(IM)POSSIBLE

Hung out with Lisa for a few hours yesterday. That's always dangerous. We seem very similar in a lot of ways, personality probably topping the list. However, as is the case with many of the people I most admire, she's a good deal further along in areas of spiritual development I am still struggling with. Thus, some of her stories from Malta once again reminded me of goals I set a few years ago and still haven't faced. For example, about 3 or 4 years ago while doing house-keeping duties for my boss, I was listening to a Graham Cooke instructional c-d my brother Nolan lent me. Cooke cited Romans 8:19-21: "The creation waits in eager expectation for the sons of God to be revealed. For creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God." Cooke's point was that nature physically responds to humans who are filled with the Spirit of God. His case in point was St. Patrick, who was followed in loving adoration by wild animals across Ireland. Lisa had a more recent example: wind and waves suddenly picking up and crashing whenever two of her intercessor mentors came near. You know, my favourite stories as a child and teen were always fantastic tales of seemingly weak or unimportant figures, such as orphans or beggars or orphaned beggars, finding they have extraordinary powers to control and commune with natural elements, such as animals, fire, water, plants, earth, the weather. We always think those stories have such great appeal precisely because they're impossible in reality. But what if we "invent" those mythic stories in the first place because not only are they possible, but we were intended to live them? So I asked God that day, in the midst of vacuuming an already clean carpet, if I could be like St. Patrick, and have wild birds come sit in my hand and let me stroke them. It hasn't happened yet. Also about 3 or 4 years ago, I borrowed two books from Nolan. One was called Eli, which was a fictitious work that tried to show what Christ's life and sacrifical death would mean and look like if they had occurred in North America today. The other was called Blessed Child, which was about (you guessed it) an orphaned child raised in a middle east monastery who was born with an unusually strong presence of the Spirit of God in him. He stunned North America with his ability to heal the blind, crippled, and disfigured; to survive drinking ridiculous amounts of cyanide and being shot by snipers. Both these books raised in my mind the possibility that I could be healed of my diabetis. I'd never asked God about it before: I always figured I should just be grateful I was born in an age and place where my condition could be treated so I could live a fairly normal life. I've never been bitter or depressed over having diabetis- it actually creates some good common ground between myself and anyone suffering with an incurable condition. I don't really regret suffering depression either, for the same reason. There are some gifts from heaven that cannot be received in a state of happiness. Still, diabetis is an expensive burden for my parents to bear, not to mention a blight on the environment from all the disposable syringes, lancettes, test-strips, testers, and insulin vials required, so I decided to at least ask God if he'd heal me. He did not. However, he didn't say whether or not I would ever be healed from it at some later time in my life. Perhaps he'd like to save it for a more public occasion where his glory can be revealed to many people besides just me and my family. I'm okay with that mystery: God will decide how long I live, just as he ultimately decides how long everyone will live. Diabetis does not change that. I put the question aside. But then I started reading this book called The New Friars for a class on spirituality I'm taking with one of my favourite professors, Charles Nienkircken. The New Friars describes the old roots of new movements within modern radical Christianity towards vows of poverty, purity, and being the gospel incarnate. He notes this life has two forms: (1) contemplative, which provides places of spiritual sanctuary where people are invited to come live in healing community together (e.x. urban monastery houses of prayer) and (2) missional, where individuals go out alone or in groups to live among the poor/marginalized, serving them from a level of equality rather than a position of power. It has such a powerful call to it. Matthew 25:1-46 (The Sheep and the Goats) was really emphasized in the book, which is partly why I quoted it in my last post ("Faces").

Verses 34-36 Then the King will say to those on his right, "Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me."

