To Grow a Heart

Ezekiel 11:19 I will give them an undivided heart and put a new spirit in them; I will remove from them their heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh.

God is growing me back into my heart. He started by reintroducing me to joy. On Sunday, I escaped my rising sun-setting dread by accepting my friend's invitation to sleep over at her house. Like a Thomas Kincade painting, her house was bright and inviting inside when I arrived in the dark, and her two children in whom I delight came running to the door to see me the moment I stepped inside. They love me because I hold them by their ankles and swing them in the air, or fireman-carry them upstairs to bed, frequently (but accidentally) bumping them into walls and furniture on the way. It's amazing how this mild act of violence elicits such powerful mutual affection and joy. On Wednesday, I went out with my "French" friends, Jen and Stuart, to a Chinese restaurant where we shared some excellent Mandarin chicken. I (sort of) taught Jen how to use chop-sticks. Then we walked across the street to the Pages bookstore in Kensington for the poetry reading and celebration of Writing the Land's publication. Writing the Land is a collection of poems written by Albertan poets and collected by a brand new Albertan publishing company, called House of Blue Skies, about the land of Alberta and authors' connections to it. Jen's favourite poem by Stuart, Weaselhead Variations, which he read to her on their first date as they walked through Weaselhead Park (AWWWWW), is in the book, so he was invited to come read it aloud at the book launch. He did so proudly. Afterwards, Jen and I congregated to chat with a few other non-writers while Stuart, a social butterfly at heart, wandered around talking to the many people he knows at poetry readings. When most of the room had cleared out, Stuart returned and informed Jen that he and his friend Rob were going out to a pub for some male bonding time, so he'd walk her to her car and kiss her good-night. Then, as he wrapped his arm around her to steer her out, he turned to a woman we'd been chatting with and asked, "Want to come along?" While I silently started laughing my head off behind him, Jen and the other woman simultaneously dropped their jaws in shock, then verbally jumped him like the Papparrazi jumped on Princess Di with their cameras. I was still laughing when I left Jen and Stuart making out...I mean up...on a street corner to catch my train home. At the train station, I sat down in the shelter to begin recording this story in my journal, when a young man sitting across from me interrupted with, "Excuse me, sorry to bother you, but..." which is usually followed with either, "do you know which train I'd need to get to ____?" or "do you know what time it is?" I lifted my head from my writing to acknowledge him and was somewhat surprised when his question was "is it always like this?" I glanced around to try and get some clue as to what he was talking about. I didn't see anything unusual or alarming: a homeless man with a shopping cart walked resolutely down the sidewalk, a few teen-agers huddled together smoking cigarettes against the side of the graffitied convenience store, and the sound of sirens floated from somewhere in the distance. We were on the 8th Street down-town train platform at about 10:00 pm. "You mean like with the shopping carts and stuff?" I asked, examining him more carefully this time. He nodded. Outsider. "Um, yeah," I said, "We call this corner 'Crack Macs'." "Are you serious?!" he asked, paling. Definitely an outsider. Yet, I was surprised by his concern. Deep circles under his eyes indicated pro-longed sleep-deprivation; slightly dirty-looking loose jeans, faux-fur lined skater hoodie, and a faded black baseball cap with a silver spider web embroidered on the front suggested he was some sort of tradesman or construction worker. He blended right in. Curious now, I asked, "Where are you from?" So he told me his story. He'd recently moved to Red Deer from Ontario. He'd come to Calgary this week to do some sight-seeing of sorts. In his own words, "Worst two days of my life." Apparently, his very first day here he was beaten up and robbed of his wallet, which of course contained all his money, ID, credit cards, etc. He reported the crime to city police, but they weren't able to help him. Trying to remember what I'd suggest if I were at the DC, I asked if he'd tried calling Victim's Assistance. "Well," he said, "the police gave me this piece of paper with all these numbers on it. I don't know what they're all for. Man, I was so mad! They gave me the number for a homeless shelter. I went there and there were people sleeping all over the floor. I asked them if they could help me get bus money to go home, because the bus station said they'd sell me a ticket back to Red Deer for $18.50, but they were like, 'We don't do that here, but you can sleep on the floor if you like.' So I was like, 'F*** this, I'm leaving.' And I've been asking people for change for 12 hours, but all I've got is $2.60 so far." Wincing in sympathy, I acknowledged that Calgarians have become pretty closed-fisted since the city population exploded and housing costs shot up, leaving a lot of people homeless and the rest de-sensitized to their pain. "That's cold, man," he shook his head. A plan beginning to form in my head, I inquired when his bus was supposed to leave. "11:30. But there's no way I'll be able to get the money by then," he said glumly, "An' I feel so stupid asking people for change. I'm not a bum. I have a home. I have money. I just can't get to it." I stared off into space, thinking. He cocked his head to the side and waved, "Hello-o." I shook my head, "Sorry. I was just thinking. You said the ticket costs $18?" When he nodded, I told him, "Wait here." Then I swung my bag over my shoulder and walked off. Since he didn't follow me, I walked the few blocks to my bank, listening to see if God would warn me off. Not at all. I withdrew $20 from my account and put it in my pocket. I generally don't carry much cash on me because it's not all that safe of a practice in Calgary...he's definitely an outsider. I walked back to the station and almost didn't see him, but he called to me from below where he was having a cigarette. Discretely pulling the bill from my pocket and handing it to him (it's a good thing no cops were around or it really would have looked like a drug deal), I told him to go home. His face visibly brightening, he said, "Hey, thanks! You have a good heart." Uncomfortable with praise, I shrugged, "Nobody wants to get stranded." Switching topics, I reminded him to make sure he had all his ID and credit cards, etc. canceled ASAP. Grinning, he told me he'd already gotten that done, then waved farewell and started to walk towards the bus depot. "God bless," I called out the abbreviated farewell blessing as an afterthought, and sat back down in the train shelter. A moment later, a knock on the shelter glass interrupted my journal writing a second time. I looked up and found the stranded Red Deerian staring back at me. I got up and went back out to the railing to see what he wanted. "Are you a Christian?" he asked without preamble. "Yes." I waited. "So am I," he said, then stared at his feet, "Well, I used to be, anyway." So then he told me more of his story- what had brought him to Alberta in the first place. He used to be a youth pastor in a very large and televised church in Ontario. "But I was a do-er, not a be-er," he admitted. Like so many church leaders set on a pedestal, he burned out fast and, as he put it, "I decided 'Screw it' and headed west." He was currently working his way back toward God. We talked about church structure leadership demands, about God's forgiveness and grace. As my train approached, he told me his name. "I'm David," he said, holding out his hand. "Faye," I responded, shaking his hand. It was cold. Then, waving farewell, I got on my train, and he walked away toward the bus depot. I wished I'd stayed a little longer to hear more of his story. I trust God got him to the bus depot safely. God spoke to both of us through our chance encounter. And I think the message was essentially the same; to David- "Come home. I'm still watching over you. I love you." To me- "Your heart is good. I'm still with you. I love you." I can love.

Galatians 2:20 I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.

Sunday I drove to Dalhousie to visit my friend Dave at his new church, Harvest Christian Fellowship. Out of boredom or annoyance I've been skipping or ignoring sermons at my own church for months now. I was therefore not prepared when their worship service was interrupted by various church members who freely came to the front and read portions of scripture, devotionals, or sang on-the-spot prophesies and prayers over the group as they felt called by the Spirit. They spoke Ezekiel 11:19 over us, saying that some of us felt dry, dead, and unable to receive God's love, but God would give us new life again if we would prophecy over the deadness. I wouldn't do it, though I wanted to. A tension of opposites. I felt a sudden urge to escape or become invisible. Then they hang out chatting and drink coffee for a while. I escaped to the washroom while Dave went out for a smoke. Wow, it's like High School all over again. I've totally regressed to my previous level of social awkwardness. Rather than trying to talk to someone I didn't know, I sat back down and journaled until the sermon began. It was short- just a blessed 30 minutes- but impactful. The pastor preached on the story of Joseph, son of Israel. Point after point, I felt skewered. He spoke of how we are called to hear the word and to do. To take in and store, then to give to others what we've been given. He talked about how it appears that God in his mercy helped Joseph forget his dream for a time. When he was appointed second in command to pharaoh, he went immediately to work, trusting the authority given him by God and Pharaoh would be accepted wherever he went in Egypt. He forgot his father's house, married the daughter of a priest of Ra, had two sons. He was able to step back and focus on the tasks before him, let his past go, so that when his brothers arrived he was in the right place, the right heart, to live out his dream the way God planned it. I've never really heard Joseph's story like that. And it killed me. Which is good. You see, I've been feeling very stuck in many places in my life right now. Unable to find the motivation to get my school work done, stuck in oscillating states of apathy or depression, unable to stick it out with the young adults at my church after their new pastor quit and they reverted back to their safe weekly bible studies that make me want to scream. I know God told me to be there, told me I needed to teach them some new things, and I have felt no release to give up and go somewhere else. But since I joined the young adults group last winter, I have been completely unsuccessful in fitting in, making myself join them regularly, getting to know them as individuals, or allowing them to know me. I can't lead them, God. They don't trust me (understandably so). Why would they listen to me? They won't, God replied, but they will listen to me.

