All the Little Whispering Ghosts

As you may or may not know, Dan and I both applied to 3 schools to start our Master's studies in psychology this September.  While we waited to hear whether or not any of them would take us, we put our future lives on hold; drifting along, continuing to work, but not committing ourselves to any further responsibilities or plans.  Nolan used to have some sort of war-strategy video game where when you pressed the "pause" button, a flashing sign would come up stating, "Reality Check: Press Start."  The video-game designers were not wrong in their philosophy- wars, and life in general, will not stop just because you need or want a break. Most of the time, anyways.

Thanks to the thrift-awareness of my friend Jen, Dan and I learned about a year ago that you can use Airmiles points to pay for hotel stays.  It's a pain to arrange, but makes mini "luxury" travels much more affordable.  We recently used some of our points to stay an extra night at a hotel in Canmore where we were staying for a foster parent event.  (No, we haven't taken up foster parenting at this point in our lives, thank you for checking.)  Rather, the agency my parents used to foster with gives out an award in my mom's name each year (called the Marilyn Archer Memorial Award, MAMA for short) to a current foster parent who displays perseverance, creativity, and a sense of humour in their parenting, and this year I was the family member presenting the award.  Anyways, while we were in Canmore, we heard that the Canmore public library was having a used book sale.  Being suckers for cheap deals and the written word, we went in search of said sale.  We did find it, but before the library, we discovered an art show being put on by the Canmore Art Guild.  Being suckers for beauty and things that involve the word "guild", we went in.  We looked around a long time.  Each piece was quite different, and had an attached note from the artist explaining the inspiration for the piece and its materials.  Some members of the guild were sitting at a table, and warmly invited questions if we had any.  They also expressed love for my abominable snow-monster touque, and who wouldn't? I must have been dressed funny, or we stayed longer than their average vistors or something, because one of the guild members eventually came to stand by me and said, "You must be an artist."  I smiled politely and told her I wasn't really; I hadn't created anything in years, though I'd attended an art school when I was a kid.  I hate to take credit for being more than what I am.  My sister Melanie is an artist- she works on her craft 14 hours a day.  I've been "working" on the same mural on my wall since before I got married 3 years ago and there's barely 4 cartoon animals added per year, on average.  But as we left the gallery, I had the strangest sensation of being Peter, denying Christ the second time.

The second time?  Jesus, when was the first?  Oh, silver stormtrooper head necklaces, riiiiight.  Earlier in the month, Dan and I visited ACAD for their metal and jewelry show and sale, called Hephaestus.   I was excited to be the kind of pop children's literature reading nerd that understood the reference to the Roman god of metal working, and I brought $$ along to buy stuff and support starving students.  Apparently they hadn't had too many visitors, and I was one of 5 people who had bought anything the entire weekend of the show and sale, so many of the artists presenting their work were eager to find out how I had heard about the event, and seemed to be under the impression I must be an artist as well.  Then, as with the Canmore Artist Guild, I responded that I wasn't an artist, and I had heard of Hephaestus from my little sister, Melanie, who was a student there.  Melanie they knew.  One of the students helpfully informed me that Melanie was in the school that day, "She's on the third floor, working.  You could go see her if you like...oh wait, you're not a student, you don't have a key card to get up there.  Sorry, never mind."  I left feeling just a little bit sad.  ACAD wasn't really a part of my world- I was just a visitor, looking in from the outside, with no key to enter deeper realms.

Denial thrice: aaaaand check [mate].  Last night I went out to a Karla Adolphe house concert I'd been invited to over facebook via a former house-mate (who is now living in a smaller house with 9 new house-mates, the brave hippie soul).  I love house concerts.  They're intimate and relaxed, allow the musician(s) to interact with their audience like a large boisterous family at dinner, but don't deafen and crush you the way that "pro" concerts do.  And I would go to a Karla Adolphe house concert even if her music was wretched (happily, it's fabulous)- she's so delightfully human and humane, stretching herself out to engage her audience with personal stories, awful jokes, humour-filled self deprecation, and pursuasive encouragements to sing along.  Toward the end of her show, Karla invited anyone with an artistic bent to stay in touch by adding their name to her email list, adding a star to let her know they were interested in talking with her more personally about art and spirituality and community.  I wanted to add my name, and a star.  But at the end of the night, I left without leaving either.  I don't want to be a burden. Why should I take up space in their busy lives when I have no art to speak of and already struggle to maintain the relationships I have?  And yet.  And yet listening to her music reminded me why I had ultimately asked God to have U Vic reject me: because I need to learn how to be a psychologist from someone who can also teach me how to use art to communicate beyond words and logic.

Reality Check: Press Start.  The morning I asked God to take the decision of whether to accept U Vic or not away from me, was the morning that U Vic sent me an email telling me they had declined my application because they didn't have a professor for me.  So.  So now what?  Apply to more schools for acceptance in 2014, yes.  But what do I want to study?  And what will I commit myself to in the meantime so I will be ready?  I'm not sure.  But it seems suspicious that my place of employment recently informed me that my entire job and it's unpredictable hours may change by June, and that 3 of my closest friends from Milton Williams Creative Arts School have all recently reappeared in my life.  Hmmm.  Art class? 

Western Blessings

In honour of my dad, whose birthday is fast approaching, I am posting the lyrics of a song I heard on cbc radio while driving home that made me laugh until I cried.  May I present to you: Cows Around, by Corb Lund, on his album, Cabin Fever.
  
Chorus:  
Well everything is better with some cows around  
Livin' in town sometimes brings me down  
Let me bestow this western blessing, share what I have found  
May you always have cows around  

First verse:
What else you gonna spend that extra money on?
What else is gonna get you up hours before dawn?
What else is gonna keep toiling on and on and on? 
May you always have cows around  
C’mon you know that you got too much time on your hands  
Not merely enough complication in your plans  
You need to invite all the frustration that you can  

Chorus:
May you always have cows around  
Everything is better with some cows around  
Livin' in town sometimes brings me down  
Let me bestow this western blessing, leave you saddle bound  
May you always have cow around  

Second verse:
What else can make the bishop swear like a sailor might?  
What else can cause such tension between a man and his wife?  
What else could ever bring all these enhancements to your life?  
May you always have cows around  
What else is gonna get out when ya don’t close the gate? 
What else’ll make ya prematurely show your age?  
What else’ll take a run at you in a fit of bovine rage?  

Chorus:
May you always have cows around  
Well everything is better with some cows around  
Livin' in town sometimes brings me down  
And although this western blessing leaves you cattle bound  
May you always have cows around  

Third verse:
What kinda cows, Corb?  
Well there’s Hereford, Highland, Simmental, Welsh Black and Maine-Anjou, 
Chianina, Limousine, Shorthorn, Charolais, Watusi too, 
Texas Long Horn, Kuri, any Roan, Ankole, Galloway, 
Red Angus, Brahma, Brangus, Jersey, Guernsey, Holstein, Hey!  
Well ya mighta had to let 'em dig for oil and gas  
Ya mighta had to turn the place to an exotic game ranch  
Ya mighta had to do all things to raise the cash  
So you’d always have cows around  
How else ya gonna lose it all like daddy did?  
What else will make sure you leave nothing for your kids?  
It’s too late now you know it is, you might as well admit  
That you’d a barely floatin', sentimental, masochisticness  
And that despite all the statistics and the advice that you get  
You will always have cows around  

Chorus:
Ya everything is better with some cows around  
Livin' in town sometimes brings me down  
Well you won’t know what you’re missing till ya hear that sound  
May you always have cows around  
May you always have cows around  
Mooo moo

On Snapping Turtles

"Look Ray," Fraser gestured out the open plane door as they flew over the frozen Canadian ice fields, "turtles." 
"Turtles?! What...Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."
-Due South, final episode, sooooo awesome.

Actually, I don't know anything about snapping turtles, so maybe it's a bit presumptuous to write a blog post where I talk about feeling like one, but I'm going to use my imagination and make an attempt anyway.

My not-so-imaginative assumption about turtles in general is that they are prone to withdrawing their head and limbs into the safety of their shell if they are feeling threatened.  Um, yeah, that's pretty much been my self portrait since at least the beginning of the fall.  I am retreating.  Mostly into myself.  

My not-so-imaginative assumption about snapping turtles is that they're ornery and will snap at potential threats to discourage predation or attempted stealing of the turtle's resources.  Hmmm, have I been reactive lately?  The best person to ask is usually Daniel, but he's at work so I'm just going to give you some snap-shots from the last few weeks and you can judge for yourselves.

