Let it Snow

December: Yes, yes, yes. I know deep, wet snow really sucks for people who must work, live, or drive in it, but I'm SOOOOOOOO happy it's finally here; sparkling white, soft, and making the darkness recede for a day or two. Snow is a soft voice whispering to me, "There's still mercy, even for the fat cows of Bashan. There's a little time left before the desert comes in full." So I went walking in the snow today for all it was worth. There are days of judgment coming, though. The first is the 16th this month. That is the day of my final exam, and the day by which I must hand in my last two papers. I'm feeling very stressed about those papers. They should be easy. They need only be 3 double spaced pages each, and one is already 1/3 done, but I have not handed in a single paper within the allotted amount of time yet this semester, so none of them have earned me any marks greater than 0. This is the consequence for being bitter and unmotivated about having to take an intro class in my 6th year of university. I should have known better: God always uses the topics covered in each of my classes within days or weeks of my learning them in a real life situation. January: The formerly mentioned papers and exam are finished, and now it is a season of waiting. Waiting to find out if I passed my course, and therefore have finished my degree; waiting for my agenda to return from its road trip to Saskatchewan with my sister Val so I can begin trying to pick up additional work shifts this month; waiting to see what God wants me to do with my time and money now that school is done and my nannying hours have been cut from 2 days per week to 1; waiting for my absent room and house-mates to come home to our vacant house of prayer; waiting for summer. This is a strange waiting room, a sort of earthly purgatory. At times I feel as if I don't really exist, yet all of my hours are filled with people and activities and thoughts. I think I might actually be missing school. How ironic that the thing I hated most about University is the thing I now wish for: a consistent schedule with clearly defined dead-lines and directives. Instead, my life now consists of endless days. Not weeks, or months, or semesters, or years. Just days, filled with hours, filled with whatever I choose. My choices are alien to me. For the first time in my life, there are no voracious appetites consuming my passion, no unhealthy addictions distracting me from my path. I feel no desire to read fiction novels, no craving for familiar or unfamiliar stories in a film or textual format. The only foods I feel like eating are fruits, vegetables, and nuts. My fear of at least brief fasts is gone. I spend a day or two here and a day or two there, allowing myself to work, visit, or be alone as opportunities present themselves, content with each state while it lasts. Where are we going, God? I cannot claim to have done anything to achieve this lackadaisical zen, so I'm guessing that You gave it to me as a gift, a preparation. "These are tools, not toys," warned a somber Father Christmas to the Pevensie children of C.S. Lewis' The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. What do you need me to be prepared for, God? "Uh oh," understates Pauncha, tied to a log floating down a river. "Let me guess," drolls the surprisingly resilient Emperor Kuzko tied to the same log, "We're about to go careening over a huge waterfall." "Yep," answers Pauncha matter-of-factly. "Sharp rocks at the bottom?" inquires Kuzko with disinterest. "Most likely," Pauncha replies calmly. "Bring it on."

Statues Run Really Fast

An addendum to the previous post: children have very little difficulty suspending their disbelief in the illogical or impossible. I should concede: L's mommy and li'l girl game has morphed somewhat into a new theme- that of monsters and heroes, good guys and bad guys. However, L is a liberal-minded girl, so monsters are not necessarily bad guys. Hence, one of her favourite games to play outside is the statue game. The statue game is quite simple: when L is tired of walking, she pretends to be a statue, symbolized classically by the British royal guard posture. Then she looks at me and prompts, "You say, 'Look mom, a statue!' Okay?!" Something in me cries out against this potential loss of my independence so I have never yet obliged her by saying those exact words, though what difference it makes I have no idea. "Oh my goodness," I respond with amazement, "It's a talking statue! Weird!" By this time, L is re-energized and ready to move again, so she grins and proposes, "Let's have a race!" "A race with a statue?" "Yep, cuz statues run really fast," L informs me seriously. "Yeah, statues run really fast," I agree. Did I just say that? Oblivious to my psychological dissonance, Lauren happily continues prodding me, "And then you go, 'Hey mom, the statue is following us.'" "AAUUUGGGHHHHH! That statue is following me! I can't get away! What does it want??!" I cry in angst, to L's delight. And when eventually the talking, grinning, fast-running statue catches her terrified prey (me), she invites me over to her house for a cup of tea. What the?!...Where am I??? Well obviously I'm in the middle of a Get Fuzzy comic strip. I kind of enjoy the surrealism, though. I imagine Jesus' disciples must have had similar feelings when he'd do things like cook them breakfast on the beach after they had watched him get tortured to death and buried. Come along, Faye, and embrace the weirdness. Yes, God.