Philippians 4:13 I can do everything through him who gives me strength.

So here I am not. Because it's not I who lives, but Christ lives in me. And although I probably do not have the courage to face that whole group and ask their forgiveness for judging them and avoiding them, or to ask the leaders if they'd let me get involved in helping them in whatever God is leading them in, Christ has courage to spare. And although I don't deserve to be accepted to their group after the way I've behaved toward them, they love Christ and welcome him in their midst. And although I still don't know how to balance work, school, family, friends, and church demands, Christ has got rhythm and moves that would put Elvis Presley to shame. "I love you. I love you, do you hear me? Now GET UP!" Trinity commanded Neo, lying shot and bloody on the floor. Neo's eyes opened and he rose to his feet to crush his enemies and return to his heart, his home (Matrix, 1999, Warner Brothers Pictures).

I can love, and I can work.

Another Side of the Moon

Piece of Glass words and music by Derek Webb and Danielle Young, performed by Caedman's Call, Long Line of Leavers album. Can't believe that I did it again, wake me up from this nightmare 'Cause this monster is wasting me away and taking my days Every day I live a bit less, one night leads to another Even if I went back would they recognize me? or criticize me? Who are you that lies when you stare at my face? Telling me that I'm just a trace of the person I once was 'Cause I just can't tell if you're telling the truth or a lie On you I just can't rely, After all you're just a piece of glass Still I control this nightmare, when I call it answers But I can't tell it when to come or when to stay Don't talk, listen Hold me tighter Stay with me just for a while Until the sun shines stay with me Just give me one more day Who are you that lies when you stare at my face? Telling me that I'm just a trace of the person I once was 'Cause we're not the same, you're just a picture of me You're gone as soon as I leave, you've lived your life for me And you're no more than a piece of glass You're no more than just a piece of glass

If I had the motivation to actually produce a self-portrait today, it would be on a square canvass, produced with watered-down acrylics and gold, silver, red, black, and grey pens. I would paint myself sitting alone, my face devoid of emotion. But no one but my artist would know that fact, because my features are hopelessly blurred and obscured by layers upon layers of words- the endless circling thoughts I can't purge from my mind, even when asleep. It's probably a good thing my thoughts are cyclical- they're the only part of me left that remains three dimensional. The rest of me is flat, faded, and parched- a sun-bleached poster facing out of a neglected shop window.... or one of those creepy spinning blocks at the Toronto Science Centre where four individuals' faces are pasted on four sides of a cube, then the cube is sliced into 3 layers so that eyebrows, eyes and nose, and mouth may be separated and recombined to form facial expressions of the basic human emotions according to the subjective whim of strangers. I don't think I can call this week "depression". The correct clinical term would characterize this short-term experience as "flat affect," which simply means "devoid of or lacking in emotion". "Zoe," Mel, Captain of the Serenity, looks at his second in command, "Are you here?" "To the job, sir," she replies stoically. "Hold, hold until I get back," he requests as much as commands. Her leaf on the wind is gone (Serenity, 2005, Universal Studios). Nothing was. She was not. There was no dark. There was no light. No sight nor sound nor touch nor smell nor taste. No sleeping nor waking. No dreaming, no knowing. Nothing. And then a surge of joy. All senses alive and awake and filled with joy. Darkness was, and darkness was good. As was light. Light and darkness dancing together, born together, born of each other, neither preceding, neither following, both fully being, in joyful rhythm. The morning stars sang together and the ancient harmonies were new and it was good. It was very good. And then a dazzling star turned its back on the dark, and it swallowed the dark, and in swallowing the dark it became dark, and there was something wrong with the dark, as there was something wrong with the light. And it was not good. The glory of the harmony was broken by screeching, by hissing, by laughter which held no merriment but was hideous, horrendous cacophony... "Where are we?" [Charles Wallace] asked, wanting Gaudior to tell him that they were not in his own Where, that this could not possibly be the place of the star-watching rock, of the woods, only a few minutes' walk from the house. Gaudior's words trembled with concern. "We're still here, in your own Where, although it is not yet a real When." "Will it be?" "It is one of the Projections we have been sent to try to prevent. The Echthroi will do everything in their power to make it real." A shudder shook the boy's slight frame as he looked around at the devastated landscape. "Gaudior- what do we do now?" "Nothing. You mustn't loosen your hold on my mane. They want us to do something, and anything we do might be what they need to make this Projection real." "Can't we get away?" The unicorn's ears flicked nervously. "It's very difficult to find a wind to ride when one has been blown into a Projection." -A Swiftly Tilting Planet (1978) Madeleine L'Engle, pp. 49-50, 69.

My Many Colored Days (1996) Dr. Seuss, illustrations by Steve Johnson & Lou Fancher

Some days are yellow. Some are blue. On different days I'm different too. You'd be surprised how many ways I change on different colored days. On Bright Red Days how good it feels to be a horse and kick my heels! On other days I'm other things. On Bright Blue Days I flap my wings. Some days, of course, feel sort of brown. Then I feel slow and low, low down. Then comes a Yellow Day. And, WHEEEEEEEEEEE I am a busy, buzzy bee. Gray Day...Everything is gray. I watch. But nothing moves today. Then all of a sudden I'm a circus seal! On my Orange Days that's how I feel. Green Days. Deep deep in the sea. Cool and quiet fish. That's me. On Purple Days I'm sad. I groan. I drag my tail. I walk alone. But when my days are Happy Pink it's great to jump and just not think. Then comes my Black Days. MAD. And Loud. I howl. I growl at every cloud. Then comes a Mixed-Up Day. And WHAM! I doN't KNow wHo or WhaT i aM! But it all turns out all right, you see. And I go back to being...me.