Christmas Day Dinner with My Sibs:
I have the year's meanest cold, and so does pretty much everyone else. Incredibly, my youngest foster sister, Samantha, actually came to dinner with her boyfriend.  Samantha is a human lynx- super quiet, shy, graceful, and nearly impossible to find.  Thus, when I ended up seated beside her for supper, I was trying really hard to come up with topics we could chat about that would help her feel welcome and at ease.  We ended up on the topic of furbies.  I've only ever seen a furbie once, so to keep the conversation going I was trying to relate an amusing 2nd hand story of furbie destruction.  "Faye," my sister Melanie complains loudly from across the room, "you're doing a terrible job of telling that story.  Please stop."  Melanie does not bother offering an alternative, more entertaining version of the story; rather, disaster averted, she returns to her nap.  Thank you, Melanie, for that constructive feed-back.

Pre New Years Eve Dinner with a Few of My Sibs:
I still have the year's meanest cold, and so does pretty much everyone else.  I am physically exhausted and really just want to be at home snuggled in cosy blankets and watching some sort of happy-endinged children's movie, but Val and Dwayne will only be here for a short time so Dan and I accepted Val's dinner invite and I am doing my best to be sociable.  I am in the midst of telling a story when Melanie interrupts, "Faye, you are making that the most boring story ever."  Looking back, I can't even remember what the story was about so she was probably right, but at the time my pride was stinging so I threw a spoonful of potatoes at Melanie's face.  They make a very satisfying "splat" when they hit her cheek.  Nevertheless, I feel myself melting inwards a bit more.  I'm quiet for the rest of the night.

New Year's Eve Day, at work:
Work is dead.  We're fully staffed and maybe getting a call an hour.  The calls we're getting could be answered by a trained monkey: "Excuse me, what is the number for the Mustard Seed?"  All around me, my co-workers are exchanging stories about their Christmas experiences, future or current academic aspirations, travel plans, and favourite you-tube videos and pintrist items.  I am reading a book.  I read for 8 hours, then go home and have a nice dinner with Daniel, watch a comedy, and try to extinguish underlying feelings of guilt about enjoying myself while Sijie continues to sleep in her guest room 23 hours a day trying to fight off migraines and discouragement about still being stranded in our house.

Last Sunday afternoon:
I pull my car up to the curb in front of the church I attend.  I wait impatiently for Daniel and our friend Lynn to get out of the church and get in the car so we can hopefully get back to our house to serve lunch to our guests before all said guests get there before us.  Lynn just can't be rushed.  She has her own sense of time and that sense doesn't seem to notice that she's the last person in the church, still talking to the Young Adult pastor, who is hoping to lock the church up and go have lunch himself.  I try to remind myself that she can't help it- Lynn's a single woman on AISH who only has her dog for company the rest of the week so this is her "grown-up social time" and she's reluctant to leave it unfinished. 

In preparation for their arrival, I turn my stereo down to half its former volume and switch to a classical radio station.  This is my compromise.  Lynn is certainly not my only friend who prefers to have the radio off or extremely quiet when we drive together, but she is the only one I refuse to entirely appease.  I would like to feign ignorance about why that should be the case, but I know: it's resentment.  While giving her a ride to a train station previously Lynn moaned and asked if I always have my radio on, then informed me that I can't hear God's voice if my radio is on.  That pissed me off.  I gritted my teeth and politely told her that I often find God speaks to me through music, and I leave it on all the time in my car to drown out the mysterious loud sounds my car makes.  She made no response to that statement, and I have felt a slightly wicked urge ever since to play something like Chevelle or Demon Hunter as loud as my stereo will go when she gets in my car.  Today I resist the urge again.

I pull away from the curb once I make sure Lynn is properly buckled in.  As soon as Lynn settles herself, she immediately looks at me with piteous eyes, begins rubbing her temples like she's having a hang-over, and cries, "Oh no! I forgot that you are one of those people who always leaves their stereo on.  I just can't take it today- it interrupts my ability to think and concentrate on what I'm saying.  Oh can't I please turn it off?  Or wait, let me get out and go with Grace- she would let me turn off her stereo."  And somewhere inside my head a door slams shut.  As if I've left the scene and become some sort of omniscient narrator in a movie, I sit back and watch myself shut down.  My hands grip the wheel and I continue driving.  I don't respond to her request.  I don't say anything at all.  When we're several blocks away, I witness myself attempt to employ a very obvious attempt at changing the topic, and duly note that in psychology this would be considered an avoidant communication strategy intended to provide emotional distance from an emotionally-triggering situation.  "So Lynn, how's your arm doing?"

Aaaaaand BLAM! Yoshi the turtle is blown out of the water.  Mario Cart 4Eva!  Well, I guess I'm not an omniscient narrator for my life after all. I didn't see that coming: Lynn shoots my diversion down as soon as I finish saying it.  "Faye, I like you.  Now, I consider myself to be someone who likes straight-forward communication.  Have you noticed that when I ask things of you, you don't actually answer my question?  I have a sense of humour, you know.  When I asked you for help walking my dog, I was joking.  You didn't say whether you would help me, but the next week you asked if I'd thought of tying my dog's leash to my belt.  I am not stupid, or inexperienced.  I have owned 6 dogs before this one- I know all those dog-walker techniques."  I attempted to break in right then with an ill-thought out argument, but fortunately Lynn talked right over top of me.  "I have had to learn to ask for and accept help.  I find it difficult- before God stripped me of everything, I used to be very independent.  The pastor spoke today of the need to forgive and not hold on to bitterness about things.  I have had to learn that, too.  One time when I was at the Central campus, I asked a lady in the foyer if she knew of anyone living in the NW who might be able to give me a ride home.  Rather than saying, 'Yes,' and introducing me to someone she knew, or going off to ask around, or simply saying she wouldn't help me, she proceeded to list all the alternative ways I could get home- cab, city transit, etc.  She wasn't actually answering my question, just doing something to make it look like she was being helpful without actually being so." 

And then it was Lynn's turn to abruptly change the topic. 

Friday afternoon:
I am sitting in our agency's board room with my fellow full-timers as we trudge through hour 7 of our 8 hour training session/meeting.  We are given the sobering fact that call volume is down but our send-outs for rescues have gone up.  Our team leader's theory on the cause of this statistical oddity is that we're paranoid and freaking out over things that aren't actually emergent.  The topic of how to appropriately handle calls where a caller is at risk of self-harm/cutting comes up: "If the person tells you they are not suicidal, they indicate that the self-harm is not life-threatening, and they don't want medical attention, there is no reason to send a rescue.  When you do that, you are sending that rescue because it makes you feel better, because it reduces your anxiety about them cutting; it's not because that rescue is actually beneficial for that person, or because sending a rescue is going to magically cause that person to stop cutting as a coping mechanism."
Then the topic switched to how they're changing our contract and need us to be more "flexible" to "meet the needs of the agency".  A.k.a. please give up your silly, selfish dreams of having any semblance of a normal schedule where you could do things like sign up for an evening course or fitness class and have a hope of being able to attend 1/2 of the sessions you paid for.  By the way, we highly support self-care and professional development activities for our staff. 


Harsh words that have the ring of truth.  How I hate them.  But they're everywhere, knocking on my shell when I'm trying to hide inside and pretend nobody's home, jabbing me in the nose when I come out to bite. 
When I engage with people, am I allowing them to be genuine, or trying to control the conversation so my anxiety isn't aroused by another person's expression of need?  Why am I feeling anxious about that, anyway?

Because I can't meet the needs of all the people I know. 

That's an impossible task.  Why am I even trying to do that? 

Because I'm trying to be God, rather than just be with Him.  Because I'm still lugging around the sorrows I encounter, rather than bringing the sorrows of the world to God for Him to deal with. 

It's really hard sometimes to distinguish between what it looks like being a reflection of God versus trying to be God himself.

God, my heart is bleeding all the time.  I'm so tired of trying to fix it. 

Dear Anne

Dear Anne,
I miss you.  I won't ever wish you back to the life on earth that was endlessly painful for you, but I miss you.  You were the dark, conscientious, quiet in our church.  Sensitive and delicate, your heart stretched out to the congregation tenderly in prayer and in music.  After my mother died, you came to see me with watery eyes: "I loved your mother.  I'm sure going to miss her."  You meant it.  Not that other people didn't, but you really meant it.  You understood sorrow.  I appreciated that. 