The Nanny Club

Contrary to popular belief, this is not a long, blunt object I take with me to work to assist in child-wrangling. Nor is it something hard I feel the need to beat my head with repeatedly during the day. Actually, it refers to the fact that I have joined the ranks of nannies attending every family's children in the well-manicured blocks of Calgary. To my surprise, nannying is proving to be the highlight of my week. I care for two very cute, very energetic, very imaginative girls, ages 3 and 5, about 1-3 days per week...and I am sure this is God's recompense for all the days my mother got a phone call from my elementary wondering why I was an hour late to school after lunch again. Much of the time, I feel like I am losing my mind. Especially by 2:30 when L, the three year old, is prodding me to say my line in our mommy and li'l girl game for the 27th time that day. It doesn't matter that we are supposed to be colouring now, because "This is the mommy crayon, and this is the daddy crayon, and this is the baby crayon. You be the daddy crayon and the mommy crayon and I'll be the baby crayon. So the baby is hiding over here and the mommy crayon says, 'Where's the baby?' Okay?!!" She's not really asking if I want to do that; rather, L's graciously reminding the idiot nanny of what she's somehow forgotten to do even after three and a half months' practice and today's rehearsal at lunch in which, "This [piece of celery] is the mommy, and this [piece of cheese] is the daddy, and these [cherry tomatoes] are the babies. You be the mommy and this baby and I'll be the daddy and this baby. And the mommy celery says, 'Where's the baby?!' Okay?!!" "Yeah, sure, okay. Heeey, how about we take the dog for a walk?" I wheedle, as if changing the scenery will somehow distract her from her favourite schema. Unphased, she replies, "No thanks. Let's go play the restaurant game!" The restaurant game is a variant of the mommy and li'l girl game in which one of us is a restaurant chef and the other is the mommy, who has at least 2 baby doll girls with her who like donuts and fried chicken but not turnips. "No, your mom asked us to take the dog for a walk, so we're going to go for a walk," I insist with a voice that cleverly hides my desperation in grown-up firmness. Trumped by the mommy card, L acquiesces that we must go, but isn't above a little more bargaining; "Can I ride my bike?" "No, not today. It's too icy." "Can we go to the park?" "Sure, we can go to the park." "HOORAY! Then you be the mommy, and I'll be the little girl, and Rosie [their uber-friendly little dog] can be our baby puppy!...." GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!! So how did I get myself into this predicament? Well, per usual, it's God's fault. When I finished last semester's winter classes, I fully intended to go straight into hunting for a full-time job within walking distance of my house doing something directly related to family counselling. I applied to every teen group home agency in Calgary. Not even an e-mail of interest in response. I took my resume to my friend, who helped me edit it so it looked more professional and tried again. Nothing. I started applying for other things: relief child development workers, high school career counsellors, school-family liaison workers, psychologist assistant positions... I couldn't understand my lack of success. Everyone I knew already in those agencies insisted they were desperate for workers and would hire anyone breathing who applied and didn't have a record of pedophilia. Fellow class-mates informed me I was probably over-qualified for many of the positions I was applying for. What the deuce? So one day, more than two months into the summer when I was bemoaning my continued part-time employment as a glorified house-keeper to my friend Melanie, with whom I was hanging out while she nannied for her "second family," Melanie suggested I try becoming a nanny. "I make $18 an hour to make crafts, drink their expensive lattes, watch moto-cross and the Backyardigans, eat fresh fruit, put the kids to bed, then search the web for my ideal tattoo for hours. You should try it- with your education you could easily be making as much as me." So she set me up on www.canadiannannies.com. Two weeks later, I had found my ideal family- part-time work with two preschoolers, needed on the days I wasn't at school, the position conveniently to commence after Nolan & Sherry's wedding and Jen's move to Strathmore. The first meeting was with just the parents at a Starbucks. Uncharacteristically early, I sat out in my car and prayed, "God, I don't want to do something meaningless. If this is the family you want me to work with, then please make it abundantly clear to both me and them at this meeting." The meeting went well. Their descriptions of their girls were hauntingly similar to how Melanie and I have described ourselves and our relationship when we were much younger, the schedules looked like a match, and the family lived within 15 minutes drive of both my house-keeping job and my school. But, most intriguing, they were fascinated with my experience as a summer missionary at a bible camp. "I think that's great," A (the mom) told me earnestly, "One of the reasons we wanted a nanny was so that our girls would be exposed to another worldview other than our own. We're not Christians ourselves, but we have some good friends and family who are. I think it'd be neat if you'd tell the girls some bible stories, or pray with them at lunch. It's something they wouldn't get from us." You really can't get a more obviously open door than that. Okay, God, I guess I'm going to be a nanny. At times my job is surreal. I get paid $15 an hour to eat food made by one of the best chefs in Calgary, drink Starbucks coffee, jump on a trampoline, go swimming at the local leisure centre, visit Heritage Park, colour pictures, play at the park, make talking cookies out of playdough, run with two girls and a dog surrounded by woods, wild grasses, hills, a creek, and the mountains at sunset or sunrise, sing camp songs, read Robert Munsch tales, go tobogganing, make snow reindeer, and tell the girls stories about my childhood and God. Moments of pure joy, of absolute beauty. Admittedly, I have found it necessary for the sake of my sanity to limit the girls to telling each of my stories once per day, but I am not exaggerating when I tell you that I see and hear God every time I see or hear the girls. It all began when God started nudging me to at least thank Him for our food when I was making lunch for L. So I did. "That's a funny word you just said," L commented. "Which word?" I asked, puzzled. "That word that you said just now," L said, as if that made everything obvious. Oh wait. "You mean, 'Jesus'?" "Yeah, that one. That's a funny word." This lead to my first, somewhat clumsy explanation of who Jesus is. It was also the first time L ate her entire lunch within a decent amount of time with no prompts, bribes, threats, persuasion, or cajoling whatsoever. Our next lunch together, after I prayed, L asked, "Who's Jesus?" This time, I gave her the background of why Jesus came to earth- beginning with the story of Creation and The Fall. She was hooked. For weeks afterward, she would ask, "Who's Jesus?" every day I saw her. She even began asking her mother, who, being something of a religious pluralist, seemed a bit disconcerted, much to my fiendish delight. On one of the rare occasions when I was working in the evening and therefore looking after both girls, L innocently asked her favourite question. So I sucked it up and told her the story again. And, as God says, it was good. L's older sister, C had never heard it before. Now they are both hooked. They ask for the story when we drive in the car, when we eat snacks or meals, when we go for walks. To avoid either losing my mind or disobeying God's firm nudges to keep letting them come unto Me and hindering them not (Matt. 19:14; Mark 10:14; Luke 18:16), I slightly change the story each time, adding a bit more to pull the stories of Creation, the Fall, the Virgin Birth, the Crucifixion and Resurrection, and their immediate lives together. I have never been good at evangelism. This is probably both a personality thing (I'm not especially out-going) and a reaction against poorly conducted evangelism (though that's not a good excuse- the cure for bad theology and evangelism is not no theology or evangelism). Well, this time I have no excuse. I was given full permission to speak by the girls' parents. I have a warm relationship of trust built with the girls that lends credulity to my stories of faith. So I tell the story. Over and over and over again. And consequently, God is revealing to me what Jesus meant when he said, "I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven" (Matthew 18:3). Children like repetition. Lots and lots and lots of repetition. See above. Children like asking questions. Lots and lots and lots of questions. More tenacious than a news reporter, they want to know when, what, why, who, and how: "Are we there yet? Do you know...? What's that? How long is five minutes? Why? Where's the beetle's house? When can we eat? Where is your mommy and papa? How do I say that word? Does your mommy let you have candy? Why not? How do you make a three? Is God here having supper with us right now? Can you sit on God's head?" Children passionately and optimistically seek the time, attention, and affection of their parents and parent-like figures in their lives: "I made this picture for you, mommy! I'm helping, daddy! Will you please play with me? Can I help clean? Watch what I can do- I can hop on one foot. See?! Can you please read me a story? Look at the necklace I made for you. Will you carry me? Guess what?! I got all my spelling words right!" Children are incredibly trusting: "Catch me! I'm jumping down the stairs! Push me higher! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha- swerve the car again!" ...but only of people they know who have proved trustworthy: "You can't talk to a stranger." And the nanny club continues. Last week I set my room-mate, Jaz, up on canadiannannies.com- she's now enjoying the ego-boosting experience A terms "nanny-poaching" of having middle to upper class suburban moms run each other's white, black, or silver coloured Volvo, VW, or BMW off the road to attain Jaz' services for their li'l shining stars. And if the price is right, Jaz may soon join the club of getting paid $16 per hour to take a nap, go for a walk to the park, and drink other people's expensive teas and coffees. Amen.

A Walk to Remember

1-2 August 2008 I guess it was just that time of the month again. That’s right: the time of the month for Faye to have another misadventure related to being Faye and going the wrong way at the wrong time…or the right way at the wrong time…or the wrong way at the right time, depending on how you want to look at it. I have included, for your convenience, two maps to explain how this story came to be. One is the map I used, and the other is the map I had in my head that I should have used but couldn’t find and didn’t think to ask Nolan for until after it was much too late. On the map I should have used, you will see that there appears to be a relatively short path leading from Elbow Pass to Elbow Lake to Tombstone Backcountry Campground. This is the route I had pictured in my head from a previous back-packing excursion to Elbow Lake with Vicky and Carolyn. This is the route Nolan, Sherry, Melanie, and Chasey took on Friday morning to get to the campground for our sibling back-packing trip. This is a nice, mostly gently-sloped and straightforward 7 kilometer long hike that takes approximately 3 hours to traverse. This is the route I was supposed to take in the evening with Dan after he got off work.