In that same class where I read The New Friars, we watched a video highlighting 5 pilgrimage sites: how they came to be pilgrimage sites, and how pilgrims to those places feel they were impacted by/changed through their pilgrimage experiences. Of all the deep, ancient spiritual places to go on earth, one of the 5 featured in this video was Canadian. I was kind of surprised. I've never heard of any pilgrimage sites in Canada. When I think of spiritual sanctuary here, I picture the wild, the mountains in particular. I've always found it easiest to see God when surrounded by his creation. Conversely, when I think of pilgrimage, I imagine pretty much any place except North America. We don't keep anything old if it's not making good money. Not even our globally rare expanses of wilderness, which is perhaps why I'm an environmentalist geek: deforestation, mining, and pollution feel like a desecration of the sacred to me, equivalent to someone spray-painting profanity all over the ceiling of the Cistine Chapel. It's just wrong. Well, lo and behold, the Canadian pilgrimage site is a natural area. It's called Lac de St. Anne (Lake of Saint Anne).

Lac de St. Anne is like the Native/Canadian version of the Israelites' pool of Bethesda. Native groups have put aside their squabbles and fights to visit this lake because of its physical, spiritual, emotional, and relational healing properties since before the Europeans began coming. Don't get me wrong- I understand that it's not the water that heals people, and I know that God doesn't heal everyone, that we can't earn or manipulate God into giving us what we want by enduring certain hardships or going to certain places. But I think it's fair to say that some places on earth have been blessed (or cursed) with an especially intense presence of Spirit (Holy or otherwise), and in those places we are especially prone to transformation.

Transformation appeals to me. Not just in body, but in spirit. I want to cultivate a spirit of truth, fearlessness, love. I know in my mind that all things are possible through Christ who gives me strength. But I don't know it yet. There are a lot of experiences I avoid because I fear how they'll interact with my diabetis. I was sooo excited about finally going on my first back-packing camping trip with Nolan, Chasey, and Sam last summer. I want to do things like that- I want to immerse myself in simplicity, in beauty, in wild, in challenge, in quality time spent building meaningful relationships with people. But I'm so afraid of being isolated somewhere when I'm having a low blood sugar. Neither my siblings nor my friends wake up when I get up in the middle of the night because I'm having a low blood sugar- only my parents have developed the light sleeping habits required to get up with me when I need them. On that camping trip, my blood sugars were ranging from 2.0 mmol/L (50% of the min. required before brain damage and imminent death occur) to 24 mmol/L (4X the max. needed, which can cause long-term problems like blindness and loss of appendages) four times a day because I couldn't figure out how to balance my insulin, exercise, and food intake. It was scary. I felt physically sick. I've stopped playing soccer, partly because of time constraints, but also because it freaks me out that I can't tell the difference between a low blood sugar and simply being tired- the symptoms are the same. The only reason I didn't die just before Christmas when I accidentally overdosed on insulin in the middle of the day is because God brought my dad home early from work, so he found me unconscious and convulsing on the floor in time to get paramedics to me before I hit the no-return point. I don't even remember the seizures or hitting the floor, but the idea of it really shook me up (sorry for the unintended pun) for weeks afterwards. The ground-beef texture of my tongue and the mysterious white foam circles with metal things in the middle stuck all over my body were eery tangible reminders of how close I came to death. I've always rejected the possibility of my being a missionary among remote peoples because I know that it would be really difficult/ impossible to get reliable/consistent access to the medications and food I need there. Maybe that's God's way of protecting me from feeling guilty for not answering the call to GO make disciples of the nations. On the other hand, fear is not of God. And I feel like I'm wasting the best years of my life avoiding things I'd like to try while I'm still young enough and free from responsibilities.

I love my parents very much, and I appreciate the sacrifices they have made so that I and my siblings could have all the opportunities we do for sports, music lessons, and post-secondary education. Both my social psych and personality psych profs confirm that we all become very like our parents by middle age no matter how hard we try to become something else. But I dread the thought of becoming them. There has to be more to life than watching movies or reading novels so you can avoid noticing as your body atrophies from disuse and wishing every morning that you were not returning to a job you hate with all your being. There has to be more than this present avoidance of people and places whose strength makes me feel embarrassed by my comparative inadequacies and weaknesses. God, please, I don't want to do this forever. I don't want to do it now.