When you were first hospitalized and diagnosed with bi-polar disorder, you asked me to come visit you.  I was quite surprised- both that you had been diagnosed with bi-polar, and that of all the people you knew you would want a girl in her 20s who only knew you from seeing you briefly for a few minutes each week at church to be your only permitted visitor.  So I came.  You told me a lot about your life; all kinds of struggles I would have never guessed at.  You felt emotionally neglected by your husband, rejected by most of your family, abandoned by your more chipper church friends.  You had experienced a miscarriage and were never able to have children of your own.  You had silently struggled with an addiction to alcohol for many years, an addiction which began as an attempt to self-medicate your depression.  Your rapidly failing health was slowly robbing you of the small pleasures in life: your ability to write, to play the organ, to go for solitary walks outside, to drive to warmer places.  Your house had never been finished properly and seemed to have nurtured a rather disturbing amount of black mould that I suspect had a lot to do with your poor health, but your husband's pride would not allow any inspectors to check it or contractors to fix it. The constant flourescent lighting in the hospital was bothering you- you had a hard time sleeping there.  You had only one glove, and there was a blizzard that week, making it difficult for you to go for even the short 1/2 hour evening walk with your husband that had become customary during your relatively long stay at the hospital.  I bought you a new pair I hoped you would like, but they were the wrong size.  I wanted to surprise you, but given that I was buying the gloves on sale, it probably would have been wiser to ask you what size your hands were beforehand.  I bought you another pair in the size I thought you told me was correct (I'm horrible at remembering numbers), but I never ended up giving them to you because I was afraid I'd gotten it wrong again. 

When you were released, I asked a few times if I could come visit you, or take you out for tea.  Each time you said you weren't up to having visitors just yet.  I gave up asking.  And after our second, rather bizarre phone conversation while you were in a prolonged manic state, I admit I gave up calling as well.  I kept hoping your husband would take you back to the hospital, but he just kept saying you didn't want to go, and that was that.  I regret not coming to see you.  You must have felt very lonely. 

My dad called on Saturday to tell me that you'd passed away.  Like your illness, no mention of it was ever made in the church; maybe your husband's same secrecy shrouding you.  My dad only found out because he'd just been asked by your husband to be a pal-bearer.  Evidently that was because dad was one of very few men in the church who could both remember who you were and still walk...  I suppose we are rather lacking in longer-standing middle-aged church members...  I almost cried at work when I discovered that there was simply no way for me to leave my desk to come attend your funeral on Monday.  Maybe it's just as well.  My cynical self suspects it would have been a superfluous memorial of you.  Not that it matters to you now, but I strongly suspect your husband suffers from an avoidant attachment style- when he described how you died he was chuckling about it like it was some sort of amusing anecdote of a mildly funny incident at work, even though it must have been quite horrifying. Defense mechanism?  I'm thinking so.  Sigh.  I would have liked to hear stories from when you were younger, though.  Small, fragile, understated, and hidden; were you always like a sparrow?  That is not a judgement.  Sparrows are my favourite bird.  Perhaps a more accurate question would be, were you always like a sparrow in a bird cage, isolated from your host?*. (*A group of sparrows is called a host). 

You're gone now, to a place that is always light.  And happily, that won't bother you a bit, because it isn't flourescent and your body no longer needs sleep.  And although I believe God is creative enough to come up with a way to keep snow in heaven, I suspect a place that is constantly filled with the light and warmth of God's presence is a sort of tropical place, so you won't be needing gloves anymore either.  In fact, the first image that came to mind after I heard that you had passed away was of you and my mom enjoying icy Pina Coladas in parfait glasses at a wrought-iron table in a lush garden near an exceptionally blue river of life.  You had wide-brimmed white lace hats like the kind my mom wore to her wedding, and you were chatting amiably together, enjoying the sunshine, and looking down with love on the world you had left.  You looked happy, with none of the shadows in your eyes I always observed while you were alive here.  There is no sorrow in heaven.  I hope there's still inner tubing.  If there is, I hope you're laughing gleefully as you fly through the waves behind some insane boat driver that looks like a robe-wearing elf (upon my word, is that Jesus?!). 

Love,
Faye.

Chanting in Cars with God

I really resisted voicing or making any New Year's resolutions for 2012. That was a first for me. Resolution-making, daiquiri, and fire-works are the only parts of New Year's celebrations that I've held any respect for since becoming an adult. Yet, I hate making promises I can't keep. "Let your no be no, and your yes be yes" (Matt. 5:37). To resolve to do something should mean that you do everything within your power to follow through and complete the quest you have chosen. Resolution shouldn't be the weak, ironic word it's become. I don't want to be thought of as inconstant. So, I try not to say things I don't mean, to offer things I can't give; but to never have the courage or discipline to resolve to do anything also smells a lot like laziness and cowardice. Funder says, "Doing something is better than doing nothing, 9 times out of 10." Thus, under the pressure of curious eyes and a guilty mind at our small New Year's Eve party, I verbally spouted a plan to read the bible every day and to apply for grad studies. I forgot about those ambitions pretty quickly. God elicited one real resolution from me after New Year's hype had run away with everyone's gym memberships and promises of sobriety, and that was to try to alway obey the posted speed limit. Given my lack of winter tires and the number of minor injuries my car has incurred due to my driver's haste, it was a reasonable command, but I had many reasons picking at me. I knew it was only a matter of time until I would be charged with a speeding ticket given how many red light cameras and bored officers with speed radar equipment there are in my neighbourhood. And I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to "test" the Lord your God with repeated requests for grace while doing something illegal unnecessarily. Some repeated thought about scriptures related to submitting to authority in the Lord and the law-abiding not fearing arrest irritated me daily for 2 years straight every time I would stop at the major intersection near my house after speeding on my way to or from it. But this winter, even though I was still speeding, the irritating whispers stopped. And that disturbed me more than 2 years of hearing antagonizing voices. I don't like long silences from people I know. Long silences make me worried that I've done something to offend or hurt someone, or that a misunderstanding has occurred to cause someone to feel slighted by me where no slight was intended, that someone is hiding from me because they've done something they think I'll judge them for or be disappointed in them for, or that I'm no longer needed and have been replaced in someone's life. I've heard from many quarters over my life that if you tell God to piss off frequently enough, eventually he'll give you the space you demand and leave you to face the consequences of your choices alone (think of tormented King Saul at the end of his life). I also know that sin separates us from God, so if you repeatedly ignore God's commands/truth about something, eventually you won't be able to hear God anymore (picture the dwarves in the New Narnia in C. S. Lewis' The Last Battle). So the final silence seemed to me to be quiet disappointment, acute loneliness, and a deep fear of having gone deaf. Even though God and I don't always get along, I don't want to be alone in a universe where the only One who gives ultimate meaning to life isn't a part of my life anymore. I decided my relationship with God was worth more to me than 2 minutes shaved off my commute every day. Really flattering to the Creator of the Universe, I know. It's been at least 2 months of mostly non-speeding and I have to say it remains a challenging permanent fast. I still have to check my speedometer continuously to make sure I'm not "cheating" by just blending in with the speed of traffic. I feel sorry for the people behind me who can't understand the aggravating 'old lady' ahead of them who insists on going the speed limit on empty highways at low-traffic flow times and I want to make them happy and not die a road rage victim. It's not just a little bit humbling and embarrassing to be the 'old lady driver' I fumed at not so long ago. On the up-side, I have fewer anxiety attacks about being caught speeding when I pass the photo-radar dudes, I haven't had to deal with all the guilt and adrenaline from nearly crashing due to excessive speed, and I've gotten to witness the local wildlife waddling safely across the street (yes, waddling- it was a skunk, which I suppose most people wouldn't be excited to see in their community, but I was safely in my car and it wasn't headed for my backyard, after all) in lieu of running it over and feeling sorrow for it. Nevertheless, I still have fits where I angrily wonder why I must go the speed limit when no one else seems to be doing so and it would probably be safer for me to go 10 km/hr faster, or why the speed limit is so painfully slow on the long, empty road that leads to my house. Why?! For just those kinds of occasions, God now has a new irritating chant he intones with me in my green car: "It's ok. They can go around you." Like we're a giant rock in the middle of a river, breaking the rushing current with our solidity. Mostly the chant is soothing, reminding me to let go of hurry and embrace beautiful things in the moment: the awesome music I'm listening to, the scenery I get to witness while I drive, the overall sense of safety enhancement, the rare time alone with my thoughts and my God. Sometimes I let this chant take on a slightly judgmental tone towards the other drivers in their envied speed, and then God has to add more of a harsh emphasis to the "can," which is a reminder to me to let go of my competitive attitude and to not feel bitter when people pull ahead of me in line at a traffic light. When I'm feeling especially discontent about it, God helps me encounter someone else who has made a similar commitment so we can commiserate with and encourage each other. Thanks, God. Oh, and Happy Easter. Correction, as Sonja would put it, Blessed Easter. Though I still remain unclear about exactly how one can "bless" God.