Unfortunately, the on-line instructions I looked up linked me with the second map. As you can see, this second map involves a large eye-shaped loop. We started at a lonely northern spot with the prophetic name of Forgetmenot Pond and took the southern path past Big Elbow Campground and on towards Tombstone. This path was composed of flooded out trail sections, alternating steep ascents and descents, and is approximately 28 kilometers in length. This is the route Dan and I started at 8pm on Friday.

Friday started out well enough. Melanie, Chasey, and I were only 15 minutes late arriving at Nolan and Sherry's house to pack our belongings in among the large amounts of borrowed camping gear Sherry had scavenged from friends. Almost two hours later, I left Melanie and Chasey with Nolan and Sherry to drive up together, and I took the backpacks Dan and myself would be carrying later. I went to work for an hour and managed to avoid getting wood stain on my clothing despite my frenzied painting, then raced across the city and was only five minutes late meeting Lisa for lunch. I had enough money in my account to pay for my meal. After lunch, I stopped at Safeway to pick up a few grocery items my siblings had requested, then returned my dad's car to him. I finished laundry, filled water bottles, packed the last groceries and a hatchet into the backpacks, made a picnic dinner for Dan and myself, showered and changed clothes. At my dad's request, I wrote out detailed instructions on how to get to Tombstone, since my parents had decided to meet us there on Monday to celebrate Melanie's birthday. At 5 pm, Chasey called to ask when I thought Dan and I were leaving (I had to admit I didn't really know when he would get off of work) and to tell me that it was pouring there. Then he confused me thoroughly with a comment about leaving the campsite to go to Cochrane until the weather was nicer. Oh. I guess that means the trail is really short. That's good- we won't have much day-light left by the time we start our hike.

Shortly thereafter, Dan called to say he would arrive shortly and that we needed to stop at his house to pick up a few things. I hugged my mother good-bye, we loaded Dan's car with the gear, and set off to pick up a few essentials, such as oil and gas for Dan's car so we wouldn't end up stranded on the highway somewhere. The sun was shining, Dan appeared happy with my odd food choices (spicy canned salmon with garlic dill pickles and marble cheddar on squirrely bread, carrot-pineapple-strawberry-banana-cherry-blueberry-yogurt smoothies, fresh avocados, and a choice of fresh fruit), and Dan managed to simultaneously navigate my i-pod's sound settings while also driving on 16th Avenue reading a road map without crashing. It occurred to me that I should call home and make sure my parents knew where they were going. Even though I thoroughly confused them both with my anti-map interpretation skills, Dan and my dad seemed to be in agreement about how to get there. I was satisfied. I band-aided and duck-taped my heel (in a completely unrelated previous misadventure I accidentally cut my heel open when I stepped in a hole in a tree grate down-town after leaving the DC because I was there for a shift I didn't actually have).

"We just drive until the road pretty much ends," Dan explained patiently. The map said he was right. It just didn't make any sense to me. The road just kept going when Carolyn, Vicky, and I turned into the parking lot for Elbow Lake. Where's the rest of the road? And why isn't Galatea anywhere on the map? I know we passed Galatea on the way there... Dad said my instructions were the "back way." Maybe we're just coming in from the opposite side and the map doesn't show the rest of the road clearly. Stupid map. Feeling nervous, I sent a silent plea to God, asking for his protection and guidance for the weekend.

The air was much colder by the time we found the correct parking lot for the trail head. As Dan had said, the road simply ended- it was a camping site. Neither the parking lot nor the camping ground were at all familiar, and I didn't recognize any of the other vehicles in the parking lot, but since I had no suggestions for how to find the trail head to Elbow Lake I remembered and we were standing in front of a sign for the Elbow Trail, I decided to just go with it. The sign was nearly illegible with corrosion, so we counted ourselves fortunate when an older lady came out of her RV to ask us where we were going. 

"You're going where?!" her eyes bugged out in disbelief, "Tonight?! Are you sure you don't want to just stay the night here and then start in the morning?" When we'd convinced her that we were in earnest about starting out, she asked which way we intended to travel- taking the Little Elbow or the Big Elbow Trail. I think we told her the Little Elbow, and we followed her directions precisely, so how we ended up on the Big Elbow will always remain a mystery. Regardless, my optimistic estimate for time of arrival in Tombstone was midnight, but gauging from the lady's reaction I strongly suspected a more realistic guess would be 2:00am. Last night's five hours of sleep is going to feel like a long, long time ago...And so, after waving a friendly goodbye in response to the lady's "see you in an hour" and leaving behind a bottle of glacier-cold water we didn't want to carry with us, we began.

There weren't many other people on the trail, though we did pass two couples going in the opposite direction in the first half-hour of our trip. Warning signs instructed us to avoid the equestrian trails, since these were completely flooded out. As we came out of a forested area and were about to begin a more open segment beside a creek, we found an information sign reminiscent of the ones posted at the tops of amusement rides like the Drop of Doom. It read: "You are about to begin a 28 kilometer hike. ARE YOU PREPARED?" I felt my stomach drop a bit. No wonder the others felt they needed to leave in the morning...No wonder they'd called wondering why Dan and I hadn't left yet... I felt very glad Dan was holding my hand.  Dan wisely chose that time to start telling me stories about previous camping adventures he'd had with his best friends.  Apparently, just for kicks, they like to walk as far off mountain trails as they can go, then camp where no one would ever be able to find them again should they have some sort of minor mishap, like getting mauled by a bear.  I felt much better.  The knowledge that I wasn't the most experienced camper of the two of us was reassuring.

We walked.  I felt a bit shaky, so I proactively pulled out the fruit left over from supper to eat as we walked.  I still felt shaky, so I proactively ate an entire package of Starburst, after which I felt much better but my tongue felt much less so.  I silently asked God to please not let me die of a low blood sugar level while we were out here in the middle of nowhere.  A comfort and a silent voice whispered back, "I'm here.  And this would be a very good opportunity to initiate praying out loud with Dan."  The path wove in and out of wooded areas along creeks that would occasionally branch off in directions such as perpendicular to our path.  No problem.  There was still enough light left to figure out where the path resumed again later, and enough rocks that our feet didn't get particularly wet.

We walked.  The wind became colder.  We stopped cursing our hoodies for being so warm.  We discussed things like how the feeling of having a heavy backpack digging into your shoulders, pressing you down, and crushing your lungs might be sort of similar to crucifixion.  While retrieving our coats we discovered that we also had among our assets a head-lamp and a small flashlight.  Oh yeah, Sherry loaned hers to me this morning.  I totally forgot.  Thanks, God.  Since it was now late dusk, we proactively put the flashlights in our pockets where we had a hope of finding them again.  Despite the fact that there were no clouds above us, intermittent showers would follow us around wherever we walked.  Dang cariboo, hiding in the shrubs beside the path and spitting at unsuspecting tourists.  We ate granola bars to spite them.  When we stopped at the 3 or 4 hour's walking mark, I mentally determined that I may need to scale back my delirious ambitions of walking 8 hours per day on next summer's pilgrimage.

We stopped.  Admired the stars coming out.  I ate a package of gummies half way up what we would later be horrified to discover was only the first of endless long, steep inclines in the path.  God, I'm running out of reaction candy.  Help.  A familiar voice whispered again, "You need to pray out loud with Dan."  Why is that such a hard request? I asked myself.  So at long last, I began praying out loud: "Hey God, thank you for looking after us this far.  Please let the food last until we reach the others.  Please continue helping me not have low blood sugars.  Please let the others still be awake and waiting for us when we arrive so we'll be able to find them in the dark.  Amen."  I felt better. 