This post is becoming exceedingly long, I know. I won't apologize. I needed to process. But you are permitted to take breaks when your eyes are burning from staring at a glowing screen. A song, a movie, a book, a poem, borrowed words, stolen time. Concentrate. You can do it. It's just a three page paper. And you love thematic analysis. You've had harder assignments in High School. But it has to be perfect and I'm flawed and I'm tired and I can't focus and I'm scared of failing and I can't I can't I can't. It's just...a three...page...paper!!! You're not expected to find every last theme in the book, just the obvious ones. Come on, it's due by the end of the week and you need to be moving onto other things. Jen wants you to come out to the book publishing party tomorrow night. GET IT DONE! Television. I watched five episodes of Hogan's Heroes on Monday night with my parents to honour the war Veterans. Neither my mom nor I had it in us to watch something realistic like Saving Private Ryan or Black Hawk Down. We roared with laughter then it was over, my parents went to bed, and I felt empty again. I sat on the floor with my dog; petted him a long time with Chasey sitting on the floor across from me, doing our best to say good-bye in a language he could understand. He's gone now. My ambivalence about going along for the last ride to the farm was taken out of my hands- my dad took him after work today, while I was at school writing another physiological psychology exam. My mom and I kept asking You to just let him die in his sleep. He wouldn't, despite his inability to swallow water without choking, despite being nothing but bones, oozing slime, and sweaty fur. Dad, Melanie, and Chasey waited out of respect for our wishes, but the hour glass sand poured out in deadly silence. Her leaf on the wind is gone. Maybe it's better this way. I didn't want my last memory of him to be watching his final breath, or touching him in a state of rigor mortise first thing in the morning on my way to breakfast. Still, it seems cowardly to want death so far removed and sterile. It's just an inevitable part of being corporal. You're just a piece of glass... "Faye, let me know ahead of time when you're going to leave. I want to pray for you before you go," Lisa requests. "All right," I agree congenially. I knew she would. That's why I came. Sindy was my prophet before, but now she lives far away and I need someone to hear for me and to tell me what they hear; no coddling, softening, or warping. Because I can't I can't I can't... First she probes my mood. She's checking to make sure there's still a range into the positive. Oddly rapid cycles of emotion for me, but, Yes. It's like a Monet- splatters of blurry colours everywhere, but there is range, I assure her. She smiles and I smile back. Messy is her word. Silence. She listens. I'm trying to do the same, I really am. Why did I write Joshua 7:13 on the wall? What's causing this fatigue? What if I'm re-living Amy's journey of visiting endless streams of doctors who all tell her the same thing: it's stress-related and really there's nothing wrong with me and I'm becoming a hypochondriac when I just need to trust God more? What if I have brain cancer and God tells me I can't seek medical treatment- I just need to have faith that He'll remove it? What if I'm supposed to be following that British spiritual teacher's advice (what is his name again? Nolan would know. Nolan has his instructional c-ds) and giving away whatever it is I need so God can play a one-up game with me and give me even more back and the only reason I'm feeling and doing so poorly is because I'm not playing right? I can't I can't I can't At last, the verdict: "I'm seeing a picture of...confusion. Your mind: a dark, swirling mass of...thoughts. But not in a healthy, processing way- chaotic." She looks at me for confirmation. "Yes!" I said, surprised and relieved. Not surprised that God told her, surprised at his answer. One sentence to sum up what I took at least ten minutes trying to describe without knowing what it really was. Normally I'm so good at sorting, labelling, and summarizing my internal being, but this time I couldn't. Lisa commands the chaos to still, to rest, to quiet. It sort of does. Lisa and Angie together: getting a sense of how much God adores you. You're so beautiful, so cherished by Him. He doesn't want anything of you, he just wants you to be still in his presence, to rest and be healed. Angie instructs me to lie down on a pillow, listen to a song she has in her head from God for me. Usually it skips but we'll see what happens. No skippage. No idea who the artist was, or what album it came off of, or the title of the song...but the chorus skips on in my head, "You are the pearl He came to find. You are the pearl He came to find." A single tear slips down my cheek and I stare at the ceiling. Why am I always the one in need of healing? Why can't I be done with this and stop wasting people's time and energy? I hate making people worry about me, hate always taking, hate being the joy sucker. I'm a black hole in space. You are the pearl He came to find. You are my treasure. The gates of heaven will be made of pearls. I was incredulous when I first read that. I couldn't understand why. There are so many prettier gems God could use for the giant gates to His city. "Pearls are formed through the suffering of an innocent," Pastor Mark informed his congregation back in the days when there still was one to preach to. "They're pieces of gravel or dirt that are stuck in the shell of an oyster, who is unsuccessful at spitting them out. The gravel gets rolled over and over in the oyster's mouth, getting coated in the same phosphorescent white coating as the inside of the oyster's shell. Sometimes the dirt or gravel gets in accidentally, other times humans 'plant' the particles in the oyster intentionally so they can later 'harvest' pearls for retail." Christ is our oyster. Sounds like a t-shirt motto. You are the pearl He came to find. I don't know what to do with that. "Basically, praise God for who He is, and come before Him. Let Him sit on your praises. Let Him be crowned King over all of you, your mind, time, emotions, your heart. The door will open, and then cry out to Him, and he will hear you. Have faith and claim the promises He's given you in His Word. Don't let Satan tempt you to despair. Don't believe any lies. Find the Truth and claim it because Jesus died for you to live in freedom. Don't let anything pull you away from reading the Living Word every day, no matter what you feel like," Amy wrote the same week. And again, "Christ needs to dwell in our hearts through faith. Everything you are doing is out of love. When that love [is absent from?] your heart, your spirit is detroned by your mind [and] we so quickly get stressed and wonder 'what is all this for?' And we are such creative people...and very special. You are very important to God, Faye, and you have something very important to do for His glory. Pray what this means: Trust the Lord with all your heart, lean not on your own understanding. I just hear God saying...be in tune with your spirit. Do not look to the world, but to God's heart. He's given you an amazing mind to grasp things, but your heart must come first or else you will fall. And just remember the first commandment: To love the Lord your God with all your heart, strength soul mind. But pray about what exactly this means. Surrender to his presence. The Holy Spirit is with you right now. He is as much God as the Father and the Son seated in heaven. God is with you! And He wants you to know Him more and discover who He is and to make your heart like His."

Joshua 7:13 "Get up! Command the people to purify themselves in preparation for tomorrow. For this is what the LORD, the God of Israel, says: Hidden among you, O Israel, are things set apart for the LORD. You will never defeat your enemies until you remove these things from among you."

The Moment

"Upon pinching our pale skin, a barely audible question escapes from our mouth: 'How are we doing?' Silence. We listen to our breathing- it is shallow and pathetic. 'Are we all right?' Slowly we shake our head. We don't want to speak- not today anyway. 'Morning,' we whisper. The word flickers in our consciousness. 'How are we feeling today?' 'Not the best,' is the apathetic reply. 'Today's going to be another bad one,' we say stoically. We feel the violence of the vortex gather pace as it screams inside our body. We twist through its complexity and pound on our corporal self. As usual, questions concerning its authenticity bob up and down in our sea of pain. How do we really feel? The word doesn't describe our feelings- does it? Surely it's unimaginable to those who have not suffered with it? People walking down the street, students, friends-whatever-nonchalantly spew it out. It seems that the word, like a slug slithering innocuously through language and culture, leaves little trace of its intrinsic malevolence. Has it become so common in everyday language? Has it lost its depth, its meaning, and its feeling? Has it been hammered into banality? we think. As always, however, we struggle for answers while our mind becomes a cesspool of ominous thoughts. We become swamped in our(selves). The torture continues in our head. How can life be filled with such torpid indifference? The little things like taking our dog for a walk in the park on a warm spring day or playing football with our friends just aren't fun anymore. We breathe and walk, we just don't live. We are detached and hollow. Under our blanket of suffocating darkness, we pretend that everything is fine, yet, we rot away from the inside. At times it spews bits out. At times it swallows us whole. At times both. No warning, bang! We move from pain to pain. We have only one future. Please God, help, we plead as our huddled body rocks back and forth. Confused and afraid, we don't want to talk anymore. 'Please leave,' we gently sob." -The Abyss: Exploring Depression Through a Narrative of the Self (1999) Brett Smith, in Qualitative Inquiry, Vol. 5, No. 2, p. 265. "I got the letter," said Marcus flatly, "Thanks." Marcus' mother covered her mouth in embarrassment: "I forgot." "You forgot?! You wrote a suicide letter!" Marcus exploded incredulously. "Well," Marcus mother threw a furtive glance in his direction, "I didn't think I'd have to remember it, did I?" Breaking the ensuing awkward silence, Marcus mother inquired tentatively, "Did you read the part where I said I'd always love you?" "It's a bit hard to love me when you're dead, isn't it?!" "Sorry." Coming to sit across from him, she said, "I can understand why you're angry, Marcus...but," she shrugged, "I don't feel the same as I did yesterday, or the day before that." "What? It's all just gone away? All that?" Marcus' eyebrow lifted in disbelief. "Well, no," admitted Marcus' mother gently, "But, at the moment, I feel better." "The moment's no good to me," exclaimed Marcus angrily, "I can see you're better at the moment. But what happens when you finish your tea?" -About a Boy (2002) Universal Pictures, starring Hugh Grant. So, God granted my wish this time. Please, please don't let anyone find me. I swear I'm not suicidal, I'm just depressed... and crying so hard that every dead leaf and blade of grass surrounding my hidden sanctuary along the river bank is slimy with tears and snot... and I would totally call EMS immediately if I found someone in my present emotional state sitting alone this close to the Bow River... Weird. I can see the bridge where my High School art teacher stopped a woman from drowning herself in the night from here. She wasn't especially grateful for the intervention. I wasn't even there and I can hear her screaming for him to leave her alone, pushing away rescue, fighting for freedom from another day spent in the Abyss. "How are you doing, Faye?" my professor asked at our meeting that afternoon. I don't want to answer that question. Not to her. Not to myself. Not to anyone. Not again. In most urban places in North America, when someone asks, "What's up?" or "How're you doing?" the standard, polite response is: "Fine" or "All right" or "Okay." In the university culture, we don't like to stoop to such trite and mindless responses. Instead, our sophisticated and suave automatic responses include complicated combinations of: "Tired" and/or "Busy," smoothly expressed with either a hint of amused self-recrimination or martyr-like patience. Particularly in the small Christian college I attend, we're a sleep-deprived, financially-strapped, stressed-out lot. And proud of it. Among our favourite pass-times, we like to have one-up competitions to see who is writing the most papers, has the hardest professor to please, is working the most volunteer and part-time (or full-time) jobs on the side, taking the most courses simultaneously, borrowing the most money from the government, surviving on the most free coffee and bread hand-outs at school, dealing with the worst personal crises, etc. Then we roll our eyes at each other, laugh, and go check our cell-phone messages, e-mail, MSN, blog-site, or facebook account to do the same thing over again. The U of C is selling brilliant minds to deserving corporations right now, did you notice? But my professor looks at me when she asks that question. "I'm...tired." I look down at the floor and try to will my throat not to close on me. She's still looking at me. I don't want to shatter I don't want to shatter I don't want to shatter. She gets up, closes the door to her office, returns her seat, looks at me. "Ok, so what's really going on?"