Invisibility is Not a Superpower Anymore

So, to acknowledge the complaints of my dearly beloved loyal readers, Yes, it's been a while since I've posted anything (you know, apart from the post from 2 minutes ago). I feel like the reasons have been two-fold: first, for at least a year's time, I had no time to write. I was busy dealing with crises in my own life (ex. my mom's illness and death) and then I was busy dealing with other people's crises, which I didn't write about and can't list, because they're not my stories to tell. My life story was not about me for that time; rather, it was about supporting other people in their life stories. Work was also very busy and involved a lot of sitting at a computer reading information and frantically typing up mostly tragic mini-stories all day, so the inclination to attempt creative or narrative-type writing at home was quite diminished. My second reason developed after that crisis-jumping year was over. I had a year of rest and simple social interactions where I worked at my stable, moderately meaningful, comfortable job; attended church activities; supported the performing arts with my attendance or someone else's; and practiced not burning or exploding new healthy food recipes I was trying out and serving to friends, family, or myself. This is where I sit now. Essentially, I have became Martha Stuart minus the criminal record. This afternoon, Dan and I finished serving our second large Easter dinner of the weekend at 6:00 pmish. We differed in our feelings of how successful this one was. After getting home from a Sunrise Easter Service 6:15am-7:30am and a morning Easter Service 9:30am-12:00, we worked like mad (while blessedly not feeling mad) preparing a roast lamb supper for Dan's parents, sister, aunt & uncle, grandmother, and cousin. We had it ready reasonably close to the time we claimed it would be, everyone agreed it was incredibly delicious food, and we went for a cheery walk through sunny Fish Creek Park before indulging in dessert. For the first time ever with Dan's family, there was absolutely no zombie-like t.v. watching involved, only conversation and enjoyment in our senses' perceptions. There was also no ham, happily. Dan saw it as a major success. I suppose I should also count my blessings and victories, but I mostly felt disappointed. Dan prayed over the food when I asked him to, and it was an improvement over past Christian holiday feasts with Dan's family where Dan's parents would prod Dan's younger sister Steph to chant, "God is good, God is great, thank you for this food." I don't want to be critical of other's prayers, it's just that I don't think they believe they're actually talking to God and it hurts me a little inside to see the Guest of Honour and Founder of the Feast treated like the mailman. "H & G: Hi and Goodbye" (Sleepless in Seattle). A friend was recently enraged and hurt when some of her birthday party guests left her with a $200 tab at the restaurant where they was celebrating. I think sometimes that's how Jesus must feel on Christmas (his birthday) and Easter (the anniversary of his torture, death, and resurrection) when half the people celebrating look right past him in their bedazzlement of the decorations, party favours, and food, and forget to even bring him a card. My goal this year was to not only eliminate celebration practices I find distasteful, but to replace them with meaningful traditions. Specifically, I wanted to read a piece of scripture from the story of the crucifixion or resurrection, to remind everyone WHY we're feasting. But somehow it got pushed aside in the bustle of food prep, and I had to force myself to smile and not swear out loud when Dan's father proudly announced that the Easter Bunny had visited their home again, while Dan's mom beamed and handed us each a cute gift bag of Easter candies. #%*!ing Easter Bunny. I know that giving us little tangible gifts is one of the ways they like to show us that they're thinking of us and love us. It's a very sweet (no pun intended, well, mostly not intended) act of kindness, and something my mom used to do frequently as well. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," my father liked to admonish when I was growing up. Sage advice. But to me, when they give us gifts we don't want it's also a sign they don't really know us. I'm a diabetic who doesn't really like candy apart from chocolate, and I think it's been many years since Dan really liked any kind of sweet. And today, especially today, I really didn't want our house to be a place celebrating the Easter Bunny. "The bunny, the bunny, whoa, I hate the bunny. I don't hate Dan's mom or his dad, just the bunny..." (Veggie Tales, slightly revised). And I feel I'm mostly to blame for the lack of attention drawn to Christ at Easter in our own home. I don't know how to talk to Dan's family about anything but the most shallow or practical things, and those tend to make for boring conversations so mostly I'm just quiet altogether around them. Then again, maybe it's not just with them that I pull on an invisibility cloak. We also invited my side of the family over for Easter dinner on Good Friday. Once again, we avoided zombie-like retreat to the t.v., everyone thought the food tasted great, and there was friendly conversation everywhere. I asked my Grandfather to pray, and he did, and his prayer was genuine and filled with thanks to God. But again I felt like a sell-out for not reading a piece of scripture first. I gave way to panic about people being hungry and irritable after supper was delayed for a cousin and her young children I had given an erroneous address to and whose desperate calls I had missed for over 45 minutes because I'd accidentally forgotten my phone in my car. In sum, I cared more about being "nice" than in being any sort of genuine light to the family members who have not given their hearts to God yet. I want to be more than nice. Niceness is a camouflage for the middle-class in "first-world" countries to appear gracious and kind and it seems to be what we use as evidence of goodness to justify our selfish extravagance on ourselves. I need a bigger dream for myself than eating tasty healthy food, showing up for endless church events, and filling time at a job that makes me look like a good person while I slowly die of boredom. Those are side dishes and I feel like I'm missing the garlic encrusted roast beast at my own Who-ville banquet of life. You can't be heard without saying something. You can't be seen unless you're present and standing in the light. I'm too old for Easter candy baskets and I'm too old to be hiding under the stairs when I want attention, miffed that no one has noticed I'm gone.

Mental Illness is Calling- Shall I Answer?

A couple weeks ago I was sitting at my desk when my co-worker exclaimed, "Hey, Schizophrenia is calling me." Then abruptly she started laughing, "Should I answer a call from Schizophrenia?" I peeked around our cubicle divider and a quick glance confirmed that the caller ID did indeed simply read, "Schizophrenia." She picked it up, bless her. But ever since then, the question has been drumming through my mind like a military band: "Mental illness is calling me: shall I answer?" There's no one answer, really. Just like when people call 2-1-1 and ask for "the" number for "Alberta Health" when there is, in fact, something like 800 different numbers that belong to that agency, more information is needed before an answer can be given. Is it my mental illness, or someone else's? Why is it calling me? Is it calling me at home, or while I'm at work? Supposing it's my own mental illness, I would be tempted to say that I wouldn't answer: "Just say 'no'" and all that jazz. However, my knowledge of Freudian psychology suggests that if I have a mental illness that has built enough strength to call me on a phone, perhaps I ought to at least listen to what it has to say, because it probably needs attention. And if it's my own mental illness calling, having it call me at work or home would probably be equally disturbing. If my mental illness called me at work, I would probably need to go on some sort of sick leave or change of occupation. If my mental illness called me at home, then I'd have to ask how it obtained my unlisted phone number and/or address and it's probably bothering my husband and family as well as stalking me. Paranoia, paranoia, everybody's out to get meeee, you told them all I was crazy, and I don't even own a t.v... (though Dan does. Still, we don't get cable, after all). Conversely, supposing it's someone else's mental illness calling, I would be very tempted to say, "Of course I'll answer! I'm always happy to help!" But again, the problem contains more complexity than it first appears to. What kind of mental illness is it? And how severe? Whose is it? Does it just want to talk, need directions elsewhere, or does it expect me to resolve it? I only have a BA in behavioural science, so I'm really not qualified to treat anyone. Even if I had a full PhD and license to practice, I would be bound by the ethical code of conduct of Registered Psychologists in Canada, so I also can't treat anyone I have a dual relationship with (ie. family, friends, coworkers, archenemies, etc) and I must only work within my areas of specialized training. So, for example, if I specialize in using body mindfulness techniques and dialectical behaviour therapy to treat dissociative disorders and emotional trauma, but don't have any training in prescribing anti-psychotics or using cognitive behaviour treatment, I can't accept schizophrenic patients as my clients because I'm not competent in that area. I really don't want to bring my work home with me, either, as I suspect this would have adverse effects on my marriage and family. Repeat after me, self: "I can't be everything to everyone," and the newer mantra, "I can't be everywhere and available to everyone all the time." Sorry, they're not very catchy mantras. And whether at home or work, if the mental illness calling is Psychopathy, and it belongs to the very angry psyche of a controlling/abusive ex of a client, friend, or family member, it might be wiser to allow it to leave a message and then possibly make an out-call to 9-1-1. Then again, maybe it'd be a good idea to answer so I could conduct a risk assessment. I don't know how to record live calls, though, and damn is it ever important to maintain physical evidence to show to police and judges when seeking justice for or protection in domestic abuse cases. Maybe if it was a really clingy/dependent mental illness I would just allow it to leave a message, or if I did pick up, perhaps I would have to give it a time limit. I always find that really hard though- most often, it seems as though I gain much more insight into a person's life/views if I just allow them to tell their stories in their own time and in their own way. I don't think I ever want to go into "Solutions focused therapy". Not that I believe therapy shouldn't be about finding solutions- it should. I believe God can heal anything, and people were meant to live abundantly, so a therapy that doesn't bring healing is an unethical waste of time, money, and emotion. But solutions-focused therapy is generally short-term therapy devised to appease insurance companies with their lower cost and fix surface-level problems for clients in a hurry. And despite all my insecurities, I still believe I was meant to seek bigger challenges than that. Alas, I digress, and I'm speaking with unpolitically correct terms. Correction: a person is not the same thing as the mental illness that plagues them. How's that for decisive decision making? My answer is, "Maybe."