It became increasingly dark.  Eventually we were able to determine our direction only because the path was a light grey blotch which contrasted with the black blotches that were forests of trees on either side of us and the black sky above us.  The hard crunch of white stones beneath our tired feet was comforting: it meant that we were still on the path.  We ceased talking, except for occasional comments such as, "Hey, I just walked into a shrubbery."  I considered pushing Dan into the trees sometimes, but I was too tired and I was pretty sure that Dan was too tired to take it jovially.  

"Is that a sign?"  We squinted.  I found my flashlight first, and it was just bright enough to highlight the words, "Big Elbow Campground."  "No way," I felt myself shrink a little on the inside; we were only half-way there and it was past 11:00 pm.  We used the headlamp to look at another sign across from the first, which turned out to be a map.  After Dan talked me out of just hiking into the Big Elbow Campsite and illegally camping there, we headed on once again.  Then our path disappeared.  Or maybe just the moonlight we'd been using to see it.  Dan attempted to dig out the headlamp, but dropped it into the abyss of darkness at our feet.  I retrieved my flashlight and prayed it still had enough light left to find the headlamp.  It did.  Exactly.  Then it died.  We found the path again and turned the headlamp off until absolutely needed.  

"Do any of these mountains like a tombstone to you?" Dan asked, looking around.  "They all do," I told him, only half-joking.  "Hey, is that a sign?"  We fished out the headlamp.  Yes, it was a sign.  It was a sign for a snow-mobiling path.   I could have cried.  We kept walking.  The path began to sort itself into a pattern of long ascents and descents.  Dan worked to keep us both going with optimistic statements like, "The campground has to be at the top of this rise," or "It must be at the bottom of this hill."  We stopped a few times so I could desperately shout at the top of my lungs, "Nolan?  Melanie?  Chasey?  Sherry?  HELL-OOOO!!!  HELLO?!"  I began to doubt myself: did we miss a turn-off in the mysteries of the thick growth?  Did we pass right by the camp and were now on our way to the Mt. Romulus campground?  "No," Dan rationally assured me over and over, "The map showed Tombstone as being on the curve before the next long straight to Romulus.  We haven't gone around any large curves yet, and worse case scenario if we did we'd only end up at Romulus next anyways."  

The time came when we absolutely needed the headlamp.  It was because we didn't want to step in the minor creeks crossing our path at the bottom of every descent.  Actually, crossing those puddles and creeks were the only times when Dan and I stopped holding hands.  Which was good, because between the slipperiness of the path rocks, the slopes, and my knees occasionally going on vacations, it was really handy to have someone there to hold me up (pun entirely intended).  Although slightly distracted by the fact that I desperately needed to pee, and had been in such a state for hours, I was reminded of an earlier conversation with Dan in which he told me about a dream where he was carrying/supporting me.  At the time, I laughed because of the particular symbols used to convey that idea, but I had recognized the conversation as being an answer from God to my doubts.  So here was the dream, incarnated.  And really, it felt kind of dream-like at times.  There was a sense of timelessness that enveloped us there, a bittersweet rhythm.  I really want to stop walking and lay down and sleep.  But the stars are really beautiful.  I really need to pee.  But I'm really happy holding Dan's hand and walking in the silence and freshness of the mountains.  

And then we really needed the headlamp.   Not only had clouds covered over the moon and eliminated our only natural light, but there was nothing for the moonlight to reflect on- our path was composed of dirt and pine needles.  We came to the top of a rise where the path followed the edge of a cliff and were sliced with a particularly icy wind.  There was no sign of our campground, just another for snowmobiling.  I decided it was time for a private trip into the woods.  When I came back, Dan suggested we sit and rest for a while.  We did.  I started to fall asleep. Then I became cold.  I was still wearing shorts and it was windy and raining and cold.  I asked Dan if he wanted to continue walking or to just set up camp where we were and continue again in the morning.  "Well we can't camp here- the wind's too cold and the rocky path will really suck to sleep on," Dan answered.  I vaguely considered pushing him off the cliff, but I was too tired.  Sigh.  Fine, I guess we'll keep walking, I thought dismally as my teeth began to chatter.   But apparently what Dan actually meant was that we should set up the tent in the woods behind us where it was softer and more sheltered.  Thank you God, for leaving us one of the tents.  

And so, feeling sort of useless, I held up the headlamp with my frozen hands while Dan figured out in the dark in the woods in the rain how to put up our tent.  I mentally chastised myself for feeling grouchy about how long it was taking, since I was sure Dan's hands were probably colder than mine from trying to get the tent together.   Amazingly, the only thing Dan wasn't able to figure out at 4 in the morning after five hours of sleep the night previous and approximately 8 hours hiking after 8 hours work, was the entrance way to the tent.  Getting sleeping bags unpacked, wet layers off, and dry, warm layers on in our tent, which was located on a slant, in a modest manner was interesting.  I curled up in my sleeping bag and felt like I was going to die of cold.  Dan told me stories about winter camping.  Dan, I am NEVER going winter camping with you.  Ever.  

I did fall asleep.  I didn't freeze to death.  I did end up sliding down to the bottom of the tent and then having to worm my way back up to the top again a few times.  I didn't wake up Dan when I started giggling about being unable to worm up the slippery, sloped floor of our tent while cocooned in a twisted up sleeping bag.  I did thank God that I had switched our family's thin sleeping bag for the newer and warmer one I had borrowed from Andrea.  I didn't have any low blood sugars in the night (Thank you, God, again).  I did find myself sort of curled up against Dan in the morning.  I didn't feel too guilty about it since we were in separate sleeping bags.  I did get up to go to the bathroom, get dressed, and take my blood test before Dan woke up.  Except it wasn't as easy as it sounds, because our tent had slid downhill in the night and the door was now right up against a pine tree which I had to climb around while also climbing over our wet gear and climbing into my wet shoes.  

Still, the morning felt good.  Much to my satisfaction, my guess at the time being about 9 am was off by only 3 minutes according to my blood tester.  To my irritation, my blood test was quite high.  I took a small amount of insulin to bring it back down again, found some dried blueberries and cranberries for Dan to eat, and helped pack up the gear again.  Food remaining in our possession: a package of graham crackers, a bag of marshmallows, a bag of sliced mushrooms, and a bag of smushed tomatoes.  We decided we wanted real food with my siblings.  We started walking.

Unfortunately, the path became much narrower after our camping break so we had a difficult time holding hands while walking.  Other things made up for this, though; such as the warm sunshine and the discovery of wild strawberries growing alongside the cliff-bordering path.  My sense of relationship equity was restored when I discovered I was much better at making these discoveries than Dan.  