So I've begun thinking that maybe a pilgrimage would be good for me. Possibly this summer, or maybe the next. I wouldn't go alone- I'd definitely want at least one friend with me. So it'd be a good relationship deepening experience with both God and people as we push ourselves, struggle. Meeting people along the way (friends and strangers) that God intentionally brings into our path would be cool. I really like the idea of going to a place where Native peoples dialogue with each other and with Christ-followers (not that there aren't a significant number of people who are both already) about faith, healing, God, and the land. I'm willing to bet walking or biking from Calgary to Lac de St. Anne would also take a while (I'm guessing a month, at least) and put me in much better physical shape than what full-time studies has reduced me to. I could finally have the solitude, the quiet, the simplicity, the discipline and daily order so very lacking from my city life. Facebook is killing my soul:) I like the idea of temporarily protesting/ rejecting our culture's obsessions with working to acquire more wealth than we need, moving from one place to another at break-neck speeds without actually being present anywhere, and seeking happiness and comfort before everything else. I want to revolt. I want to be inefficient, uncomfortable, present, and inaccessible. Plus, I've always wanted to see the north. But not yet. I have studies to complete over the next 2 months. God told me they're important. Oh, the tensions of now and then, real and unreal, the possible and impossible. Stupid tensions.

Faces

"I see dead people. They're everywhere."- Cole Sear's confession to his Psychologist in The Sixth Sense. "There are dead things- dead faces in the water!" -Samwise Gamgee, traveling through the dead marshes in The Twin Towers. All the Lonely People by the Beatles I look at all the lonely people. I look at all the lonely people. Ella Marigby Picks up the rice in the church where her wedding has been; Lives in a dream. Waits at the window, Wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door. Who is it for? All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong? Father MacKenzie Writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear; No one comes near. Look at him working, Nodding his socks in the night when there's nobody there. What does he care? All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong? I look at all the lonely people. I look at all the lonely people. Ella Marigby Died in the church and was buried alone with her name. Nobody came. Father MacKenzie Wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from her grave. No one was saved. All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong? Matthew 25:1-46 (The Sheep and the Goats). Verses 34-36 Then the King will say to those on his right, "Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me." Verses 41-43 Then the King will say to those on his left, "Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me." I am sure I have heard a sermon on this passage at least once a year every year of my life since I was born. No doubt they were all very well spoken- the passage and its meaning are not difficult to retrieve from the misty recesses of my memory. Then again, the Word of God is powerful no matter who speaks it. But it's haunting me now. Or rather, they're haunting me. The faces. The young man walking as quickly as he could towards the walk way over the river, hood up and looking down, trying to hide his face from passers-by. He was crying. Hard. He stunned me with the rawness of his hurt- a hurt so great he couldn't even hide it from the strangers he was trying so desperately to avoid. At first I continued my way in the opposite direction, but I got to the corner and felt compelled to go back. Are you okay? Can I pray for you? Where are you going? Is there anyone else in your life who can be with you through this? I followed him. He sped up. I started trotting. He started jogging. I followed him to the river pathway, then just watched to make sure he wasn't throwing himself off the bridge into the icey river below. He didn't. Deja vu. It was like passing and then following a male version of myself a couple months ago. Poor man. Not only was his heart and soul publicly broken, but in addition, when he's just trying to find solitude to heal in, some nosey woman starts stalking him. I let him be. I prayed someone he wouldn't be so creeped out by would find him and let him know God loves him and wants to heal him. A teen walking on the cross-over from a train