Like Gilligan's Island

No phones, no lights, no motor-cars

not a single luxury

like Robinson Crusoe

it's primitive as can be

I know, I know. Who watches Gilligan's Island anymore?

Well, I do sometimes.

The gift of my father's television taste, now fortunately freed from the tyranny of commercials by boxed seasons.

I also sometimes watch Hogan's Heroes and I Dream of Jeannie, but that's beside the point.

Gilligan's Island was a comedic sitcom about a tour boat crew and its passengers who got stranded on a tropical island and had to (a) survive with whatever they'd brought along and the natural resources of the island, and (b) forge a small, functioning community out of an odd assortment of people. Admittedly, Gilligan's Island is not a perfect simile to my life at the moment: I certainly have no professor available who can figure out how to make a bomb out of a couple of coconuts to diffuse an imminently erupting volcano, and obviously if I am writing this post I am not lacking electricity or technological options to connect to the outside world. I did leave my car at home, though. And, of more relevance, I am trying to find harmony in the midst of living with an odd conglomeration of personalities, isolated from my normal community, with minimal access to my usual "drugs".

Normally when I'm stressed, I either self-medicate with chocolate (which a good health teacher from Jr. High taught me is filled with chemicals that initiate calm emotional responses) or I do my best to escape by distracting myself with fictional stories that have happy endings. Sometimes I will also listen to loud music in my car that I can sing along with to soothe my soul. However, a couple weeks ago our church Young Adult group challenged all its members to try a fast. Too much of a coward to do a full food fast for a day or two, I opted for a much longer but much less stringent fast from chocolate and fictional book reading. Since Dan opted to fast from coffee, I decided I might as well cut that out, too. We arbitrarily chose a traditional time length for our fast, and away we went.

It just hasn't been as easy as I thought. Oh, I've resisted temptation to the listed items alright. Rather, the challenge has been to allow God to fill those empty spaces, rather than just filling them with other things (ex. lemon squares in lieu of chocolate, and movies in lieu of books). Particularly, now that I've been travelling for nearly two weeks and my alternative drugs aren't easily accessible either (Dan, my little lemon square of sunshine, is still at home), I'm finally starting to feel the strain of the fast I chose. I am really struggling to put into practice the idea of "resting in God," and in God alone. Practically speaking, what does that look like?

I have some guesses. Rest is what you get when you're not anxious about something, regardless of whether or not your body is in motion. The banes of anxiety and helplessness seem to be competence, power, and trust. You don't need to worry about x if you believe that someone has the power, ability, and desire to handle x with care. My former room-mate, Jasmine, seemed to have a pretty good grasp of the concept of resting in God. God always seemed so obvious to her, and she followed Him like a child, curious and content. She'd chat with him about life, and he'd tell her to do things like, "Go for coffee at the Starbucks on 14th now," and she would obey and then find an old friend she hadn't seen in years. (Her summary of said 'coincidence' was: "Yeeees! I'm getting so good at this game, God!"). Graham Cooke also described his relationship with God as one of trust, and a game of giving. Bitterness and hopelessness are not synonymous with rest. These emotional/psychological states appear to carry an underlying belief that others will not take care of x (due to incompetence, unwillingness, or impotence), so I must do x myself, and it's too hard. I've been reading through Job again. I love Job like I love reading treatises on mathematical formulas, or like I like eating broken glass, or listening to screaming babies, or eating my birthday dinner at McDonald's, or having my fingernails pulled out with pliers, or riding a bicycle in a snowstorm, or building a summer home in the middle of a Florida swamp, or going down-hill skiing in Saskatchewan, or keeping a pile of live snakes and tarantulas on the floor in lieu of carpet, or eating household pets for supper, or putting moldy potatoes in my fruit smoothie for breakfast, or rolling naked in piles of festering garbage, or watching reality tv shows on tv, or stubbing my toe on the heat register, or accidentally stabbing myself in the finger with my syringe, or presenting sex ed to a class of grade 7 students, or... I mean, honestly, has anyone ever tried to count how many similes, proverbs, and metaphors are used by each character in that story to make a point that could have been stated in under 10 seconds? Of course not- they would shoot themselves first. Wait, what was I talking about? Oh, right; I think Job is a counterfoil to Jasmine, or he would be if they were in the same story. Job's sin was pride and self-righteousness. He was so sure of his own perfection that he was willing to accuse God of being unjust when the blessings of his life were removed. Everyone gets so angry on his account: how could God allow such a righteous man to suffer so much and then respond to his anguish with a "Shut up and stop questioning me- I'm God, you fool!"? But how do we know Job was actually righteous, except from his own account? (ex. "Everything I did was honest. Righteousness covered me like a robe, and I wore justice like a turban" Job 29:14). How accurate was Job's account? How do you know when someone is righteous? God never argued that Job hadn't done good things with his wealth and influence while he held them. Rather, it seems that God saw something ugly coming that Job, and all Job's friends, family, and acquaintances had not seen; a temptation hidden in Job's heart Job had never recognized because Job had never been in the sort of uncomfortable place where such a thing could be revealed. He had too much chocolate and fictional reading and lemon squares and movies to watch to see that tiny little crack in his soul Satan was panting at, ready to rip in and tear it wide open for disease and death. So after all Job's angry ranting, Elihu, the young one, speaks on God's behalf: "But by means of their suffering, [God] rescues those who suffer. For he gets their attention through adversity. God is leading you away from danger, Job, to a place free from distress. He is setting your table with the best food. But you are obsessed with whether the godless will be judged. Don't worry, judgement and justice will be upheld. But watch out or you may be seduced by wealth. Don't let yourself be bribed into sin. Could all your wealth or all your mighty efforts keep you from distress? Do not long for the cover of night, for that is when people will be destroyed. Be on guard! Turn back from evil, for God has sent this suffering to keep you from a life of evil" (Job 36:15-21). A very little bit of discomfort is already showing me that I lean a lot more on my "easy-going" and "tempered" nature to deal with conflict around me than I do on God, and when my little stress relievers of chocolate and happy distraction and people who are always nice back to me aren't available, I'm not quite as easy-going and tempered as I like to believe. I have some of the appearance of a Jasmine, but underneath is mostly the pride-cracked heart of Job with a secret doubt that God will not take care of everything the way that it should be. So come Holy Spirit, and transform me. You must increase, and I must decrease (wince). Or, since I'm looking at Job, in Job's words: "I had only heard about you before, but now I have seen you with my own eyes, I take back everything I said, and I sit in dust and ashes to show my repentance" (Job 42:5-6).

Country-song Ode to Daniel

August 28. Day 8 of my trip in Saskatchewan.

Happy Anniversary Daniel,

I miss you a lot.

I miss your enthusiasm for growing things, nurturing plants like your children;

I miss your garlicy culinary creations, thoughtfully packed up for us on Thursday nights;

I miss your endless curiosity about how things work,

your pride in finding one perfect word to sum up a complex situation,

your soothing hugs as you laugh at me for raging about something,

the vexed sound you make when you're feeling trapped,

the texture of your downy-soft hair after it's been washed,

your deep voice rumbling the word, "Hmmm,"

your tight and ticklish abs and buns,

your tiny little drawings or diagrams,

the way you would croone the words, "Tiny little," and twiddle your fingers to demonstrate,

muscled arms that remind me of Popeye the Sailor on spinach,

your wrinkly forehead that makes me giggle when it folds up like a soft-top on a sports car.