My throat closes and I shatter.

She offers me a box of kleenex. She gives me a three week extension on the next part of my research project, and gives me pointers on how to succeed on assignments and exams for my other classes. She wants me to see the school counsellor, book an appointment with my GP- maybe I'm depressed or maybe I have low vitamin B, take the night off and spend some quality time with a good friend- tell them how I'm doing over some really good cheesecake. She reminds me of the importance of "self-care". I know this stuff. I give nearly identical variations of it to family members, friends, and complete strangers every week when we talk about anxiety, stress, loneliness, or the "d" word. "Your work is excellent, Faye," she says emphatically, waving the third draft of my research proposal to be submitted to the ethics review board at me. "You have a natural ability. I look at you and I see a young woman who, for the first time in the five years I've known her, is defeated: you're defeated in your own mind." I nod. I know she's right. I came to the same conclusion the day before while walking home alone from the c-train. In psychology, we call it "learned helplessness," which is the belief that no matter what you do (or don't do) you can't avoid failure. You have no control over your future. This is not a normal pattern of thinking for me. But this time, I just don't see a way out. I can't concentrate to do my work because I'm exhausted and I'm too afraid of failing at anything I actually start. I've already cut back on pretty much everything there is to cut from one's social life: I go to work for one shift a month and I volunteer for 2 shifts per month. I've stopped going to church, I choose one friend to hang out with for an evening every two weeks. I don't bother eating lunch. My exercise has been reduced to a 4 block daily walk with my arthritic and cancer-ridden dog who frequently needs to stop for rests. I'm perfectly aware that it is illogical for me to be so panicked about doing poorly on my assignments: I can count on one hand (a genetically modified hand with six or seven fingers instead of five) the number of instances I have scored less than 80% on something. It's just that 4 of those times occurred within the last year, and two of those within the last two months of my life, after I studied my heart out. I failed my first attempt at a driver's license a year ago (which tends to happen when you nearly mow down pedestrians and can't remember what to do at a four way stop), failed to make the school soccer team last year, barely passed the GRE, and barely passed my first unit exam in physiological psychology. Now, some of you are rolling your eyes and thinking of all sorts of geeky losers who claim to have done "terribly" on an exam, which for them means 70%. While I understand how this is ludicrous (and rude) to someone who feels fortunate if they can get a 70%, you need to understand that (1) psychology is easy and everyone in the program has a minimum average of 78% and (2) because psychology is easy and tends to pay a great deal, graduate programs weed out the students they don't have enough room for by demanding extremely high academic scores and practical experience. It's all or nothing stakes for geeks not quite smart enough for engineering, computer programming, astrophysics, or the biological sciences. And I realized suddenly that although my long-term life plans remain desirable to me, I really don't want to live through the next five years to get there. I also suddenly realized that I didn't have anyone to talk to- at least, no one available on the spur of the moment to just go for a two hour walk, chat, and a mocha (I work once a month- I can't afford cheesecake:). And I'm lonely. Which I feel ashamed to say, because for the first time in my life I have really loyal, genuine friends who are always asking me when we can hang out next and genuinely want to know how I'm doing. If I'm lonely this time, it's my own fault. And I'm ashamed of my fear. My head knows that God will be with me wherever I go, that I'm never alone, that God will give me what I need to be, go, and do what he wants. My head knows he wants more than just "fine," "okay," "tired," "busy," or the dreaded "depressed" for me. But I can't envision it in my future. And I sure as hell can't feel it in the present moment, though not for lack of effort on God's part to get it through to me: he had my friend Jen W. send me an email telling me I'd been on her mind and prayers lately and inviting me out to a nerdy artists fest (artists are great fun and I admit I really miss that scene), he had Amy send me a card and a carefully chosen assortment of gifts all the way from Scotland, he reminded me that these phases don't last forever by crossing my path with other people even more depressed than I am who felt encouraged after talking to me, he gave my mom time to go out for ice-cream with me, he gave me a phone call from Val, and a mid-night logical but sympathetic chat with my sister Melanie, and countless on-line gifts and hellos from friends like Jen F, Melanie Roe, Lisa, and others wondering where the duece I've gone. He gave me a tender moment while hugging my borrowed niece, Rylee, and a pretty sunset tonight before the familiar feelings of dread and hopelessness took me over in the sun-light's absence. He gave me an "I'm sorry to hear that" from Jordan, who really meant it, when I gave him the abbreviated version at Trevor and Melissa's wedding (which was incredibly entertaining, by the way). Actually, God regularly gives me beautiful and fun moments with my siblings, parents, and friends. And I appreciate them and am trying really hard to live in those moments when they come my way. They're just hard to hold on to while the rest of me reads the newspaper and nearly pukes because some cocaine addicted prostitutes in Vancouver decided to torture their friend for hours with a box cutter until she died. At this moment, I'm tired, I have a head-ache, I feel melancholy, and I'm disappointed with myself for not getting more accomplished today. My thoughts seem sluggish, fragmented, and ambivalent. But it's just a moment, and maybe the next one will be different.

Change My Name

First, I need to apologize for my previous post. I've talked with a few people about my misgivings and each one told me that it was my blog and it was my right to express myself however I want. I don't care. I meant the part about suddenly seeing myself as Christ's biggest slut, but I could have said that without drawing my friend into the illustration. My camping story was purely for shock value, and to make myself look more spiritual than I really am. I'm really sorry about that. So...Oktober's post, with a nod to modern German diaspora culture...

Change My Name

I'm restive again tonight, God. So I walk. A fast walk. Long, Confident, Powerful strides; the emulation of Purpose and Importance, carrying me away to nowhere. Because I have no goal except to walk, and I know where every street leads in a ten kilometer radius. My parents' fear binds me to that limit, not unreasonably so. It's the northeast and walking alone at night just isn't safe. So I remain. My body encaged in 30 minutes, like the fire that always smolders but never consumes me from the inside out. I want my muscles to burn like my emotions do.

I go looking for a fight and You gave me one, once. At least the cold wind cooled off my face, if not this ever-present anger. It was a good storm God, but I wish You'd have sent rain. I wanted to be soaked. Cold showers just aren't the same. But if they can't get relief from Stanley Hall's Durmstrang and Durmstrong then neither shall I. Twisted metal and mutilated shopping carts stolen from the world's capitalistic retailers lie in piles along every street from Temple to Sunridge. Proud Monuments attesting to the raw passion of Youth, and the lack of identity or direction thereof.

Do you ever feel like a moving target for an unseen enemy? I didn't. At least, not until Dave suggested to me that following God leaves us with marks So every son of the devil and his snake can read your name and know EXACTLY who you are in Christ. Throw

Down

Your

Gauntlet. 'Cause them 2 Corinthians 10:3-6 is fightin' words.

Saul became Paul, Sarai became Sarah, Abram became Abraham, Simon became Peter, and when Jacob had a wrestling match with an angel and became Israel, his hip was put out of joint. So's mine. But I don't know if I really want to ask God for a name change. Marilyn means “bitter,” being a derivation of Mara, whom Naomi became after drought and an alien land took her home, husband, and both of her sons. But it's been in the family for three generations now and I hate to break tradition. Faye means “faith” and it's the name I use for all things practical. Archer implies a soldier with more than one good eye to see a war clearly and act on it with deadly precision. Maybe this means God won't change my name until I get married. Hope at last.

Still, Sindy became Bubba unofficially, and I want to know: what does that sign on my forehead say, God?

It's a crop circle, of course. It says: “You are mine, all mine, yes, you are. (muah, muah, muah, muah).”