station to the sidewalk. Repulsed of society: he was overweight, foreign, alone, dressed in a geeky track-suit, observably mentally retarded, and loudly moaning to himself. He walked with a limp, and his ankles were red with frost-bite. Why isn't he wearing socks? It's -30 degrees with wind-chill today. Where is his family? Where are his friends? Does he have any? Why is he moaning? Does he need help getting down the steps? I hurried past him, envisioning how I could ask if he needed assistance even as I rushed to the bottom of the stairs and continued on my way home, pretending he didn't exist like everyone else. It's hard to pray for someone when you're feeling guilty about failing to be the gospel incarnate you're asking God to bring them. A woman sitting on a bench in the mall. There's a walker in front of her- she seems a decade or two too young for it, but I guess poor health can hit anyone. She's frumpy-looking, and I wish I could take her shopping in this commercial mecca, then out for a manicure and hair-styling, and finally a fine dinner theatre experience where she can show it all off, to remind her that she's beautiful and loved. But it's her facial expression that literally stops me in my tracks. There is only one word to describe it: ANGUISH. She is in agony- physical, I think, probably connected to a spinal injury. Are you okay? You're sitting alone, with no shopping bags nearby, and it's almost time for the mall to close. Is anyone coming to get you? Why are you here? I stand in indecision. I don't want to embarrass her, but I don't want her to feel abandoned in her suffering by God and all of humanity. My friend has turned around and is looking back at me, wondering why I've stopped. We're here to buy my friend a ring to commemorate her newfound freedom from spiritual oppression in her life- a powerful event that occurred earlier this week while I was writing papers. The woman stretches with a trembling hand to a trendy young woman reading on the other side of the bench. She taps twice, until the girl cannot ignore the woman any more. The woman indicates a spot on her neck and the girl obliges her by feeling it. I decide that she has been taken care of and continue on with my friend. Later, we pass the woman again. The girl has gone back to her reading, and the woman is sitting alone, looking lost. I look at her and offer a friendly smile. I see you. You're not invisible. You matter. She does not, cannot, return the smile, drops her eyes to the ground, and begins the laborious process of rising to her feet. I kept walking with my friend, knowing I should have stopped. I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do (Romans 7:15). These are the faces of the weak, mine and theirs. The faces are everywhere. I feel them looking at me; searching, wanting, always needing more than I think I can give. On the c-train, when I go for walks, in my class, over the phone. I dread the calls from those same people when I'm at the DC. My silent questions are always the same: Are you okay? Where are your friends? Where is your family? They're nowhere. Unavailable or untrustworthy. And so, I'm forced to make inadequate referrals to therapists and help-lines they wouldn't need if there were just a handful of people in the world who cared how their day was, who would stand with them long enough to discover the names of the demons in their lives and then command them with the authority of Christ to leave. Acts 3:1-10 Verses 6 & 7. Then Peter said, "Silver or gold I do not have, but what I have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk." Taking him by the right hand, he helped him up, and instantly the man's feet and ankles became strong. The apostles (1) saw the crippled man, (2) stopped to talk to him, and (3) offered him physical healing through the power of Christ, so that the crippled man could be restored to his friends and family, able to be a part of society instead of sitting at its gate. So far, all I've got down is step one. Occassionally I get to step two. I want to get to step three. Why is it so hard? And why am I training so hard to become a psychologist when some good intercessory prayer is so much more effective? We've already been over this, Faye. You need an 'in'. People need bridges between science and spirituality, someone who can translate the language of faith in one to the other. I have called you to bridge, to walk in the no man's land between worlds where few tread. Remain in me... The Beatitudes (Matthew 5:3-10) by Jesus Christ Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Like Wine