I miss being around you:

I miss going for walks with you and swinging our held hands together, and occasionally pushing you into a nearby bush or snowdrift;

I miss listening to loud music in the car with you (actually, I kind of miss music, period);

having stupid fights as we cook delicious recipes together in the sunny kitchen,

snuggling in bed for 2 minutes before I get too hot and have to shove you away so I don't explode,

intentionally going limp and falling over so you have to catch me,

punching you when you make awful puns,

and going to the grocery store together to hunt for exotic cheeses to taste with crunchy crackers before going to bed.

I love you a lot Daniel.

1 more week to go.

Katutura [R]evolution

Katutura is a low-income district in the Namibian city of Windhoek (see "The Katutura Township of Windhoek"). The name literally means, "The place we do not want to settle." Katutura was originally built by the South African Administration around the time of World War I as a sort of crappy rental district where all black residents of the town of Windhoek were forced to move to so Windhoek could be exclusively composed of white German residents. Lighter "coloured" individuals were allowed to live in between. Not surprisingly, the non-white residents of Windhoek didn't want to leave their nicer homes in the Old Location to live in a segregated ghetto where they would be forced to pay rent for 1-room cement houses without running water or electricity, so they termed the new living area Katutura and posed a mass demonstration that ended rather bloodily and badly for them. In 1990, by the turning of God, Namibia gained independence from the South African Administration. Consequently, a lot of effort was put into improving the Katutura area infrastructure, and residents were allowed to either buy their homes at low cost or were simply given their homes. By 2006, Katutura had become a popular point of arrival for rural migrant workers seeking a new urban life of opportunity, with approximately 600 new people arriving every month to an area with a population of 150 000. Katutura was hard pressed to provide even basic housing and sanitation for the newcomers. The Old Location remains the most desirable real-estate of Windhoek, with infrastructure and property value decreasing the further away from it and closer to the outer edge of the Katutura district a person goes. Nevertheless, today, provisioned with more freedom and ownership for the area that now makes up 2/3 of Windhoek, some of the locals have begun calling Katutura Matutura, which means, "The place where we want to stay." I heard a Christian College professor give a sermon on Katutura earlier this year. He stated that Katutura means, "The place where we will never settle," and emphasized the people's desire to move out of Katutura towards the interior of the city once they had found appropriate employment to support them. From this, he admonished Christians to be like that in our faith- never content to just sit where we are, but to push forward, deeper; "Further up and further in!" if you prefer C. S. Lewis' wording (The Last Battle, p. 213). I think that was a worthy lesson. And yet. And yet, the people have renamed Katutura. There is a beauty to be noted from the changed name of the place by the residents themselves, manifesting a change of attitude toward their home borne of the transformation and redemption of their community. So where am I? Am I an ambitious migrant worker in Katutura, or a proud citizen in Matutura? The two places co-exist in Namibia, and perhaps I live in both worlds simultaneously also. I take pride in my work, and I generally feel satisfied in my roles of family connector, friend support, and young adult church leadership. In that sense, I am dwelling in Matutura. And yet. And yet, I feel time as the steady pull of a river moving past me, to unseen places I wish to go. But I don't have a boat to get there, and there's so much to do where I am that somehow I always run out of daylight before the opportunity comes to build my boat. The And Yet tells me I am biding my time in Katutura. What do you say, God? I say that right now you're training, and you need to be patient, but you also need to plan for the future. Keep fishing in the river where you are- you need to eat; yet, spend a little time each week working on your boat. You can't swim to where you're going. Or teleport. Teleporting is out.

Lament for Darcy

Dear Darcy, It's hard to believe you won't be there to greet me at the farm when I come to visit this go around. Mind, I probably wouldn't be visiting my Eastern kin so soon if it weren't for you. I expected to return for a funeral. I didn't expect it to be yours. I was never close to you, Darcy. You were 8 years older than me, and that always appears a big difference when you're a child. Moreover, you were a farm boy, and I was a city girl, and you got to see our grandparents every day, while I met them as if for the first time again every 4 years or so. You always seemed 5 steps ahead of me, but I really liked you. On one of the earliest visits we had that I can remember, you were friends with Nolan. The two of you made a giant pile of hay below the hay shoot in the dairy barn, then bravely jumped through the shoot 2 stories down to the pile of hay. I was a little bit horrified, and perhaps more than a little bit envious. The next time we visited, you were older; a responsible teen. Nolan and I made a pile of hay below the shoot, and you sighed heavily, a sigh of long-suffering, then called to our uncle Ted that, "The kids made a mess in the barn". Our mother taught us to make forts with the bales of hay instead. When we returned next, you had gotten older again; a good-natured youth. Nolan was old enough to work with the men, so it was just me, Melanie, and Chasey making forts in the barn. Chasey fell 4 layers down through a tunnel in the deeply stacked hay and landed on the rickety hatch to the hay shoot. It didn't look like it could support his meager weight very long. We couldn't reach him, and Chasey started crying, "Oh no, oh no, oh no!" You came to the rescue. With one of your long, lanky youth arms you reached down into the hole, said, "It's ok, buddy," and pulled Chasey out. When we returned for Grandma's funeral, you were a young man, broken-hearted. Rare among your contemporaries, you were deeply attached to your grandparents, even sharing the same home with them when you got married and started your own family. Even in your grief, you were genuinely hospitable. I will never forget Chasey's description of your introduction for your first son. Shy, he was nowhere to be found when we arrived. You wandered around the house, cheerfully calling, "Jackson? Jackson?" Until at last you opened a closet and found him cowering in a corner. Not missing a beat, you happily declared, "There you are Jackson!", and hauled the poor child from his hiding place to meet Nolan and Chasey. So proud of your young son. Most recently when we visited, it was for Grandpa's 90th birthday. Now an established adult, you proudly introduced us to Jackson's younger brother, Charlie- named for his great grandfather- showed us the beautiful renovations you had completed on the old farmhouse to make it new, and warmly offered us a place to stay in the house we had always used as home base when visiting, though our grandparents no longer lived there. You found honour in carrying on the family tradition of dairy farming on the original Perrinridge farm, where we had the party to celebrate the grandfather you still loved so deeply. It's hard to believe you won't be there to greet me at the farm when I come to visit this go around. Mind, I probably wouldn't be visiting my Eastern kin so soon if it weren't for you. I expected to return for a funeral. I didn't expect it to be yours. Your family was your whole world, and when it broke down you felt there was nothing left. I heard that you and Kristy were fighting, and that it was after she had left you experienced a mental break-down, and your final overwhelming despair. It's a hard image to envision alongside the snap-shots of you I remember. It hurts to picture you feeling so alone and hurt that you believed there was only one choice left to you. You made a decision you couldn't take back, and no one can change it for you. Wherever you are now, I know you are regretting that decision. Regretting never being able to play hide-and-seek with your sons again, Regretting not waiting to experience reconciliation with your beautiful wife, Regretting leaving your father to work alone on a dairy farm that will haunt him for the rest of his life, Regretting not seeking comfort from the One who made you, loves you, and died for you. I'm going to miss you, Darcy. "I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved. He will come in and go out, and find pasture. The thief comes only to steal, and kill, and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full." John 10:9-10. Lord have mercy, Amen.