The Biggest Slut Since Gomer

Last Thursday one of my friends (I will call her "Betty") called me up and asked if I wanted to come camping with her and some of her friends. I thought, Sweet! One last camping hurrah before I spend the next eight months seeking ulcer treatment due to stress. Plus, Betty and I were not able to reconcile schedules much during the summer and I had missed hanging out with her. So I accepted. She told me the details were on facebook and, being a now somewhat experienced tent-camper, I knew it'd be wise to find out where we were going so I could check the weather and pack appropriate clothing. I checked on Friday morning. The description for this innocent little diversion read, "Camping at Bow Valley: Shit happens when you party naked. Clothing optional." Riiiight. Fortunately, the thing about Betty is, when she says stuff like that she's really only half-kidding. Well, this will be interesting...

Friday afternoon I left my family a vague note letting them know where I was going and asking them to pray for me. Then we packed my stuff into Betty's truck and headed out to pick up the other party planner, a cool young woman I will call "Suzy". Grinning as we were introduced, Suzy reassured me that even though they'd accidentally invited all 400 people on their facebook friend lists, they were pretty sure only about 10 other people (mostly guys) would come out. Well, camping was interesting.

Just not in the way you're expecting. I never did figure out where Bow Valley was so I packed clothing in accordance with Calgary's forecast. Apparently, Bow Valley is in the mountains. It was cold. And wet. We were cold. And wet. And, thank you merciful God, alone. The miserable weather (and subsequent text messaging) deterred all but two of Suzy's friends, a very fun couple who drove all the way out in Saturday night's hail so they could bring Suzy some hot chocolate in a thermos (we forgot to bring either a kettle or a pot for cooking things) and hang out with us around the camp fire for a few hours as it poured. I should mention that the fire wasn't ours. In addition to scaring off Betty and Suzy's plethora of potential weekend suitors, God provided us with some super cool pseudo-parents who looked out for us the whole weekend.

This is how we met them: "Wow, nice choice!" said the girl at registration admiringly when we finally found our way there. "You know, people have fist fights over this spot during the summer. Well, have fun!" After just a few wrong turns we found our spot...and someone in it. They were registered for a spot with the same number but in a different section of the camp ground. After some debate over the ethics of throwing someone out of a spot which they had mistakenly taken, Betty got out of the truck and knocked politely on their trailer. A minute or two later, a man who looked to be a little older than my dad swaggered out, insisting with some irritation that Betty call "the girlie" at registration about it because he was in the right spot. He soon conceded defeat, however, and a few minutes later he and his wife drove out to find their proper spot. With the exception of a tent cover more than twice the size of our tent for which we couldn't figure out the intended direction for the life of us, we set up quite easily and were just beginning to build a fire when the man we had recently evicted strode up. Looking rather abashed, he introduced himself and told us his wife had sent him to apologize for being rude and mean. Repairs were easily made and he invited us to come visit them at their new site some time.

We did, the next morning. After listening with much amusement and sympathy as Betty and Suzy regaled "Matt" and his wife, "Sharon," with stories of past parties and relationships, poor Matt choked on his twizzler when they mentioned that they had invited all 400 of their facebook acquaintances. "Four hundred strange men invited to come party naked with three single girls at a campsite?!" he spluttered, "Thank God I never had daughters!" Thus, in addition to serving us candy and hot chocolate, sending us back to our campsite with cedar kindling he cut for us (our ax head fell off its handle while I was using it to cut kindling), setting up a log-cabin for fire-starting while we were off on a walk, and coming to offer us the shelter of their trailer for as long as needed when our tents became incurably drenched with rain and hail Saturday night (we also forgot to bring a tarp), Matt also made it his mission to come check and make sure we weren't being equally deluged with jerk men and gave us no less than 6 very firm but kind lectures on the dangers of giving out such invitations to so many male acquaintances because, "Being one myself, I know- men are dirty asses!" Betty also received no less than 3 very kind but firm lectures on the dangers of driving 140 km/hr in a 4X4 truck on the highway while simultaneously changing the track on her stereo and typing/reading text messages to/from her boyfriend. Betty just laughed at him but was very touched by their concern, nonetheless.

Anyways, so I'll bet you're wondering what this grand adventure has to do with the long-dead prostitute wife of Hosea. Um, well, the connection struck me when Sharon commented, with much awe and admiration after hearing many Betty party/relationship stories, "Wow, you're a bitchy slut!" Sharon didn't mean it as an insult and Betty didn't take it as one. But that didn't make it an inaccurate description, much to my discomfort. I know you’re more than this Betty, but at the moment I don’t have a clue what you should be.

I've tried many times to analyze why Betty and I are friends. We really have very little in common apart from years of shared company, but even that is bizarre given that we've never attended the same school or lived in the same neighbourhood. Betty and I share a common love of animals, reading (usually not the same books), ancient Celtic culture, and 3 movies (The Princess Bride, Clueless, and 10 Things I Hate About You). That’s about it. And I am never more acutely aware of our differences than when we hang out with Betty’s other friends and I get to hear and experience the unedited versions of her dramatic life stories. Her life choices frequently make me sad for her. It’s hard to watch her destroy herself, convinced it’s her destiny and identity to do so. It’s hard to watch her take the same path as her mother, whom she despises. It’s even harder to realize and admit how similar we are under the surface.

Amy came to visit for a few weeks this summer. She’s been struggling through many random physical ailments with no apparent causes and was in a substantial amount of pain pretty much the entire time she stayed with us. One night as she lay awake crying from a particularly excruciating episode, she began confessing some things to God and pleaded yet again with him to take the pain away. The pain did lessen significantly then and God told her to go back to sleep. She described it as “falling asleep in the arms of Jesus.” I felt convicted the moment she finished telling me this story. I fall asleep almost every night by imagining myself in the comforting strength of my husband’s arms. The problem is, at the moment, I have no husband apart from God himself. If I consider my self to be a part of the Church, who is described as being the bride of Christ, then I’m the biggest slut since Hosea’s wife, Gomer. What a repulsive thought. Quite fortunately, neither Betty nor I are condemned to our slut personas forever. Since Christ died for us, knowing full well what “bitchy sluts” we’d be to him, we can find a new identity in Christ. And, like the hoochy Gomez, I too must begin with repentance, walking away from the lovers I don’t belong to and returning to the one who knows my heart, mind, soul, and body intimately and loves me unconditionally.

Riding In Cars Without Boys and Other Cathartic Philosophical Musings of an Urban Gypsy