Despite the catchy title, this post isn't really about wine. I try wine about once a year, usually at social gatherings, because it seems like an artsy, anciently historic, and sophisticated thing to do. I have failed to yet develop a liking for it, beer, ale, buttermilk, or coffee. The coffee I drink medicinally when I really need to stay awake for unnatural amounts of time to get school-work done. And, like medicine, it has some ugly side effects for me- 24 hour un-throw-upable stomach nausea topping the list. Alternatively, I suppose that particular symptom could also be from the poisonous artificial sweetener or the fat-free flavoured creamer I add to disguise the awful coffee taste...(And no, I don't know how it's possible for cream to be fat-free, anymore than I understand how it's possible to have sugar-free sugar. Please don't ask me, and please don't tell me if you know. I don't want to think about it too much. Oh wait, too late.) The point is: this post is actually about people and their interactions with each other. I had a sort of "Aha!" moment on my way to the c-train station this morning. It suddenly occurred to me that all people are both alcoholic beverages and alcoholic beverage drinkers (Yes, I'm aware that alcohol-drinkers are people too. I'm reading Gergen's The Saturated Self in class now so you'll likely see a separate rant on cultural meaning and mental health another time. Be quiet and focus on my analogy). People are like alcohol in that they come in different flavours and concentrations. Some flavours are immediately sweet and easy to like; others are bitter and require habituation and the right frame of mind to properly appreciate. Some concentrations are very low, impacting the drinker very little, and can therefore be taken in greater quantities before effects will become noticeable. Others are intensely concentrated, impacting the drinker immediately, and can only be handled in small quantities. Such people are intoxicating, and in the wake of their absorption they leave you feeling disoriented, uncoordinated, speech-impaired, and oh-so-very-happy-yet-guilty-at-the-same-time. People are drinkers in that everyone has different capacities for absorption and differing taste preferences. Like an alcohol tolerance, people have minimum and maximum bounds for comsuming and absorbing the interactions of a relationship. These limits are determined genetically, but the precise level of tolerance is set by circumstance and experience. As with taste preferences, there are some "flavours" or characteristics of people that tend to be appealing to nearly everyone. In food, sweetness is pretty much universally liked because this is a sign to our brains that what we're eating is in fact edible and not poisonous or useless. In people, things like facial symmetry, a sense of humour, and trustworthiness are generally considered attractive traits. Okay, enough of the social psychology- I'm more of a personality psychology fan. I'll throw off this defensive intellectualization and explain. I have a puzzle, which I'm going to work through as I write, so readers beware. I have been taught that personality traits are mostly stable across the life span. Experiences can shift them along their spectrums, but usually not all that far. One personality trait considered foundational to many personality psychologists is the introversion-extroversion scale. A person is said to be high in introversion when he or she does a lot of cognitive/emotional processing internally and generally feels his or her energy renewed from time alone. On the opposite end of the spectrum, extroverts feel refreshed/renewed when engaged with others and tend to do a lot of their cognitive/emotional processing out loud in conversations with others. The theory explaining these differences holds that introverts are somewhat more sensitive to stimulation from the social environment around them because they are already dealing with plenty of information about their own state of being inside. In contrast, extroverts are not as self-conscious and therefore crave the stimulation that comes from those around them. If you want to go back to my alcoholic analogy, introverts are sort of like drinkers with no enzymes to break down alcohol and not a lot of body mass- a little gets absorbed fast and does a lot quickly. Extroverts are more like experienced drinkers with genes to break down alcohol- it takes more than 2 to make a dent. I maintain that I am more introverted than extroverted. I feel much happier and able to relate if the social context is limited to (a) close family and friends I know well already and who know me and (b) very small groups or one-on-one exchanges with strangers or aquaintances. The intensity of the individual person(s) I'm with also impacts this, but not always and that is what puzzles me. None of my best friends or siblings are people I could describe as "mild". You see, I'm an addict for intense personalities. I love people who are who they are. I delight in people who demonstrate fearlessness, but there aren't a lot of those and I value genuineness more than the performance of someone who appears to have everything together. Although personality psychologists maintain that married couples ought to have complementary personalities so that each dyad-member's weaknesses are compensated for and strengths put to the greatest use, social psychologists point out that we also tend to prefer friends and spouses who are very similar to ourselves. So what does that make me? Functionally speaking, I'm the mild one. People spend time with