him; He saves, gives, acts in response to our acknowledgment of Him.

Chris goes on to say, "Thankfulness is the language of faith."

That changes my perception of faith and gratitude. I'm prone to thanking God in an effort to stave-off potential wrath or the withholding of future goodness. Do you know what I mean? I've got it pretty good and I'd better be thankful because otherwise God might not give to me next time. Worse, He might take from me next time.

But if Chris is correct then I've been approaching both thanks and belief all wrong. He used the example of the five loaves and three fish: One day there wasn't enough food around to feed the crowd that had gathered to listen to Jesus teach. Jesus took the bit there was (a bit of bread and fish), thanked the Father for it, and proceeded to feed thousands of hungry mouths.

What if, Chris wonders, we thank God for what we already have while believing it will become what we need?

Staggering! Simple, but knock-ya'-over life changing. Instead of just thanking retrospectively, we could practice thanking hopefully. "I see what You've done already, God; thank you for what is to come."

We're not wealthy, but we have some money. Can we begin to thank God (not flinching in fear that He'll take away from us) for what He's provided, understanding that what we have can become what we need?

Could we approach every aspect of our lives in this way: relationally, emotionally (what would this do to depression?), health-wise (would this invite wholeness?). Are we lacking in something? Is there an area where we do not have enough? What if we thanked for the bit that we already have, expectantly waiting for God to multiply it to fill the entire need?

It's the difference between saying "Thank you" because I'm a dutiful and good girl and saying "Thank you" because the Giver is good and I believe Him to be so.

What do you think?

Canada's Really Big

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9vxDDcTc64c&feature=related

On The Tube

Have you already seen this one?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zENySdFr7M4

One Part Panic, Three Parts Pity-Party

Sometimes we need a little shake-up, a little smack upside the head. But the needing doesn't make the getting any more enjoyable. Hearing the truth about ourselves burns hot and sharp. If we let it, that truth will offer broader thinking, deeper understanding, greater compassion.

...do you say, "I'm not going to be offered up just yet, I do not want God to choose my work. I want to choose the scenery of my own sacrifice; I want to have the right kind of people watching and saying, 'Well done.'"

It is one thing to go on the lonely way with dignified heroism, but quite another thing if the line mapped out for you by God means being a door-mat under other people's feet. Suppose God wants to teach you to say, "I know how to be abased" ~ are you ready to be offered up like that?

Are you ready to be not so much as a drop in a bucket ~ to be so hopelessly insignificant that you are never thought of again in connection with the life you served? Are you willing to spend and be spent; not seeking to be ministered unto, but to minister?

Some saints cannot do menial work and remain saints because it is beaneath their dignity...

~O. Chambers~

What's That You Said, Sonny?

Yesterday, in a very cool floating encounter (It involved a shrill, irate, and fast-moving Co-op cashier, the so-stylin' driver of a PT Cruiser, and a displaced Vancouverite) a twenty-something year old young man told me he wished I was his mom.

Seriously?

I'm not even forty.

And he wishes I was his mother? Not, possibly, his sister? Or a favorite cousin? Nuh uh.

These floating encounters address all sorts of issues, let me tell you. I'll let you know if I have even a scrap of pride left when this strange river ride is over.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go shine my walker and pop my heart medicine.

*sigh*

Betty

"Wrist Slap" has generated some heated off-blog discussion and I hope that my responses to the comments posted on-blog aren't too strident, too certain. I wonder if I tell you Betty's story it will help to clarify where I'm coming from?



Betty showed up on our doorstep on a chilly winter Friday evening sometime last year. January, maybe? Or February? We had a house full of teenagers at the time (Despite our absence from church, our boys are still involved in Friday night events.).When the doorbell rang I opened the front door to find a diminutive, harshly-aging, tired-eyed woman.

Thin, dry, badly colored hair crowned her life worn head. She was so small. So done in. She held a wicker basket full of various loonie-store wares. She'd clustered used tea-lights and holders into one bundle and tied it with a worn Christmas ribbon. Foil wrapped Christmas chocolates were pulled together into another small, brightly colored package. An assortment of patch sized Christmas fabrics was tucked between several other mismatched oddities.

Would I, she wondered, be interested in buying some of her wares?