My life has become something of an incomprehensible jumble of traveling from work to volunteering to visiting one friend or another for crisis management or fun with an occasional stop at home to restock clothes and meds and usually one day a week at home to get caught up on errands and studying (in theory, anyways). Consequently, this post is a series of mostly unrelated topics which you can read through or skip over at your leisure because my primary motivation for writing is simply to try to sort out my muddled thoughts. Lobbying for Social Justice, Simplified Starting now and running until the end of December, the Alberta government is taking public input on how it should spend it's money in 2008. To make this easier, the government has a web-site explaining how the 2007 budget was allocated and offering an on-line poll regarding how you believe the 2008 provincial budget should be distributed. It doesn't take very long to fill out, being mainly ranking-type questions with a few spaces for written comments. If you're confused about what each category would include (as I was), read through the whole survey first-most categories list a few general components. For example, apparently "infrastructure" includes not only roads but also schools and hospitals. Guys, you can call me a geek all you want to but I was soooooo excited when someone introduced this web-site to me. I have this "guilt list" on my fridge, which has been reminding me all summer that I ought to write well-researched papers on social justice issues ranging from my peeves with everything from housing issues to health care and education to the environment. My rants are directed as follows: (1) To the municipal government for failure to (a) put out a temporary rent cap, (b) failure to put a moratorium on destroying low-cost housing down-town to build luxury condos and apartments instead, and (c) failure to either build its own subsidized housing or allow the Mustard Seed to build subsidized housing on the down-town land proposed. (2) To the provincial government for (a) putting a cap on wind energy and allowing tar-sands development despite complaints from local residents that their water sources are being poisoned with methane gas as a result and (b) for limiting entry to special needs schools for the disabled only to those with severe physical disabilities (due to the new Amber rating system) and (c) the insufficient financial support afforded to those on AISH or fleeing from abusive relationships or the professionals expected to help them. (3) To the federal government for charging foreigners huge amounts of money to enter our country and then not allowing them to use their degrees in health care, education, and industry once they've arrived, thereby impoverishing them and maintaining worker shortages. Anyways, all these things can be directed to the provincial government without the inconvenience of buying postage. Even if they refuse to accept responsibility for various issues themselves, the provincial government will at least be motivated to lay the buck on someone else and the issues should (hopefully) still receive attention somewhere. Terrifying the Paramours Funny story. So my cute little sister Melanie has been un-dating this guy from work for months now. If you're wondering what the term "un-dating" could possibly mean, then let me clarify: it means you're guess is as good as ours and unless you want to be ninja-kicked to the South Pacific then you should neither ask Melanie to define the relationship nor attempt to label it for her. Back to my story: The Un-dated came to our door last night to pick up Melanie so the two of them could go out for dessert at BP. My dear, friendly, hospitable mother told him she was going to go get some grass-hopper pie for me and her self and asked him if he'd like to come in for some as well, then proceeded to walk out the door. She laughed until she couldn't breathe at his stupefied facial expression of horror and after retrieving the dessert from the second fridge we have in our garage, left Melanie to explain that Grass Hopper Pie is actually a green-coloured chocolate and mint marshmallow square. This, of course, comes the night after our dad jokingly gave The Un-dated some fine dating advice and nearly caused the Un-dated's brain to explode with wonder at the first dad ever to encourage him in a serious relationship with his daughter. Before you get the false impression that this is an evil conspiracy by our parents to stun unsuspecting prospective paramours into marrying their children, let me assure you that it's truly a full-family venture. Nolan, for example, gleaned suggestions for over 50 intrusive and ridiculous-want-to-get-to-know-you-better-competition questions to ask his girlfriend from each of his siblings plus 3 of his under-age cousins (Ben, Adam, and Joel). Riding in Cars Without Boys On Thursday night, I drove out to a very young, beautiful, small city just out-side Edmonton with a friend, whom I will call Sarah (because every girl and her ferret is named Sarah). We stayed with Sarah's parents until Monday to celebrate her young son's birthday. We will call her son Matt (because every man and his dog is named Matt). Matt, along with Sarah's daughter, are staying with their grandparents for a few weeks so they can go to a Christian camp nearby and give Sarah a much needed break from the life of single parenting. The party was fun, I was delighted to find out that despite my incompetency fears I am capable of playing with children of a variety of ages for more than 10 minutes without accidentally killing them (ok, ok, so I wasn't the one responsible for planning games this time...), and I enjoyed the lively chaos so reminicent of my own family's gatherings. I was very proud of Sarah, too: despite her dire predictions of a total emotional breakdown over having her wallet (and potentially her identity) stolen Friday morning, the said melt-down never occurred and her stress was poured logically into contacting the proper authorities as soon as possible. Still, Sarah and I were both ready to escape to the quiet and freedom of the open road home Monday, and after a few unforeseen delays we did. Long, unchallenging car rides, like time spent in the bathroom, are highly conducive to thinking about the more convoluted matters in life, and this particular drive had Sarah gravely musing alternately about the abusive and controlling relationship her "baby" sister has decided to remain in and Sarah's continued inability to find a willing Christian man to act as a mentor to her very difficult-to-handle young son. The topics sound disparate, but they're not; Sarah's brother-in-law is the sort of man Sarah used to be married to and is terrified her own son will one day become if not turned from his present course. I grieved with her. Matt's lack of mentorship is not due to negligence on Sarah's part. After her former fiance decided that he could not conscionably marry her when he doesn't love her children, Sarah has asked men- responsible married fathers -at 3 different churches if they would act as a mentor just for an hour or two once a week to her son. Each time she was promised, "Oh, yes, yes, oh course we'll help you," then the brave male spiritual leader would meet with her son once or never at all. Sarah's own good-natured father has no patience for Matt and therefore spends no time with him; likewise, Sarah's beloved but busy brother has never paid any significant attention to Matt when he's around. Not even counting Matt's biological dad (who has "forgotten" to send child support payments 2 months in a row yet again), that makes 6 good Christian men who failed to meet the obvious need of a young boy for a father figure. Now, I will be the first to admit that I am no Arwyn or Guinevere, but this case and many others like it beg the question: Where are the Aragorns and Lancelots of the world, the leaders who fight for a cause greater than themselves and make it a priority to train less experienced hobbits and warriors to do the same? Where are the wise and venerable old Sages and Druids like Getafix in The Adventures of Asterix and Obelix or Old Rafiki in Lion King or Gandalf the Grey in The Lord of the Rings? They do exist- I have been greatly blessed to know a few. But they are a few and they're typically stretched to the limit doing the work of 20 men. I don't want this story to end in despair. Despair is not from God. We prayed for Sarah's sister and brother-in-law, then I offered to read John Elridge's The Way of the Wild Heart. I've felt like I was supposed to introduce Sarah to this book for some time. I bought this book because (a) it was on sale and (b) the question of where boys learn to become men when their own father is absent, insufficient, or down-right harmful has been increasingly on my mind for the last few years, especially since some of my newer best friends (like Sarah) are mothers to sons. I read through the intro, then chapters 1, 2, and 3 before my voice was so raw I couldn't read any more. Sarah drove and cried and occasionally made some comment to the effect of: "Ah, I don't think that applies only to men" or "My son is doomed, isn't he?" In his book, Elridge states that boys must go through a series of stages in life to attain true masculinity, and that mastering each stage requires initiation by other more experienced men. He moreover charges that most boys and men today (at least in the western world) are lacking in initiation, and are for all practical purposes fatherless orphaned half-men/boys in men's bodies with men's responsibilities. Hence the "My son is doomed" comment from Sarah. But Elridge isn't a dooms-day prophet: he also proposes that God is our true Father and can teach boys how to be men and warriors and kings and lovers and wise sages using challenges, daily hassles, and people around them. And that thought actually connects to my final muse. Read on, Bravehearts. Houdini It's been a good summer. Really. The last time I've played so much without trying to be 19 peoples' best friend was in grade 3. And I don't think I've ever had so little fear about being able to pay for the next year's tuition since I began University 4 years ago. I've enjoyed visits from 3 old friends (Denise, Amy, and Val); I held my new-born baby niece, proudly christened Rylee Anne Oash by her parents Jeana and Tyler; I went on my first independent camping trip with Charis to the GIC Young Adults summer tenting excursion in the Waiporous/Ghost River area of the foothills (yes, complete with the traditional getting lost component); I had my first taste of planning and experiencing a back-packing trip in the mountains when Nolan, Samantha, Chasey and I had a sibling bonding trip at Ribbon Falls (so beautiful there); I was privileged to attend my friend Skye's private opera recital (she's amazing); I went to the Calgary zoo and got to once again experience wonder at the mysteries of captive nature with my friend Mel, two of her rambunctious sons, and her uber-cute baby-sitting charges; my friend Jen took me on a short road trip to a place I'd never been before where I attended a treasure hunt birthday party and saw the Lippizaner dancing horses perform; I waded the moat at Riley Park to have an island picnic lunch with Tachae; I painted a fence with my friend Mel; I played blind tag at a pool party with Jen, her kids, and my boss, Dale; I've seen Shakespeare in the Park's Tragedy of MacBeth twice- once with Melanie and her son Brady, then again with Amy after we had dinner at Abruzzo's Italian; on a whim I drove to Cochrane with Melanie and two of her sons to eat at a restaurant I've never been to (Sage Bistro), where I had a lunch I'd never tried before (lamb burger); I helped my dad and younger brother build our deck one morning; I weeded 4 rows of our garden for my mom one afternoon; I attended the Archer-Reist family reunion where I taught distant relatives how to play greased watermelon football and was invited to sleep-over at my cousin Laurie's house; I went children's book shopping at Word's Worth second hand book store; I taught myself how to use an electric hedge trimmer at my boss' house; I took Jen's kids for an exploration of the river banks of Glenmore Park in the pouring rain; I saw Pirates of the Caribbean 3 for the first time with Jen and Dale and for the first time with my whole family; my friend Laurie took me for my first experience of the Calgary Folk Music Festival, where I fell in love with the music of groups I'd never heard of before like Hawksley Workman, Sarah Sleen, and Moshav; I saw the very excellent Bourne Ultimatum with Nolan, Andy, RJ, Jen, and Nathan last night; I visited the Cross Roads Farmer Market and it's Art Space Gallery with my parents (Richard Freely's kinetic sculptures remain my favourite); along with my dad I've read Harry Potter I, II, III, and IV; on a bright, sunny afternoon I saw The Passion Play for the first time in Drumheller with my parents, Nolan, Andy, and Sherry, after which we tried out dinner at The Green Olive Italian where I tried mango curry chicken pasta; I've begun reading John Elridge's The Way of the Wild Heart and Punk Monk by Andy Freeman and Pete Greig, the former due to the coinciding of a sale and a long-held desire and the latter on a whim from God; I've gone for specialty icecream at Ice Zone with my parents, Chasey, and Samantha (I chose the Canadian Moose flavour); I finally got my driver's license; I climbed a ropes course with my sister Sam and mom at the YMCA camp in the mountains; I sat right up front on the curb to watch the Stampede Parade with Jen, her kids, and her daughter's friend; I went on nearly ever adult ride on the Stampede Midway with Sam before her shift at 5 (our favourite was The Himalayas with the bubbles- wow I'm getting old); Mel and her family took me out for Vietnamese and then to see the Hong-Kong fireworks at Global Fest (indescribably fantastic); I played in an out-door soccer game with Melanie's husband's brother's team (woo-hoo!); I hung out with Jen Fietz at Jono's annual birthday bbq fun-ness, where Nolan gave us a practical demonstration of the altruistic tendencies of ants; I bought 4 new c-ds and was given a cool mixed c-d by Nolan; and I'm going to visit my grandparents in Didsbury with Nolan tomorrow. God, I'm spoiled. So why don't I feel happy? Because I'm Houdini. Or maybe Houdini's messed-up protege, since I'm always trying to escape perfectly safe and pleasant situations, as opposed to dangerous and discomfiting ones. Stress, boredom, apathy, and disappointment can all be left behind, perhaps in a fictitious book, or in a movie, or even in the stories in my head. Oddly though, for all my imagination I still can't pretend myself happy in any other life. Instead, I cry out with Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5):