me to relax, to unwind, to heal. Just call me tranquility personified. My very presence enables ADHD children to stay asleep at night; neurotic and incensed women to stop abusing their offensive children/strangers/parents or significant other; and anxious individuals to speak at a pace and pitch identifiable as human instead of squirrel. I'm okay with messiness-I have my own flaws and weaknesses to bear; I don't expect anyone else to be perfect either. I find joy in calling out the best in others so the weaknesses don't seem so important. But I don't feel mild. Just because other people's crises don't appear to phase me at the time doesn't mean they don't cost me, or that I don't hurt when they hit me hard. Five hours of talking to strangers about their life issues wears me out. Particularly if it was a shift full of high risk or even just identity-transformative calls, I'll need as many as 3 hours of strict solitude to wind down afterwards, to sift, sort, and release all the thoughts and emotions that have built up. Hanging out with my best friends continuously is something I can do for a max. of 2 days straight before I start to shut down and withdraw into silence. The more chaotic or intense the situation or person, the more I need to draw on space and silence to respond intelligently. So really it's not that I myself am an ocean of tranquility for people to wash in, I'm just something of a garbage collector with a refurbishing/recycling side-business who knows where to put things other people don't know what to do with. God is the cleansing ocean, Christ the dump for our crap we don't know what to do with, the Holy Spirit the freshwater source for all healing and renewal. I guess it's the inpredictability of the situation and individual that I find most difficult to deal with. I'm okay if I have a plan, if I remember where, when, and how to release my own burdens and those I relieve other people of. I'm okay if I can hide. In most of the places where I encounter strangers or acquaintances, there are pre-set rules of etiquette and complementary, mutual roles to be played out. I don't have to decide on the spot how to deal with the situation- I already have guidelines to work with. When I play soccer, I prefer defense because I can see the whole field and respond to the plays instead of having to invent them. When I answer calls at the DC, I follow the general protocals set out by my training and don't have to worry about future encounters- we won't recognize each other on the street and anonymity means that I have no further responsibility to the people I talk to when the call ends. School has its own student rules/roles, and my current church is possibly as ritualized in social patterns as c-train ridership. I've very adept at avoiding eye contact in those places so I don't have to engage, don't have to know what people are thinking and feeling and feel responsible for them. You will note my tolerance for close friends or family members is greater than my tolerance for strangers (2 days versus 5 hours, respectively). Even the incredibly intense (*cough* Melanie) or spontaneous (*cough, cough* Chasey and Nolan) ones don't overwhelm me as quickly because I know them well enough and we have enough of an established history together to respond appropriately to them. We have our own ceremonies, our own commonly held language, and I can fall into those relational movements and meanings as automatically as I can tie my shoelaces or do up my coat zipper. In fact, their familiarity is so comforting that I crave it as much as solitude. In contrast, the situations I hate the most are ones where I'm expected to make snap decisions based on minimal information. These include social situations where there are a lot of people I don't know well and there is no organized activity to bind us together. Situations where my relationship to others, and the roles I am to play, are ambiguous. Parties frequently fit under this category. Acquaintances at parties are actually worse for me to deal with than strangers because the relationship's direction and quality are ambiguous. With strangers I just start at the beginning (i.e. "Hi, I'm Faye. What's your name? What are you up to in life- job/school? hobbies? How are you liking this weather?") but with aquaintances I feel lost in the misty space between here and there: "Are we at a place in our relationship where we can talk about _____ or is that too personal? Did I just give out waaaay too much information? What were they looking for when they asked how I was doing? What the duece did they mean when they said ____?" It's just too much information to sort through at once. My defense in such situations is to retreat into my own silence, a sort of cave from which I can watch and learn the social territory and its rules and plan out an appropriate course through them. This strategy just doesn't work when the law of the land calls for immediate engagement. Practical application of what I've learned about myself today: what personality traits and individual characteristics do I really want to be the same and different from my own in a future spouse? Do I seek the intensity I crave, whose being is a shot of Bailey's, even though the relationship building process would make me a veritable drunkard and likely be self-defeating? Or do I accept the willing, comfortable tameness of the Bacardi cooler, still sweet, I can drive myself home and not get a ticket for intoxication? Do I agree with the statement: "Without addictions, we die"? Do I believe in all-or-nothing gambling? God, I just don't know.