Grief Gears Turning, Present Images

(A) C.S. Lewis’ The Silver Chair: a long series of botched instructions that lead to a long series of much more difficult tasks and guilt. I had such great intentions of reading a lectio in the morning every day while I was on holiday, to properly focus myself on the actual meaning of Christmas. That is, the celebration of Christ’s arrival on earth and remembrance of all that his visit to Earth as one of us accomplished. On the few lectios I did, I discovered that my attention span for meditation has become significantly diminished. And, with no surprise, my lack of attention to my first priority wreaked havoc with my smaller Christmas goals. I missed my marks repeatedly: I forgot to include my amphibious bible in the Christmas back-pack I dropped off at the Mustard Seed, held too long onto West Jet buddy passes and thus let them go to waste, and neglected to complete my wedding gift thank-you notes and consequently had to suffer the pointed disappointment of one of Daniel’s aunts (the one who gave us the West Jet passes we wasted). Sigh. (B) I did succeed in my goal of going to the local pool for an assortment of low-impact fitness programs nearly every day I’ve been off work. My body feels much better. Moreover, the combination of yoga, deep-water workouts, and aquasize brought out some pseudo-spiritual experiences for me. I discovered that my grief has at last transformed from a snarly, unreasonable dog to the ocean. On our honeymoon, Dan and I stayed at a tropical resort along the Brazilian coast. When the tide was in, large, relatively warm waves would hit the sand and whoosh with inconsistent sucking power up onto the steeply sloped beach. We spent hours of blissful joy jumping in those waves, and getting sucked out into the ocean when we failed to keep our feet in place. It was intensely fun, and felt like we were playing with God himself…that is, that is how it felt until I started having a low blood sugar, at which point it would just seem scary, and annoy me by making my escape difficult. This is how memories of my mother come to me: in character, they are cheerful, fun, and loving, and that is usually how they make me feel; but every now and again they hit me hard like an unexpectedly large wave, leaving my eyes and throat burning, and myself nearly bruised. But it’s just a moment, and I’ll live.

Grief Gears Turning, Fifth Image

My green Car of Grace spinning out on the highway on the top of the Crowchild Trail overpass that crosses over Bow Trail. Miraculously, the lovely sportscar I side-swiped in my impatience only has a dent on its front fender, no one is injured, and I didn’t go over the guard rail or get hit by any of the on-coming traffic that my car is now facing. And the nice police officer who arrived at the scene only gave me a ticket for making an unsafe lane change, when he could have also ticketed me for not having my license on me. However, my brilliant plans of getting out of debt with gazelle-like intensity are way-laid: I’m way too shaky to go to work for a relief shift, so I’ll make no extra money this pay cheque; my car has some ugly new dents in it to broadcast my shame as an unsafe driver; and soon my insurance company will no doubt find it expedient to increase my monthly car insurance payments. Well, there it is: The Sign of Aravis from C. S. Lewis’ A Horse and His Boy. I got a good lashing for my wrong-doing, but at least now I know God still cares and is engaging with whatever I’m doing.

Grief Gears Turning, Fourth Images

(A) A very small, solitary wolf crying alone in a very big wilderness beneath a very white, large, cold moon. I try to worship and find the words stuck in my throat. I start to pray about situations outside of my control, things that I used to just talk to God about habitually. I get ½ way through and then stop when I remember that we’re not talking because I don’t have confidence You’ll do anything. It’s lonely not talking anymore. (B) Mae’s Brink of Disaster song sings me a forewarning: “I'm on the brink of disaster Staring down the consequences To brake hard would be better Tonight I'll do what it takes to fail Going there only faster Jump the gun and throw it into gear But the fact of the matter’s: I'm out of control, asleep at the wheel Asleep at the wheel I'm out of control, asleep at the wheel.” I ignore the caution, bite my thumb at God, and continue crying while driving and fish-tail frequently.

Grief Gears Turning, Third Images

(A) 3…2…1… and the anesthesia wears off. A nearly rabid dog who has just come out of surgery, is in pain, and ready to bite the arm off of anyone who comes near. That dog is me. I listen to angry heavy metal music when I drive, and speed often. Rabbi Harry Kushner wrote a book called When Bad Things Happen to Good People. I have not read that book, and probably should do so before I comment on it; however, today I am going to be lazy and just recite what I remember of Kushner’s summary of his book from a t.v. interview I once watched in a Spiritual Disciplines class taught by Charles Nienkirchen. In that interview, Kushner explained that he wrote his book after his son died prematurely of a very painful and debilitating disease, which caused physical and emotional suffering that seemed entirely out of proportion to any wrong-doing by Kushner’s son or Kushner himself. Kushner noted that after the loss of his son he extensively studied the book of Job. Job is about a righteous man (named Job) who experienced every kind of suffering known to man while being tested by God, but was ultimately restored. Kushner rejected that book. As he put it, “There’s no way to replace loved ones you’ve lost with new ones. God’s gift of a new family to Job did not, and could not, make up for the family God had taken from him.” Kushner’s revelation on the problem of pain was thus that some things God does are inexplicable to the human mind and you just have to choose to forgive God for perceived injustice. I reject that thesis. I can’t believe in a God who is imperfect and makes unholy mistakes that I have to forgive, just as I can’t believe in a God who is so wimpy that he wants to do good but just isn’t powerful enough to do it. I also have way too much solid theological training and too many direct experiences of God’s goodness and power to convince myself that God is evil, unengaged, or non-existent. And so I am stuck in a world where the only true happiness, the only real purpose or meaning to be found is to be a worshiping and obedient creature of my creator, and I don’t particularly want to be such right now. I try to read C. S. Lewis’ Surprised by Joy and The Problem of Pain. I can only read very short pieces before I get too angry, because it says reproachful things to me like, “I have no other good to give you”. I persist because Lewis repeatedly admits that much of what he has to say is simply based on Christian theological teaching and he has as hard a time following his own writing as anyone who is bound to read it. I don’t understand why God would make my sweet, loving mother suffer so much, or take her so early from a world that needs to experience her kind of warm acceptance and love. A Small Voice asks me who I am, that I demand to never know the pain of loss like every other human being ever born on broken Earth. The small voice also condescends to point out the blessings that I received which are not given to all who suffer similar losses: memories of a mother uncomplicated by abuse, anger, or bitterness; a large family that pulled together in their grief; a supportive husband who doesn’t smother me, but gets me to laugh as needed; financial stability and a positive work environment that allows me to take the time I need to myself; the assurance that some day I will get to see my mother again, alive and whole and full of joy. I tell that voice to Fuck Off. Unfortunately, I don’t believe that is a prayer recommended or sanctioned anywhere in the Bible. I instantly regret it. (B) The image of King Saul, surrounded by demons that torment his mind, abandoned by the Spirit of God, comes to mind and leaves me feeling cold.

Grief Gears Turning, Second Images

(A) A storm trooper magnet that reads, “Regret: Those were the droids you were looking for.” I was in the right place at the right time, but not paying attention to the right things. Acts of care for my mother were never enough to ease her suffering. She couldn’t eat, drink, sleep, stand, walk, sit, or stay awake. I wanted desperately to make her laugh, to distract her from her pain for a moment, but I couldn’t think of anything funny to say. There’s nothing funny about cancer, and I couldn’t focus on anything else. I was at my mom’s bedside for her final breath, and I missed my mom’s last smile at me because I was too busy frantically texting, calling, and finding all my other siblings to come immediately even though it was clear they’d never make it in time. (B) A merciful shot of anesthesia to a deer hit by a truck on the highway: I felt only relief at my mother’s escape from pain, and a tranquil sense of purpose as I supported my family, hosted out-of-town guests who had come for my mother’s funeral, and participated in funeral arrangements. I remember the song I Can Only Imagine (by Mercy Me?) coming on the radio moments after my mother’s passing into the arms of Christ.

Grief Gears Turning, First Images

(A) The sadist with a curved blade who likes to do some cruel knife twisting on my insides every time I look at my mother’s painful body. I went to visit my mom’s family a week before my wedding. It was bittersweet chocolate to me. On one hand, it was so beautiful and restful to spend time with my mother’s siblings and father, building my own connections with them so that when she passes away I won’t lose contact with them, or by extension, with my mother. There’s so much of her in them, so much rich memory. My mom has been the Switzerland of her siblings, nieces, and nephews; able to provide unbiased, confidential empathy, opinions, and mediation in a way the others could not, limited by their geographical closeness to each other. On the other hand, it filled me with sorrow that I was able to go visit my grandfather for his 90th birthday party when my mom, who so deeply desired to, was unable to. She didn’t think she could handle both the flight to see him and the strain of my wedding, and she chose to be present at my wedding. (B) Two deer bounding across a field beneath a rainbow in the middle of a very cold and windy rainstorm on the worst day of the biking pilgrimage Dan and I went on two summers ago. People who came to visit my mom, help with chores around the house, provide personal care, pray, or send meals, gifts, cards, or e-mails of support: all these acted as the face of God in a dark place for us. Bits of light, hope in the midst of exhaustion and frustration.

A House Out of Order

A house out of order...sounds like one of those irritating word-picture puzzles that are supposed to represent common figures of speech, which teachers dole out to laconic students when they run out of real class work to do. Who am I kidding? I love those puzzles.

Houses are such interesting things: so many possible configurations, sizes, colours, shapes, materials, contents. Being three dimensional, there are so many possible perspectives you can have of a house, both within and without. Every house is as unique as the individuals who inhabit them, and each house affects and reflects it's master. They are the back-drops for most of our intimate relational drama.