"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it's a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."

I'm sure it's not good to empathize with that passage. MacBeth was a traitorous murderer who consulted witches and evil spirits for his ruling decisions. He deserved all the trouble he got and more. But 'consulted with witches and evil spirits' catches my mind's eye. Evil spirits informed MacBeth that he would never be killed by any man born of a woman and MacBeth fancied himself immortal. We're so fascinated with the idea of the invulnerable un-dead: I am both a zombie and a vampire on facebook. The emo girl sitting in front of Amy and me at MacBeth had a sparkly twin red cherries barrette with a silver skull on one of the cherries. I was simultaneously repulsed and attracted to it- what a great symbol of both life and death. Yet, there's something deceitful about half-life, and Amy stomped her foot on it well: "I hate that emo stuff! You have to choose!" She's right, you know. When Moses brought the 10 commandments down from Mt. Sinai, he gave the Israelites an ultimatum, a choice of being that would lead either to life or to death. Not both. And remember Banquo's early warning to Macbeth (Act 1, Scene 3):

"But 'tis strange; and oftentimes to win us to our harm, the instruments of darkness tell us truths, win us with honest trifles, to betray's in deepest consequence."

True, no man born of a woman killed Macbeth. But a man taken from his mother by cesarean section could and did. The helpful little demons failed to mention that possibility to him. So where is the half-truth, more accurately termed a half-lie, in escapism? The answer calls...from Narnia, one of my favourite fantasy lands to which I escape. One of the most profound but over-looked details of both C. S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia and J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter series is that no matter how amazing and action-packed the magical adventure is, by the end of the book the children heroes still always have to return to the world we call 'real'. The trick, according to Aslan, is learning to recognize Aslan's different form in the real world. And it is tricky. It's so easy to love that great, good lion in Narnia. Amy loved him long before she ever became a Christian. My little brother still reads the Narnian Chronicles, which are coloured in metaphors of biblical truth, over and over again, despite his deeply held conviction that "God is a bastard" since only a negligent God could leave the world to hang itself in evil and misery. Why do they have to go back? Why do I have to go back? For all the real world's mini pleasures, there's also a lot of starving children, oppression, injustice, and suffering. Even if I don't experience it directly, I still feel it. Like Frodo in The Lord of the Rings, I feel the weight of it crushing me, blinding me to everything else and closing me off until there's nothing buffering between me and the evil eye. I have no hope of returning to my carefree childhood garden. All I see before me is suffering in darkness. And while I'm committed and driven irreversibly to complete my task, it's not something I'm looking forward to. Amy told me that when she was at her most sick this year- physically, emotionally, and spiritually- she asked God to please just let her die so she could go be with him and not have to stay here where everything is dead. As Denise pointed out, this is the essence of emo culture: depression with atrophying apathy. Well, God refused to kill Amy off. In fact, he rebuked her for asking. He told her she needed to get to know him here before she could come home; moreover, that the first step in healing would be to learn to live in the moment instead of day dreams and fantasies, which are not truth. At approximately the same time Amy was given that answer, I was given a very similar message (through the controversial Harry Potter books, of all things): fantasy is only of God insofar as it is used to explain and clarify reality so that you can better understand and act in the real epic battles of everyday life. I most often use fantasy to run from those every day battles. I shouldn't. Like Ron in the stout-hearted and hospitable Weasley family, I was put in my family, home, resources, and generation for a reason and it is my responsibility to be my self (not my fearless older brother or the innumerable women I meet who are more graceful and beautiful than I am) and recognize and fight the semi-hidden and unacknowledged demons of my time with the people, skills, and wealth God gave me. I need to trust not only that God is not an imbecile director for putting me here in this mess of a play, but also that God is my Father who wants to Father me and give me good gifts, like fireworks synchronized to kick-ass music with loving friends. No more Ms. Houdini. My name is Faye.

Flirtation Geru

This one's for you, Jen W. Most of you have heard how my romance-baning became instant urban legend the day a nice guy tried to offer me some yellow wildflowers and the first thing that came out of my mouth was, "Are they going to shoot poisonous barbs at me?" My feminine wiles, if I have any, manifest themselves more often by accident than by design and tend to be incredibly counter-productive for me. They have never yet produced reciprocal liking in any of the few guys I have developed a romantic interest in and they apparently work cruel wonders on some truly decent guys I am really not compatible with or interested in. Sindy once told me that this phenomenon was not actually a curse, but a protection from God so I wouldn't get entangled in a relationship prematurely. For the most part, I'm content with that. I have been blessed with many meaningful, deep friendships with my family and female friends. I can remain focused on my studies and I am free to make my own academic and career choices to a degree that my "claimed" friends cannot. It also helps that the unknowing targets of my affection typically move away or start dating someone else within weeks of my meeting them. Quite fortunately, I have maintained an awkward relational distance from pretty much everyone in the Young Adult group at my church so there's no fear of any of them reading the following. Quite unfortunately, I have maintained an awkward relational distance from pretty much everyone in the Young Adult group at church, including he who shall not be named because I actually developed a crush on him, something that happens VERY sporadically with me. Or to me, as the case may be. This un-named person first captured my notice because he tied my mom's shoe for her. I also learned that he loves to travel, works in construction, prefers organic foods, and is Nolan-like in his spontaneous enthusiasm for random opportunities like learning German from the senior's German bible study group or reorganizing the defunct church library. I'm a sucker for out-doorsy extroverted guys who are sweet to older women because they can be and love the written word. Three weeks later, he felt called by God to move back home to another province to be with his dad, who was really ill. Protection of family, spiritual maturity, and obedience to God's will are also really attractive to me. But half a year went by with no indication he would ever be back and I took it as a sign that God was telling me to get a better grip on reality: I'm not rally even an acquaintance to him, I still haven't finished my BA, and I may well be moving to another province in another year to begin work on my Master's and PhD. Then, last week at church there was this hairy, blonde, tanned, friendly guy happily mingling with the Young Adults group like a long-lost friend. He expressed stunned pleasure at the news that two of his friends had gotten married since he'd last saw them. I haven't been a part of the GIC young adults group very long and I'm certainly no consistent participant now that I have joined, so I assumed he was one of the elite who had been a part of the church forever and had moved away for college or something. Feeling characteristically awkward around the whole group and too sleep-deprived to bother pushing myself out of my introverted silence, I retreated with Sam to find mom so we could go home. Mom, however, was detained, so I told myself to suck it up and go mingle with people in the lobby. I dropped off a belated birthday present with Karla, then went to wish Rena a happy birthday with a mental note to make her a gift as well. While chatting lightly with Rena, Jen and Josh, the happy new couple, also came over to join the conversation and that is when I found out that the hairy guy was he who shall remain un-named. Darn, he looks lovely, I decided (non-verbally, don't cry) upon a brief glance where he stood talking to a group of people. But I have issues inviting myself into group conversations even when I'm good friends with those involved and that is definitely not the case with anyone at that church so I maintained my distance. When I glanced again he was gone and I felt simultaneously relieved and disappointed. Soon after, mom reappeared and we headed together for the exit. Dang nam it, he's standing on the landing in front of the door, I realized all too soon. It's ok, Faye. Just say, "Hey ____, welcome back." You can do casual and non-stalkerish. Nooooo I can't. It's partly the un-named's fault. He destroyed the rote response protocol by first turning away from his conversation with an old man to give my mom a hug and then picked up the keys she dropped on the floor with a cheerful, "Here, let me get those for you". Then he quickly turns to me, exuberantly lifts his right arm over his head for an exaggerated low-five (which I did manage to reciprocate) and beams, "Hey, Buddy!" And at that moment, my brilliant, witty mind, which is usually my secret pride and joy, vacated my body and its imbecile replacement spluttered out, "I'm a girl!" Gee thanks, Tips. Like I'm four years old again and it's really important to assert that fact of biology to others because the baby pink shirt with rhinestones and the apple-sized growths on my chest somehow might not make that point self-evident. "You don't like 'buddy'?" he asks, surprised. Now deeply empathising with River's character in the movie Serenity as she weeps, "Please God, make me a stone," my befuddled mind's replacement searches for some Clueless era attitude and responds, "Um, no-o." Unfazed and irascible, the un-named pushes, "How about 'Poncho', then?" Poncho? Poncho?! As in the name of that horrible little self-absorbed but emasculated terrier in the Pooch Cafe comic strip that I always hope will be eaten alive by angry hornets? I will beat your friendly face in with my shoe if you ever call me that! "Ok," I hear myself agreeing congenially, "I can live with Poncho." Suddenly his eye-brows knit together and the un-named is looking intently at my face: "Do you wear contacts? You have really blue eyes." Completely thrown off my casual groove now, I mumble, "No contacts," and immediately want to beat my head against a wall because I always wear contacts, they're just not coloured. "I don't remember them being blue," he frowns, then he suddenly turns and dashes up the staircase calling over his shoulder, "Sorry, I gotta go catch the Jankes before they leave!" I stand on the landing a minute more, dazed and mute before I follow my mom out the door. Outside, my mom bursts into laughter at me and Sam frowns at her, confused as to what's so funny. I sigh. Why? Why, God, why? Why must I turn into Rainman around guys I really like? Why can I not either shut up or speak intelligently? God laughed. Then he made me look up 2 Corinthians 12:1-10.