Enough

What do we mean when we say we've had enough? I've had enough school. And by 'enough,' I mean: enough of reading, writing, thinking, sitting, and endless functional but superficial communication; and enough of getting nowhere near enough sleep, exercise, out-doors, or quality time with God, friends, and family. I've had enough of compulsive, swirling, obsessive, compounding, fragmented thoughts that won't let me concentrate or rest. I've had enough of not being enough, of not getting enough done. I've had enough. A Meditation on Candles Peace calls to me, and Melanie pushes me towards it, suggesting 'meditation'. I'm desperate. Today I'll try something new: "Bringing every thought captive..." Dave's verse. Today it's mine. "Expand my territory..." Jabez' prayer. Not my will be done but thine. "The Kingdom of Heaven is like..." well, candles. Even tea lights give off enough heat to burn your hands if they hover too close too long. Every candle has its circle of influence- a quietly advancing lake deeper, wider. The signs of wax breaking down are feeble and inconsistent at first: just sporadic droplettes here and there that become here and here and here and here; connecting to their neighbours until none is left behind. They've all melted together. Breathe in. Green is the theme today. Three different citrus tea lights that came in a jar of tranquilitea, compliments of Tachae. In addition, a friendly pistachio-coloured pot of 'candied pears,' a gift from Danielle Devore I thought I'd never use; now, Comforting Warmth soak into my soul. My mind is a blizzard of ash angry and chaotic and damaging like a volcano instead of the blizzard out-side- cold and fierce and cleansing. So burn. Tumerous thoughts wash away, melt away. Melt away. Breathe out. John says: "Jesus breathed on his disciples" before his ascent- "a blessing". We generally avoid being breathed on. Breath is stinky, wet, contagious, a violation of our personal space. Maybe we need to be violated to be blessed. God is never described as 'nice' in the bible. Probably because 'nice' implies 'polite'. God isn't polite. Good, yes, but not polite. Politeness requires staying within the confines of a society's norms, rituals, rules of living. But God exists out-side of society, before society, and after. He is the outer edge- wild, like flame; and infitismally small- intimate and foundational, like droplettes of wax and heated gas particles, rising unseen. God, I have read about you with the reading of the eyes. But now I smell you; therefore, I release myself and I will burn as wax and ashes. For it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me. Breathe on me, God. I'm tired of listening to fears. Warm my face, lion of Judah, with your dragon's breath. Replace my heart of stone with a heart of flesh. The lakes grow deeper. 'Sucker green' is a translucent pool; only a small crescent isle holds out from turning clear to the bottom. The centre light takes her time, melting evenly all the way around. Olive green rim streams into lemon, with a dark metal plate in the centre beneath: she is an eye. To the left: 'Sucker Yellow' pool with a pastel crescent, not as far along as Green, but Yellow is burning steadily nonetheless. Finally, the Pear: wick off-centre, she carves a slippery-walled cavern on one hand and signs her carbon-print signature on the other. Dancing in whispers green, yellow-green, and yellow reflected on the gentle contours of my friendly pistachio-coloured Mrs. Potts. Damn. Breathed out too hard. The dark green is now simply dark. There is sorrow- a candle should be lit. There is salvation- Christ is the light of the world; he will re-start it and keep re-starting it until its task is finished and everything it was has been freed. Into the atmosphere... and beyond! But not alone; Particles like to congregate- that is how the stars, sun, moon, and planets were formed. Birth, death, re-birth: that is the way of the cosmos, until such time as God says, "Enough." In Stumbling on Happiness we see that after we leave abject poverty more money does not make us more happy. Just seek enough. That's enough. Blow out the candles and go eat lunch with Mel- just enough to satisfy. I am satisfied. Thanks, God.

Picture

I love this picture. I really wish it was mine. It's not. Someone in New Brunswick took it.

City Lights and Traffic Bites

If you want to read something inspiring, joyful, or wise, I highly reccomend the blogs of Lisa, Nolan, or Amy, respectively and simultaneously (links may be found to the right- yes, I have finally learned my left and right, stop clapping). This post is just me screaming.

Beautiful Blue

by Holly McNarland

From the picture on the wall

To the bed posts that touch them all

This is where I live

This is where I do my screamin'

How do you say

I loved you in so many other ways

This is where I live

This is where I do my screamin'

Dreamin' up so much ugliness

Wakin' up to all this beautiful blue

Beautiful you

From the time I walked in

To the point where we're both arguin'

This is how I live

This is where I start screamin'

How do you say

I've always felt this way

This is where I live

This is what I do best

Dreamin' with so much ugliness

Wakin' up to all this beautiful blue

Beautiful you

Na na na...

Dreamin' under this ugliness

Wakin' up to all this beautiful blue

Beautiful you

Beautiful you

Na na na...