Then we came to a creek.  Our pathway continued on the other side.  There were no stepping stones or logs to use as a bridge.  It was too wide and deep to jump across.  "Let's try going further down.  Maybe there's another place to cross," I suggested.  There wasn't.  So we took off our shoes and socks, rolled up our pants, put on our sandals, and broke open the package of graham crackers.  If you're going to cross a glacier cold creek with extremely sore muscles and little sleep, it's better to do it fortified with some kind of sustenance.  Then we crossed.  I laughed at Dan when his pants became wet but I considerately didn't push him over.  Once on the other side, we walked through scrubby low shrubs, crossed another glacier cold stream, then discovered that the path crossed back the way it came so we had to cross the small and large glacier cold creeks all over again.  Fortunately, the fifth time we came to a creek needing to be crossed, there were some stepping stones, and the sixth crossing had a nice 3 inch wide log to cross, provided one's balance was steady.  

Then we were at the bottom of a hill.  At the top of the hill we could see a sign.  We decided to switch back into our hiking shoes, then start up the hill to read it.  Holding hands, we stared up at the hill.  It wasn't a large hill, but it seemed huge to our miserable calf muscles.  "If that's another snowmobiling sign, can we vandalize it?" I asked Dan.  "Yes," said Dan magnanimously, "Or at least throw rocks at it.  I think that would make me feel much better."  "Okay."  So we started up.  And the sign said...

"Welcome to Tombstone Backcountry Campground."  And there was Sherry, sitting on the path warming herself in the sun.  She looked kind of surprised to see us (in a welcoming, happy sort of surprised way).  "Hey!  Nolan and Chasey just left to go looking for you.  They went the other way.  We weren't expecting you from this direction...I'll see if I can run and catch them."  Melanie came over to welcome us to their campsite, and not long after Sherry returned with Nolan and Chasey.  Nolan and Sherry kindly heated up and served us leftover chili from the night before.  Nothing ever tasted so great.  "Ha, ha!" cried Nolan triumphantly, "Sherry thought you'd stopped in Little Elbow to camp when it got too late.  I rolled my eyes and said, 'Yeah right.  It's Faye.  She's probably gotten lost and is on some ridiculous misadventure.'"  Then, in order to prevent a similar misadventure story from happening to my parents, to whom I had given an identical cursed map for getting to the campsite, Nolan and Chasey had to hike to the bottom of the mountain to find a phone to redirect our parents.  And Dan and I?  Well, we went back to bed (for a couple hours, in separate sleeping bags, in a dry, properly set up, level tent, under the watch of my siblings).  The End.  Or should I say, 'Amen'?    

A Trashy Theology

Following a Garbage Picker God

Some of you will remember my previous post, Garbage Picker God. This post is something of a follow-up to that, composed of edited (and rearranged) excerpts from a spiritual autobiography I had to write for my Spaces of the Heart course with Charles Nienkirchen last winter. I think most people have a compulsive desire to put things right in the world, however they define right and world. My fight has always been in the arena of relationships, with right defined as 'harmoniously interconnected'. The second-born of four siblings, I have often been the mediator in my family, both among siblings, and between siblings and parents. Being the oldest daughter in a family that has since expanded to include two foster siblings and three “other” siblings, I also became something of a counsellor. Peace-making and counselling roles were extended to friendships beginning in elementary, and lead to other positions of trust, such as school peer mediator, camp counsellor, and crisis line counsellor. Much to my surprise, while working as a crisis line counsellor for my practicum I discovered I had a knack for connecting with women and men who were in, currently escaping, or healing from abusive relationships. I am nearly finished a BA in behavioural sciences, which I intend to use for entry into counselling psychology graduate studies. My aim is to one day work as a family counsellor, helping to restore families and individuals who have been damaged by unhealthy relationship patterns. Two activities from my childhood remain salient markers of who I see myself as in God: first, picking up pop-cans and bottles for recycling to save the earth and my parents’ finances; second, recurring nightmares of failure to save vulnerable others, or myself. Three people played into these themes of identity significantly: an elementary school friend, M, my older brother, Nolan, and my youth pastor, Sindy. I met M in grade 5. I was surprised by her offer of friendship. She was a core member of our school’s “cool” girl group, and I had always believed myself to be a sort of geek or outsider to them. My family was lower middle class, average-looking, and Christian. Although never without friends, none of us were ever popular (that I know of). I became M’s protégé: adopted into her group of friends, I did my best to conform to their standards of fashion and social behaviour. However, half way through the year, M became estranged from the rest of the group. One of the other girls “suggested” that I should stop hanging out with her as well. Feeling indignant, and supposing their warning to be spiteful, I told them I could choose my friends for myself, thank you very much. As a reward for my faithfulness, M invited me to a sleep-over that weekend. That night became a turning point in my life, in the worst way. M wanted to play make-believe. I was a very imaginative child, so normally I would have been delighted. However, M wanted to make-believe that I was a John, and she was a prostitute. I should have called my parents and asked to go home right then. But I was too afraid of losing her friendship, so I stayed and submitted. She told me “secrets,” such as what the other kids at school thought about me: garbage-picker, geek, loser, nose-picker, poor. I left feeling dirty and violated. I never told my parents about that part of our sleep-over, and I never hung out with M again, but my view of my self and how others saw me were ruled for years afterwards by the names “others” called me. I began having nightmares of children being sexually and physically abused by adults. I no longer trusted other children to like me and remain my friend if they knew me well. I withdrew deeply into myself, rarely speaking, and maintaining a flat emotional expression around both friends and family members. I rarely invited friends from school home. Unable to cope with my fears of rejection and feelings of helplessness, I retreated into fantasy worlds of my making in which I could be whatever I felt I was not in life: strong, beautiful, rich, powerful. Oddly, I could never imagine myself happy or loved. As the years went by, my fantasy worlds of retreat fell increasingly out of my control, in terms of both content and timing. My character and those she loved would be tortured, raped, and murdered over and over, through most of the day and night. My inability to control my thoughts, especially their sexual content, filled me with shame. I felt like garbage, inside and out. Collecting garbage for recycling, now a humiliating act, became my penance. About the same time my peer relationships went down-hill, my close relationship with my older brother began to crumble as he became inexplicably cruel, looking for ways to hurt my feelings or make me angry. Knowing I felt sensitive about my weight, he used to taunt me by calling me “Santa Clause.” It was an ugly betrayal, since he had always been my fearless hero. In addition, my younger sister followed in his path of unprovoked verbal barbs long after Nolan had repented. But he did repent. In fact, years after we had stopped fighting and I had forgotten we were ever anything other than best friends, he stunned me again. This time, by apologizing with tears in his eyes for “being such a jerk” when we were younger. He is now one of the most conscientious guys I know at respectfully and sincerely telling all kinds of women, including myself, that they are beautiful. Whenever I think of Nolan now, I envision him as he was when we went hiking with a group of people from Epic several summers ago: running (in sandals?) down the very steep and very shaley side of a mountain, tireless and without fear. It was a challenging hike for me to reach even the lower summit, let alone the upper summit Nolan ran up and down without me. But I went because Nolan invited me, challenged me, believed in me. Our deep friendship is a constant reminder to me that God can heal any relationship he is invited into. Sindy was my youth pastor. From the very beginning of her employment, she made it a priority to get to know me on a deep level, and to find ways to affirm beauty, strength, and goodness in me at a time when I frequently felt like garbage. Her personal stories of hurt, sin, and healing gave me courage and permission to more fully express myself with others and with God. Sindy became my friend and spiritual mentor, a relationship that has endured even after our church dissolved. She provided me with my first introduction to the spiritual disciplines, and through them gave me the tools I needed to begin facing my fears of rejection and abandonment. At an evangelism training course she convinced our youth group to attend, she encouraged and supported me in finding the intercessors whose prayers and guidance finally released me from what had become a six-year addiction to fantasy world escapism. For the first time I recognized how my loneliness, fears, low self-esteem, and addictions were interconnected and had been used by Satan against me. Released from those things by a renewed relationship with Christ, I was freed to love others more fully and openly. My last year of high school, after a one month fast from fictional book reading, God revealed to me that I was to become a psychologist so I could help others attain what I had found in my relationship with God, my family, and my youth group. Since beginning my studies in psychology, one of the most poignant moments in my learning came when I began learning about signs, consequences, and treatments of child abuse. I suddenly remembered for the first time in many years my friend M, and realized with shock that she was probably being sexually abused by someone in her family at the time when I knew her. I think of her often now, wondering where she is and who she has become. God only knows, so I ask him to protect her wherever she is. I cannot. I doubt I'd recognize her if I saw her on the street somewhere. I suppose the danger for anyone in a helping vocation is the risk of mistaking yourself for God in others’ lives. I always have to remind myself that God is the healer, and I am just a sign post for other people to him. I have to be careful to be humbly honest with myself, God, and others about what my limits are, because otherwise I become burned out, depressed, disappointed, and resentful of people’s needs. I need to remember to go to God for my own renewal, and to let go of burdens I carry for myself or others, instead of just trying to hide from them by distracting myself with movies, books, music, day-dreams, or endless internet communications. In fact, as my experiences with broken people have increased and I have learned to rely on God in prayer to heal both them and myself, I have come to see myself as a sort of garbage collector. I have always known I had some kind of gift as a mediator or peace-maker: even during my darkest and most lonely years classmates, friends, and family members would come to me with their problems and hurts because they knew I would listen. I was repeatedly stunned, yet honoured by their trust in me. At the same time, I felt overwhelmed by their needs. I was like a garbage collector who didn't know where the dump was. All my own garbage, as well as the garbage given to me by others, simply got piled on me, rather than recycled or disposed of. I think that is why I used to have so many childhood nightmares of people dying or being seriously harmed and finding myself unable to help them. Now I feel like I'm finally learning how to sort through life’s garbage (my own and others’) to look for treasures to redeem, and to truly dump the rest where it belongs- at the foot of the cross. Jesus said, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:28-30). As I was reflecting on this new identity in Christ on the Friday afternoon before I had to write this paper, I came home and noticed for the first time an inscription on our family’s garbage can lids: “Gracious Living.” I stood on the curb and laughed out loud. God has a great sense of humour. That is the where my spiritual autobiography ended. Now let me show you something cool: this is a link to an organization that builds homes out of trash that are self-sufficient in water, food, and energy. I'm very excited about these buildings because they have the potential to incarnate so many of my integrated passions: reducing waste and pollution, living in close community with others, creatively recycling things into functional art, making organically produced kosher foods readily available and affordable to anyone so we ('we' also includes ridiculously poor people living outside of the obese western world...) are not so dependent on pharmaceutical companies and medical practitioners. Very exciting:) Nolan is excited, too. Actually, he is the one who first showed me the u-tube clips about how the earthship houses are built and function. Thus, I may yet get my wish of living on shared property with my siblings and their (present and) future spouses and children along with mine. Yes, I'm very aware that I'm a geek. And I'm quite all right with that.