Houses also make great metaphores, if you can decifer them.

What does it mean to have a clean house? What does it mean to have a house out of order? When is it right to condemn and demolish a house, versus restore it? When is a house considered 'cluttered' versus 'cozy'? When is a house described as 'sterile' versus 'organized'? At what point does a house cease being a place of refuge to become a prison? And how would you answer those questions differently if I told you that a person's body is the house of their soul?

I've spent a lot of time in other people's houses over the last few months (and very little in my own), and I always find it fascinating how different people order their homes, and how much the state of their home reflects the lives and personalities of the people who live in them. I stayed with my sister Valerie and her room-mate before Valerie's wedding to her husband, Dwayne. It was a 2 bedroom basement suite. My fiance Daniel, Valerie's blood brother and his girlfriend, and one of the other bridesmaids were also staying there. At 2:00am the night we all arrived, Valerie's basement suite flooded. It was a memorable and intellectually stimulating experience, later observing how the prior relative disorder of the house (caused by a combination of the small space, large number of occupants, the usual havoc created by all the conflicting demands of preparing for a wedding, and my sister's generally laissaize fair attitude towards house-keeping) became exascerbated by the unexpected presence of a bunch of water. Still, once the water was bravely pumped out by the quick-thinking and hard-working Dwayne and Daniel, it only took about a week before things were mostly resorted. Quite fortunately, my sister leads a blessedly simple life and had not accummulated a lot of excess belongings, so there wasn't an overwhelming number of items that needed to be cleaned and re-sorted.

Still more interesting was the experience of going to stay with Val's future in-laws while her home was de-flooded. We were very greatful to be freely welcomed into a safe and dry place to rest, but it was a strange place. The home's structure was solid, elegantly crafted to allow social, open space and maximal natural lighting, and had a very tidy yard and well-maintained exterior. But it was very difficult to notice those things if you were standing inside. If you have ever had the misfortune of seeing David Bowie's Labyrinth, then please try to put aside the traumatizing memory of his many pairs of too-tight pants, and recall the scene in which the heroine wakes up in what appears to be her bedroom. There, a strange pigmy bagwoman keeps handing her more and more of her favourite toys, until she is almost buried. Then our heroine has an epiphany: "This is all just junk!" And she bursts out of her room, only to find herself (and a replica of her room) in the middle of a vast landfill composed of endless piles of unsorted rubbage. That is the inside of this house. Well, close, anyway. There was stuff piled everywhere, sometimes right to the ceiling. Some of it was probably useful and/or beautiful, but you couldn't focus on those items because they were swamped in a pile of other things, all on top of carpets that looked like they had not been vacuumed in a millenia. And that, I know, is really not the worst example of illogical hording there is to be found- not the worst by far. It was a large, light-filled, high-ceilinged house, but I felt more claustraphobic there than I had in Valerie's 2 bedroom basement suite filled with 7 people.

After Val's wedding, I went to stay at my friend Jen's farm. She and her 2 children have moved into an old farmhouse where Jen's new husband (Dean) and his son live. It's a small 3-bedroom house. Jen was pregnant at the time I went to visit her. The kids frequently don't get along. Quite fortunately, my visit coincided with Jen's kids' summer visit to their father and Dean's son's visit to an aunt and uncle, so I experienced none of the overcrowded conditions they are usually tormented with. I did, however, get to experience the adventure of living in a house that is rotting from the base up. Jen is a cleanly lady- the house is, without a doubt, much cleaner and orderly since she has arrived and put her powerful senses of hygiene and functionality to work. But there is no soap to heal a bathroom wall that is infected with black mould, to purify a boiler 1/3 filled with sludge, to make a contaminated well's water non-fungal and non-slimy feeling, or to make a wet dirt basement floor any less muddy. This caused her much stress, and I had no suggestions to alleviate her worries.

I thought about those three houses, and their occupants, as I made the long drive back to my home alone. One disoriented house struggling not to drown when hit by crisis: succeeding, thanks in large part to it's simplicity and the many relational supports around it, co-operatively putting it back together. A second house suffocating from within, it's dysfunctionality often keeping it's occupants separated from each other and from those outside; content to remain so, because that is preferable to the pain of sorting, and the vulnerability of being seen clearly...and yet being seen anyway due to changes outside of itself it cannot control. A third house fighting to survive: a pearl knocked mercilessly around and around inside its smelly oyster mouth cage.

I thought about my mom. And I hated her soul's house for betraying her, for growing diseased and distorted when her heart isn't. My mother's body is my friend's rotting home. I wish my friend the opportunity to bulldoze her current house and to escape to a brand new one. I'm not sure I'm ready to wish that for my mother.

Which brings me to the last House Out of Order: my soul, a home of the Spirit of God. It's kind of messy at present, which should be concerning, given that a disaster is impending and I have already seen what happens when a house out of order gets further swirled around. Well, at least in my own house I know where the cleaning supplies are.

Snakes and Ladders

When I was in Jr. High, one of our class projects involved creating some sort of game with your group to help other students learn something (I really have no idea what subject this project was for). The paradigm my work group unwittingly taught our class-mates was learned helplessness, where one develops an attitude of apathy and hopelessness out of a belief that one has no control over the outcome of one's situation. Seriously the most un-fun game ever to play. It was a Snakes-and-Ladders type concept where each player has a marker and is racing all the other players to get to the end first, except that we created a giant pastel-pink play-dough mountain for our game board. We must have been a sadistic lot. As I recall, there was a 40% chance on each turn that your marker would be forced to go backwards, sometimes all the way to the beginning. The world is a better place because Parker Brothers never offered anyone in my group a job contract. Or at least it seemed that way until recently.

My life has begun to resemble that vexing pattern of taking 7 spaces forward with the help of a sturdy step ladder, followed by 13 back as I promptly slip on a perniciously-placed reptile. Parental relationship difficulties spawn self-doubts: go back 4 spaces. Walk-and-talk in the park brings about enhanced closeness and understanding: move forward 3 spaces. Dan talks out doubts with counsellor, then quizzes Faye with test questions. She passes: climb nearest ladder. Gain full-time employment with benefits and flexible schedule: extra roll. Faye is pissed off about Dan's game-show because she misinterprets meaning: trip on snake and fall back 5 spaces. Serious parental illness: snake chases you back a further 5 spaces. Submit U of C counselling psychology program application just in time: move ahead 3 spaces. Relationship with Dan gets stuck in a quagmire: lose a turn. Friend dies suddenly: go back 2 spaces. Funeral turns out to be a surprisingly joyful celebration of life, lovingly bringing together old and new supportive relationships: ladder takes you up 7 spaces. Chosen as sister's maid of honour and feel honoured: move ahead 5 spaces. Winter depression hits: move back 3 spaces. See recommended counsellor- resulting schedule re-organization and new inspiration to blog enhances mental health: move ahead 4 spaces. Define the Relationship (DTR) talk- discover root of quagmire and agree to go to counselling: move ahead 4 spaces. Go to friend's wedding and discover humility, forgiveness, and redemption during a late-night-chat: climb ladder 8 spaces. Falling behind on boring but necessary up-grading course: move back 2 spaces. Work in the helping services field reveals that many helping systems are hopelessly inadequate and embroiled in prejudice and red-tape- you have no power to fix them: slide down nearest snake. You aren't able to get the week prior to your sister's wedding day off for holidays: stumble on lizard's tongue and go back 2 spaces. Dan mentions preference to attend U of L- dream of being married anytime soon is crushed as you face a 2 year long-distance relationship: go back 3 spaces. Dan quizzes Faye with a book of pre-marital questions loaned to them by a friend- resulting discussion brings out strong commitment to relationship alliance and tentative plans for summer marriage before a dual enrollment at the U of C: take ladder up 12 rungs. A co-worker informs you that you can buy 2 month extensions for course-work completion at your up-grading school: move ahead 3 spaces. After much internal debate, make another counselling appointment: move forward 2 spaces. Receive U of C enrollment rejection letter: get bitten by a poisonous snake and lose a turn in your delirium. Didn't see that one coming.

So, what to do now? I could work on homework. I could go for a walk out-side where the sun is (mostly) still shining. I could do more laundry. I could call a friend and get them to talk about everything that's going on for them to distract myself. I could journal to God and see if he'll talk back. I could go eat some more food. I could go do errands, then head home to see Melanie and ask her about her trip. I could watch a movie. I could. But what should I do?