I don't know why that song's stuck in my head. Maybe it's because I've been hanging out in my school's 6th floor lounge for hours by myself, occassionally glancing out at the now dark skies and bright city lights. Some moments, the city looks beautiful. Like when I meet colourful people who aren't afraid to be themselves, aren't afraid to live life, aren't afraid to give. At least, not afraid enough that it holds them back. The snow sparkles, the sun shines. Other times, I hate this place. I feel like Eustace in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, hopelessly trying to chew off a hideous dragon skin that has become a part of me but actually isn't mine. This city is my skin, and I can't seem to leave it behind. Don't know what the bracelet cutting off circulation to Eustace's arm represents, apart from inescapable pain. Inescapable. Pain. Oh, it's my coursework. Man, why am I training to become a psychologist when I'd make such a darn fine psychoanalyst? Just look at the free-associations I'm capable of with enough sleep-deprivation and hunger!

Help, God. I have to conduct a narrative interview in 25 minutes and I can't do it like this. I'm not even sure where this, whatever it is, came from. I felt fine earlier. Something that I ate? No, not ate. Not physical food. Something I consumed: information, a poisoned connection, a broken relation. And something I neglected to consume: love, truth, air. 15 minutes left. I need to go prepare. Here I go. Please go with me.

This One's For December

So this is January. Our second week of January, in fact. Per tradition, I've been back in school only a week and I'm already behind in all 3 of my classes. In addition, it looks like I'm not going to be allowed to graduate on time. I found out just before the Christmas break that in order to graduate I need a second intro to the bible class. The particular class I'm missing is not offered this semester, so the registrar recommended that I apply to the Academic board and ask to substitute the intro class with another religious course, noting in my application that I have also taken 4 other higher level religion courses. I did as she recommended, even offering to take any of 3 different classes that could fit my schedule. Then Nolan and I prayed last Thursday that the school would process my request quickly so I don't fall too far behind in my mystery religion class. Well, they've finished processing. They said, "No." No explanation, just "No." An ironically brief answer for something that really means; "No, we're not letting you take another course even if we can pick what you take, and no, you can't take the same course anywhere else because this is your last year and we don't allow transfer credits in students' last year of study; so no, you cannot graduate with your friends this year because you have to come back for another half a year to take one frickin' intro to the bible course, which means no, you can't apply for graduate studies in 2009 because your marks won't be available for submission by the December due date. Have a nice day." I'll show you nice. A nice, caps-locked, italicized, underlined, and bolded swear word belongs here, but since I already said it aloud several times when I read their email I figure there's no point in repeating it in the written word. I asked God if I could go rant and swear in my journal about red-tape blinded academic board members, but he said he'd prefer it if I praised him instead. So at 1:23 am, I started singing Christmas carols. I hated Christmas this year. True, there were good moments: hanging out with Amy, prayer counselling with Sindy, cross country skiing with Nolan and my dad, leisurely eating Christmas bread with my family Christmas morning, reading books I don't have to write reports about. But overall, it felt very hollow. I was sick, so I couldn't sing carols. The radio djs felt a disturbing need to play (and replay) musically horrid renditions of shallow Christmas carols about snow we didn't have. There were no candles at my church's Christmas Eve Candle-light service. I made no New Year's Resolutions. Thus, below is Good King Wenceslas, my favourite Christmas carol, which I never did hear this year. This one's for December:

Good King Wenceslas looked out On the Feast of Stephen. When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even; Brightly shone the moon that night, Tho' the frost was cruel, When a poor man came in sight, Gath'ring winter fuel. "Hither page and stand by me, If thou know'st it, telling, Yonder peasant, who is he? Where and what his dwelling?" "Sire, he lives a good league hence, Underneath the mountain; Right against the forest fence, By St. Agnes' fountain." "Bring me flesh and bring me wine, Bring me pine logs hither; Thou and I will see him dine, When we bear them thither." Page and monarch forth they went, Forth they went together; Through the rude wind's wild lament And the bitter weather. "Sire, the night is darker now, And the wind blows stronger; Fails my heart I know not how, I can go no longer." "Mark my footsteps, my good page; Tread thou in them boldly; Thou shalt find the winter's rage Freeze thy blood less coldly." In his master's steps he trod, Where the snow lay dinted; Heat was in the very sod Which the saint had printed. Therefore Christian men, be sure, Wealth or rank possessing, Ye who now will bless the poor Shall yourselves find blessing.

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.