Creation, contamination, condemnation, isolation, Grace, restoration, communion, calling, Creation. This is where my spiritual autobiography begins and ends.

Fool Proof

I Slipped On a Banana Peel I was on my way to pick up my favourite skirt, now altered to not fall off my bum when I walk in it, from my "Aunt M" (an old friend of my parents I mistook for a creepy stalker on facebook and ended up becoming pseudo-counsellor then just friend to, not to be confused with Dorothy's Auntie Em from the Wizard of Oz), when suddenly I slipped on a banana peel. This was strange because I was sitting in the driver's seat of my parked car at the time. The only possible explanation for this ridiculous event is that God has a very classical slap-stick sense of humour, which he has felt the capricious need to unleash on me repeatedly in June. How the banana peel came to be sitting on the floor of my car is this:

After a care-free and mostly guilt-free day of girlishness spent making myself banana-walnut-peanut-butter pancakes for breakfast; going to an eye appointment; bargain-shopping for orange-smelling shampoo and conditioner with the provocative name of "Curly Sexy Hair," lace-trimmed shirts (including another pink one I just couldn't resist. Stupid glowing pink shirts. It's like being Mel Gibson's character in Conspiracy Theory), and a new pair of Merril runners (Woo-hoo!); checking my e-mails; and making supper with my mom, I headed out to pick up Dan, who had moved. Per usual, I missed a turn. Unusually, it didn't disorient me. Per usual, being correctly oriented didn't help, because my short-term memory forgot each street number as I passed it, so I had to pull over and get out of my car to read the street sign and figure out where the deuce I was. Unusually, when I checked the sign, I discovered I was on precisely the street I wanted. Per usual, I went back to my car to start driving again. Unusually, I thought to check the house numbers nearby to determine which direction on the road I ought to be going and discovered that I'd parked right outside Dan's house.

Following a detailed tour of his new dwelling, we went back to my house for dinner, picked up a video of Hogan's Heroes episodes, waved good-bye to my mother, and drove to his parents' house. For the first time ever, our date did not consist of walking around places talking. We were doing an exchange of images- we watched one DVD's worth of Dan's favourite tv show, Neon Genesis Evangelion (which turned out to be an anime science-fiction drama with well-developed Freudian psychological crises and Christian imagery), and one video cassette's worth of one of my favourite tv shows, the 1950-60s comedy sitcom of a WWII POW camp, Hogan's Heroes.

It was an educational experience. For my part, I learned that I've never heard of at least 55% of the movies Dan owns and loves, I've deliberately avoided seeing at least 25% of them, and I owe Tachae, Chasey, and Nolan (in that order) thanks for seeing to my cultural enrichment in the ~10% I have seen. Happily, Neon Genesis Evangelion is every bit as cool as its name implies and I am now an addict. I also learned that Dan's muscular arms and strong hands look equally hot when doing something manly like hooking up electrical cables or something perhaps not so manly like holding his cat and cooing, “Oh Tammy, you're so cute,” after said feline clawed her way up his pant leg. Other odd androgynous resemblances to Nolan keep popping up unexpectedly as well. For example, I could swear I used to own a pair of jeans almost identical to the ones Dan was wearing that day. I decided not to tell him. And unless by some miracle Dan was really, really enraptured by the movies, he learned that I'm a rather flatulent girl. Together, we learned that the whole guy's-arm-slipped-inconspicuously-behind-girl's-head thing when watching a movie is really uncomfortable. At the same moment my neck was forming a decided kink, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Dan's fingers were stretching and contracting repeatedly. “Have you lost all circulation in your arm yet?” I inquired. “Um, yeah,” Dan conceded, taking his arm back and rubbing it with his other hand, “I began losing feeling in my fingers pretty much as soon as I put my arm up.” Huh. I always wondered about that. So we held hands instead.