Shiny Red Ball

In a devotional book I can no longer remember the title of, Max Lucado wrote an anecdote about his toddler at a ball pit park. It was this cool wading pool filled with those hollow plastic base-ball-sized balls that come in a rainbow of colours, characteristically found in child-friendly places like Chucky Cheese. The pool was for "children under 12 only" and its crowning jewel was a launcher in the center where children could set one of the plastic balls and have a great puff of air send it flying. Max' youngest daughter stood up to her neck in the pit of balls and therefore had difficulty moving through it, although it was clear she intended to get to the ball launcher in the center of the pit. Making her movements more difficult, however, was her insistence on trying to hold several of the red plastic balls she found at the edge of the pit. Without her arms for balance, the dear little half-pint sunk below the surface of the balls, couldn't get up again, and was wailing inconsolably. Max tried to instruct her from the side to release the balls and just use the ones closer to the launcher but she was not to be dissuaded. She was convinced the shiny red balls in her hands must be far superior to any elsewhere in the pit. So he sent her older sister to try to get her to release the balls so she could get back onto her feet and to the center of the pit. This resulted in a submerged cat-fight which had other parents beginning to stare. Finally, Max looked at the lifeguard on duty and was given permission to enter the ball pit to retrieve his now very unhappy toddler. Pulling her out where she could see and breathe again, Max eased the troublesome balls out of his daughter's hands and carried her to the center, where her older sister was able to demonstrate how to use the launcher with equally shiny red balls found right beside the launcher. Problem solved. I've been thinking about that story a lot lately. And about the shiny red ball in my hand God's asking me to release. Oh, ok. And the shiny pink one, too. The red ball is a summer 2008 3 week trip to Israel and a one-week stop in Ethiopia with one of my favourite Professors and a few of my closest friends from school. I want to go. I want to acquaint myself with the world in the company of someone who sees it clearly and already knows it better than I do. I want to see how much everything and everyone in Bethlehem and Jerusalem has changed in just one year, I want to taste the alien strangeness again and be shocked once more to realize how interconnected and similar we are. I want one last wild adventure before I'm locked into another 4 or 5 years of studies to complete my Masters and PhD in Counselling Psychology. I thought I could do it. I discovered, miraculously, enough funds left over from last year to pay all of the next year's tuition so if I could just make enough money this summer and during the school year I could afford to go again. Things seemed to be going my way: group homes run by the foster care group my parents belong to were desperately looking for relief workers and were offering $14.50 per hour. After pushing myself hard for a month to get my driver's license, I had all the requirements. I even had references from several friends who already work there and an impressive reference from the DC where I volunteer. Not only would it have been the most money I've ever made, but the job is related to counselling psychology (a definite plus for acceptance into grad school) and the shifts are flexible enough that I could have full time work in the summer and part-time work in the fall and winter when I go back to school. But they never called for an interview. I even re-applied. Still nothing. I didn't get it. Fortunately, God is good about dropping me hints. I have been working 3-4 days per week at my boss' house doing landscaping, renovations, and the usual house-keeping duties while waiting to hear from a real job. I'm starting to loose my mind from boredom and quiet but at least I get to be outside and using my muscles for a change. As an added bonus, my friend Jen lives in walking distance of my boss and encouraged me to just come sleep over at her house in between shifts so I wouldn't have to cross the city on public transit so much. Spending time with Jen and her kids has been the high-light of my summer. They just let me be a part of the family for a while. I earn my keep by tidying Jen's kitchen or bribing her children to do their chores by rewarding them with tickles and spinning them around up-side down. In return, I get free meals; a rich new understanding of the demands of raising children (particularly if you're a single parent); hours of intimate conversation ranging in topics from spiritual oppression in our childhood and teen years to hopes and plans for the future to how the big bang/evolutionist principles and creationism are really compatible, not competing theories; and Jen is teaching me how to play DDR. Jen also gave me the best recipe for chocolate chip cookies EVER. Score! The more time we spend together, the more similar we discover ourselves to be. So it should probably come as no surprise that Jen's shiny red ball incident was what helped me clue in to my own. Jen's shiny red ball was a job teaching aerospace science to grade 6 kids over the summer while her kids were away at their dad's. Jen's working on her teaching degree and so any experience related to the field that will help pay her tuition and living expenses is golden. This job was to be even more golden because it required Jen to work with the age group she prefers in the subject she prefers doing programming work her degree prefers. But then the unexpected occurred: Jen's kids were staying with her for the summer. This meant half of her pay would go towards child care instead of towards tuition, and she must somehow deal with the strain of caring for 2 highly unhappy children at the end of an entire day spent with other people's children. Jen's heart was with caring for and enjoying her children but her head knew she needed the money and the good reference from the job she had already accepted. She wanted advice on what to do and I couldn't give her any. But I suddenly realized that if she chose the job I could offer her the only thing I had at the moment: time. I could stay at her house and be available to look after her kids as needed. In the end, God told Jen to let go of the job and trust him to get her the funds she needs. She resigned and the next day her church offered her a large scholarship to use as needed. My help was no longer needed. But the idea that I might need some extra time for something crucial this summer remained. The crucial thing was identified as I began researching possibilities for grad schools and their entrance requirements. I need an undergraduate thesis. Thus, I found myself applying and being accepted for one of the exclusive independent research studies spots I had so feared and avoided. Essentially, this is a one year project in which I conduct my own research under a supervising professor (a master-apprentice relationship, of sorts) and then write a very long paper about it and present my findings to the entire psychology department at the end of the year. I have the summer to learn everything there is to know about the topic of my study, then summarize it into a review of the literature and a detailed research proposal that will be submitted to an ethics committee for approval prior to commencement in September. I also booked my GRE (graduate requirement exam?), which is like an SAT only harder. I'm supposed to be memorizing classical Greek and Latin keywords; lists of words only a GRE examiner has ever heard of and their general meanings; mathematics and science I haven't touched since high school; and generally practicing how to make it through a timed computer exam that becomes harder the more questions I answer correctly. More time to prepare is better than less. Getting a mindless, very part time job is probably a good thing. I will probably cut back to just 1 or 2 days of work per week for the summer, in fact. God seemed to reinforce his 'no' to the whole working-for-Israel-money-thing further by sending me large scholarships to help with tuition this year. Now I' suppose I will save up for graduate studies and living expenses in another city. So good-bye shiny red ball. I'm going to graduate studies instead. And the shiny pink ball? I'm not telling you about that.