The house was throbbing with energy and activity behind me. One of the youth mom's was sitting just feet from me on the living room couch. The timing was bad and the situation so peculiar. The woman was so obviously embarrassed by her own request. I couldn't imagine that she'd had any success in peddling her used and outdated items anywhere else on the street.

I asked her to Wait right there, okay? while I went in search of some cash.

As I ransacked the giveaway tin, yanking out a few not-enough bills for my new acquaintance, I was rapid firing questions toward Heaven. What to do? How to help? Was this enough? And why on earth was this woman on our doorstep, of all places?

I met the tiny woman at the door and asked her name. Betty. The name suited her somehow. Petite. Feminine. From another time.

How did you come to be on my doorstep, Betty? I wondered as I rifled through her basket, choosing the used tea-lights and their colored glass holders.

Just drove. I don't even know where I am...Do you know where I am?

I tucked my bills in amongst the bits and scraps left behind in her bin. I asked more questions. Questions about where she'd sleep (she had a home in the trailer park) and if she had food at home and what more she might need.

Betty told a heartbreaking story of a cross-Canada flight from a cruel husband. Two of her children, she said, were dead and the living one lived far away. She was alone. She was alone. She was alone.

I asked if she need clothing or a hot shower. No to all.There was nothing left to ask and nothing more to offer. Betty, I fumbled, the few dollars I've given you today are not enough. They cannot touch your heartache or help you in the long run. I'm going to just go grab a little more cash, and then, would it be okay if we talked with my God together?

What was she going to say? One of the indignities that comes with reliance on the gifts of another is that you are obligated to abide by their conditions. I wrestle with this aspect of giving every time. But I scuttled back to the giveaway tin, grabbed a larger sum this time, and slipped it underneath her remaining merchandise.

I held out my hands in an offer of touch. Betty took hold of my two in her tiny one. She hung on so tightly. So tightly. And I talked with Jesus while she stood on my front porch and wept.

I offered an embrace as I said a mumbled, Amen. Betty clung to me, thanked me effusively, and was gone.

I wrestled with the significance of that encounter for many, many weeks. Why had she found our doorstep that night? Where did she find the desperation and the courage to bring her second-hand goods to the door to sell? Did God meet her that Friday night? Will He pursue her? Love her? Rescue her? Was her story true? Does it matter? At all? Was I faithful to my Jesus?

I was ruminating on her story, still, a long time later when I chanced to mention it to my friend, Trina. If you know Trina, then the next bit of wisdom will not surprise you at all:

Sandi, she said as I finished my tale, can't you see that Betty is us? She's just exactly like us. Eyes moist with tears, she ably contained the sadness, the frustrated anger, the intensity behind her own words.

She continued, We go to God with our "gifts," our offering, our goods-for-sale and ask if He'll please accept them. Because they're the best we can give at the time. They're all we have. And He doesn't poke fun at what we're bashfully offering in our worn wicker baskets. He doesn't slam the door in our face or turn away in embarrassment Himself. He takes that basket in His own hands and accepts every bit we've given.

Betty didn't arrive on my doorstep so that I could help her. God put her on my porch so that she could help me.

In Betty were embodied lessons in humility and honesty, servanthood and grace. She was a living picture of how freely accepted we are by our God. The One who gives Life, gives Grace, gives Freedom does so without scorn or favoritism or arrogance. He gives because He is Love.

The gifts I offer Him, my "goods for sale" are antiquated and shoddy. They don't warrant a passing glance. But He takes them in hand, acknowledges their craftsmanship (knowing the artisan so well as He does), and says, Yes, Little One. These are lovely. I'll take them all. I'll pay full price ~ I'll pay the ultimate price.

This lifestyle of listening and giving is all about learning, I think. As you have so generously responded with your thoughts on when to share and when to withhold, I am reminded that we all have something to contribute to each other's process in this. And we all have bits that we need to learn because, like Betty, our offerings could use a little work. But Betty is where I'm coming from.

The Jesus we are growing to know and love gives to us without any assumption that we'll do right by Him. In fact, He knows we'll likely abuse, ignore, even scorn His gift. And He gives it anyway while accepting the meagerness that we give Him in return.