It was 12:30 by the time we finished the last Hogan's Heroes episode. “Wow. I could totally stay here forever,” Dan helpfully expressed my unspoken thoughts yet again. Fortunately, my more disciplined self rallied to the fore and reminded us that I needed to go home while I was still awake to drive, which in turn reminded Dan that he had to get up in 7 hours for work. So after snitching a banana from his family's fruit basket to pacify my growling stomach, I drove him home. Then we parked in front of his house. Which is when Jen's voice came to haunt me, patiently instructing me to just stare at Dan's lips when I want to initiate kissing. Sigh. I can't do it Jen. I'm sorry. Fictional romances have killed my ability to make serious moves with a straight face. And anyways, Dan is looking everywhere but at me...And he's fidgeting... He abruptly started and halted speaking three times. I sat in my seat and silently laughed at him because I'm really empathetic and I wanted to tell him that he throws me off, too. The only time I need a navigator to get to or from his house is when he's in the car with me. Then Dan apparently collected himself, because he turned to look at me and uttered a coherent sentence: “Faye, I'm going to kiss you.” I blinked. “Oh.” Does he mean now or just eventually? Brain, come back now. “Really?” “Yeah,” he said, still looking at me. “Okay," I stared blankly at the windshield, "Then just let me put the parking brake on first.” I don't know how to kiss. Think fast. Movies. Books. Head should be angled so you don't bump noses, keep lips soft (and partially open??). Then I was out of time because we were both leaning in. It was gross. We tried three times. None could be described as “toe-curling” or “breath-taking.” At least the latter two weren't as gooey as the first. Thank you Jen and Sindy for warning me in advance. As we pulled apart, I lifted an eye-brow and offered a half-smile, “Needs work?” “Maybe more practice?” he shrugged with a similar look of self-deprecating amusement on his face. So we said good-night and I drove away with the Cake lyrics “ Stick shifts and safety belts, Bucket seats have all got to go. When we're driving in the car, it makes my baby seem so far. ..” happily playing across my mind. And that is when my stomach started doing cliched flip-flops, because grossest first kiss in the world notwithstanding, Dan wanted to kiss me! Dan wanted to kiss me! Dan wanted to kiss me! Dan wanted to kiss me! Crap. Where the deuce am I going to get lessons for kissing if Dan has no experience either? Cheer up. You've always crusaded against the double standard of perfect chastity for females and sexual experience for males that dominates your culture. At least you won't have to worry about Dan comparing you to someone else. But I hate doing things I'm not already good at!!! Suck it up:). Seriously, God. I cannot even believe you just used that pun. You enjoyed it. And seriously, Faye. I protected you from premature relationships that would have jaded you. Why complain because I did the same thing for your match? Sorry. You're right. There is something very humbling and honouring about being the first and only chosen. But I really do want to know: how do you improve at something when you have no idea what the end result is supposed to look like? I was so distracted by that challenging question that I totally forgot to remove the banana peel from the floor beneath me where I dropped it after eating its contents because there's no garbage bag in the car. And that is how I ended up slipping on it in my car the next day.

On "Parking"

"Stick Shifts and Safety Belts" from Cake's (1996) Fashion Nugget

Stick shifts and safety belts, Bucket seats have all got to go. When we're driving in the car, It makes my baby seem so far. I need you here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat. I need you to be here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat.

But when we're driving in my Malibu, It's easy to get right next to you. I say, "Baby, scoot over, please." And then she's right there next to me. I need you here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat. I need you to be here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat.

Well a lot of good cars are Japanese. But when we're driving far, I need my baby, I need my baby next to me.

Well, stick shifts and safety belts, Bucket seats have all got to go. When we're driving in the car, It makes my baby seem so far. I need you here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat. I need you to be here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat.

Now, just to confuse you all, I'm going to go back in time before the banana peel incident, to the day a bird pooped on me. I didn't realize it had happened; if I had, I probably would have showered and then selected a different coat and bag for my sushi date with Dan that evening. As it was, I was flicking some mystery white substance that had dried on my bag and coat collar off with my fingers when we parked on a residential street across the Bow River from Prince's Island Park. Oh, crap. Literally, I realized. "Hey, I just figured out what this weird white stuff on my coat and bag is!" I told Dan conversationally as we exited his car. And as we pleasantly debated the best mathematical equation for determining the probability of being pooped on by a bird in one's life time, Dan sweetly took my hand for the walk across the river and through down-town to the Sushi place he'd decided on. It was especially sweet because it was the same hand he'd seen flicking bird poop off of my bag and coat a minute earlier. Well, now I know that he has no germ phobias...

Gradually our conversation topics conformed to societal norms, such as casual plans for the coming week. "Oh yeah, and before I forget," I added congenially, then body-checked Dan into a convenient patch of grass. After he caught his balance and returned to my side, looking slightly bewildered, I finished, "that's for making me read Aldous Huxley." He started laughing, "Um, was there something in particular that you didn't like?" So after a brief rant on Aldous Huxley's frequent use of obscure religious, literary, and historical art references and terminology, I admitted the real reason I body checked him was just to flirt, because mild physical violence is how I and my siblings express affection. "Man, I can't wait to tell my friends that you body checked me over Aldous Huxley!" Dan exclaimed enthusiastically.

After an interesting hour of eating seafoods I had never tried before (let alone tried raw) with my head tipped sideways because I don't really know how to use chopsticks all that proficiently, interspersed with an embarrassing number of visits to the washroom because I have a bladder the size of a pea (no pun unintended), Dan and I headed out for our customary walk. This time we picked the river pathway. As it turns out, the river path turns out from the Stampede grounds following the Elbow River, and that is the path we chose to follow.

Across from the Stampede grounds and on the other side of the Elbow is a very tall and steep hill, with some very large houses built on the top that are probably owned by some very rich people. There's also a fenced look-out point, and some wishful thinking enabled me to see a faint path through the grass and shrubs on the hill up towards it. As I was coming to expect, Dan was game to explore. We began to hike. At one point, our faint path branched to the right and left, and I lead the way to the left. Since that lead us to the occupied (and cleverly hidden) campsite of three homeless persons, we turned around and took the right path, which involved tromping through large patches of juniperous horizontalis. When we were about 3/4 of the way up, Dan suggested we sit down. I was dubious, since the ground was damp everywhere, but Dan found us a nice dry spot on a juniper shrub and even held my hand so I wouldn't slide down the near-vertical slope of the hill while we watched the sun set on the Stampede grounds and down-town Calgary.

"So I read your narrative," Dan stated after a comfortable silence. Poor Dan. We had exchanged life narratives the date previous at my request. For those of you who are not psychology geeks, a life narrative is a collection of stories a person gives about key events in their life, which can be analyzed for major themes that define the person's personality. In dating, I suppose it's something of a cheat sheet for discovering in short order who someone is, where they are coming from, and how they see the world. I don't know why, but it never really occurred to me until after I began reading Dan's narrative that exchanging life narratives meant that Dan would also be seeing my narrative. Mine is easily twice as long as his, in both analysis and actual narrative length. I wrote mine while I was depressed and in the midst of several courses that required pervasive self-reflection. Dan wrote his when he was rushed for time and trying desperately just to get his course work done so he could pass. He's also a guy and therefore doesn't routinely write novels or spout lengthy sonnets about his feelings the way I very routinely do. Thus, while Dan's narrative actually provoked more questions than it really answered, I suspected mine had probably provided more information and emotion than Dan was prepared to swim in. Frick.

"It was very..." and then there was a very long pause while Dan searched for a tactful but adequate description of his reaction. "Long?" I helpfully suggested. "Emotional," Dan decided. Um, no kidding. And then I felt this compelling need to start making complex excuses for both narrative characteristics. Have I mentioned my recent discovery that I babble when I'm nervous? Dan listened attentively anyway. So attentively, in fact, that he repeatedly ignored incoming calls on his cell phone, which was pretty funny because his phone was in his jeans pocket and he kept trying to turn it off inside his pocket with his opposite hand while it vibrated away beneath our romantically interlocked hands. What the heck is this? Of the two of us, Dan's the one who's never shown his narrative to another soul. I've shown mine to at least four other people since I wrote it but I'm the one running off on homeless persons' trails to avoid facing his opinion. Get a spine, Faye. I braced myself for whatever critical, analytical, philosophical, or pharmacological thoughts Dan had about my life story. "Okay, so what did you actually think about it?"

Dan looked intently at my face. I looked away towards the city lights. (I don't have that much spine.) "You're beautiful." Oh. Didn't see that coming. Think fast. Disagreeing with people's assessments of my appearance always just drags out my being in the spotlight. Be positive and graceful. "Um, thanks!" I said brightly, still not looking at him. But Dan wasn't going to let the conversation slide that easily: "I didn't just say that for tonight, either. I've thought that for a long time." What do you say to that? So we sat and looked out on the city lights in comfortable silence until I started shivering and had to suggest we continue our scramble up the hill and over the fence. After passing a likely very rich man who likely lives in one of the big expensive houses and was pretending we were not climbing over the fence he was looking out from, we headed back towards Dan's car.

It was too cold for exposed fingers so we had to give up holding hands for the shelter of our pockets. I felt kind of vexed with the separation and wished I wasn't so damn self-conscious because it seemed like the ideal opportunity to try out linking arms. Lucky for me, Dan is trained in Psychology so he can read other peoples' thoughts: "Here," he said, linking our arms so our hands could remain happily in our pockets. Wow. This is really personal. And safe-feeling. And comforting. Why is it comforting? Comfort is something you seek out when you're hurt or scared. I'm not either of those things...am I? In retrospect, linking arms is probably comforting for the same reason that it makes turning corners challenging: it pulls you snugly into another person's side (which, unless they are either dead or suffering from severe hypothermia, is probably warm and at least slightly softer than a 2X4 of wood). In Child Development class we learned that infants and young children who sleep with and are carried around by their parents tend to be more easily soothed when upset. Apparently, there's just something about being a human that craves warmth and contact. We were still in that synchronized position when we reached the Lions Gate Bridge, where a city bus dropped off a rider who began walking towards us: "Hey, do you guys know where there's a stair case down to Memorial?" Dan and I were pretty sure there was one in the direction we were heading, so we invited him to walk with us...down a dark, secluded, tree-lined pathway. As we entered the first shadow, our new acquaintance suddenly spun to face us and rapidly fired out: "Just so you know, my liver's not worth shit! I drink waaaay too much so in case you were thinking of throwing me down the hill or something- I know organ harvesting is profitable and stuff and you can never tell..." Yes, yes you do drink too much. And possibly you need to cut down on your television watching as well... But all we actually said was that there was a staircase to Memorial directly in line with the pedestrian bridge across the Bow to Prince's Island Park. He seemed equally relieved by both sight of the stairway and the fact that Dan and I left him for another path.

As we got closer to Dan's car, we began passing couples making out along the pathway or in their parked cars (including a few limos) with increasing frequency. Definitely grad season, commented the analytical-sociological side of my brain. Oh crap. We're totally parked in a major "parking" spot. Was Dan hoping to "park"? I'm never going to be able to keep a straight face!!! mimzied the more neurotic side of my brain. Just ask, suggested the practical part of my brain. "So, um, did you intend to park in a popular make-out point, or was it just kind of a fluke?" I inquired casually. Dan ran his unoccupied hand through his hair and looked around, "Ah, I was thinking it looked kind of busy around here. But, no, I just thought it'd have a nice view at night. I guess I should have known..." Then we arrived at Dan's car. As I buckled myself in, Dan turned the engine. The engine didn't turn. His face freezing, Dan slowly turned to look at me: "Oh. no. The. car. won't. start."

Violence is Cute

"Wait, wait, wait," interrupted Lisa, to whom I was relating the body-checking portion of my "On Parking" anecdote while we ate lunch in a Vietnamese restaurant near her work, "That actually works? Guys like being beaten on?" "Um, yes. It works as a flirtation tool around guys, and a fast bonding technique with little boys," I informed her, then reflected, "Amy taught me that."

I beat on Dan a lot. He seems to enjoy it. Which I suppose is kind of weird and kinky, since that's what sadomasochism couples get turned on by. Nevertheless, it has become an important aspect of our relationship. No, not sadomasochism, respect. I once asked Dan for three memories that represent who his mother is to him. One was a general memory: Dan said that his mother taught him to have respect for women. I considered asking him to describe what 'respect' meant to him. Considered, and then firmly rejected the question. It's pointless, really. Dan demonstrates his definition of respect, for himself and for others. For example, just moments before I asked the mom-question, I spontaneously decided it'd be a good time to body-check Dan towards the not-so-sparkling waters of the Chestermere canal. However, Dan was anticipating it this time and dodged, so I ended up spinning in a circle and falling over. Once down, I decided not to get up, preferring instead to gather my shreds of dignity around me by sitting up straight and staring out at the water. Dan sat down beside me and also looked towards the water, "There's a word for this, but I can't think of what it is." Humiliation? "Irony?" I suggested. "That's probably it," Dan agreed congenially. "You want to know the really ironic part?" "What's that?" "I injured my thumb doing that." Dan started laughing; "How is that even possible?" "I don't know," I shrugged, giving in to a grin, "It's not even the thumb on the side of my body I checked you with." "Which thumb was it?" "This one," I told him, holding it up as a still greater flood of irony hit me, because I knew what was coming before it came. "Poor thumb," empathized Dan, taking it in his hand to examine, then gently massage. Sigh. Poor ego.

Several weeks later, Dan and I were sitting alone in my friend Jen's kitchen at the end of a night of couples' dinner and games (Get your minds out of the gutter- we were playing Taboo. Oh wait, that sounds just as bad...dang nam it). At length, I decided to grow a backbone again and informed Dan that Jen was going to take an inordinate amount of time kissing her boyfriend good-night so we would also have time to "practice." "Practice what?" Dan asked, confused at first. But he's a pretty clever lad, so a minute or two later we were on our feet going at 'er. I felt a bit like an irritating five year old on a road trip with her parents: Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Well, good try, Dan. "Good try?!" Crap! Did I say that out loud?!! "Um, I meant, 'That was good.' Good job, Dan!" Dan didn't look entirely convinced. Dang Freudian slips. Poor Dan's ego.

And the moral of these stories is that Dan shows his respect for my feminine pride by courteously not paying attention to my violent clumsiness and I show my respect for Dan's masculinity by testing it repeatedly with the expectation that I won't break it, despite my clumsiness. God, this relationship is fool proof. Big, glowing, neon signs...