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?

Pop Culture is Coming to Get Me

Pop culture is coming to get me. I finally gave in to reading Stephanie Meyer's popular teen romance lit about a girl and her vampire because I was tired of not having anything smart and heavily opinionated to say whenever one of my co-workers, friends, or c-train acquaintances started gushing about the latest plot twist. When I sheepishly bought book 2 in HMV after finishing book 1 in less than 2 days, the store clerk asked me if it was for me or for a friend. I said it was for my teen sister Sam, rolled my eyes, and joined the store clerk in cheerfully abusing the series' weak points. Yeah, it was soooo for me. Who knew that New Moon and Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban would hold some of the answers to my greatest spiritual desert to date?

...I didn't understand why, but the nebulous threat the men presented drew me toward them. It was a senseless impulse, but I hadn't felt any kind of impulse in so long...I followed it.

Something unfamiliar beat through my veins. Adrenaline, I realized, long absent from my system, drumming my pulse faster and fighting against the lack of sensation. It was strange- why the adrenaline when there was no fear? It was almost as if it were an echo of the last time I'd stood like this, on a dark street in Port Angeles with strangers.

I saw no reason for fear. I couldn't imagine anything in the world that there was left to be afraid of, not physically at least. One of the few advantages of losing everything.

I was half-way across the street when Jess caught up to me and grabbed my arm.

"Bella! You can't go in a bar!" she hissed.

"I'm not going in," I said absently, shaking her hand off. "I just want to see something..."

"Are you crazy?" she whispered. "Are you suicidal?"

That question caught my attention, and my eyes focused on her.

"No, I'm not," my voice sounded defensive, but it was true. I wasn't suicidal. Even in the beginning, when death unquestionably would have been a relief, I didn't consider it. I owed too much to Charlie. I felt too responsible for Renee. I had to think of them.

And I'd made a promise not to do anything stupid or reckless. For all those reasons, I was still breathing.

Remembering that promise, I felt a twinge of guilt, but what I was doing right now didn't really count. It wasn't like I was taking a blade to my wrists.

Jess's eyes were round, her mouth hung open. Her question about suicide had been rhetorical, I realized too late.

"Go eat," I encouraged her, waving toward the fast food. I didn't like the way she looked at me. "I'll catch up in a minute."

I turned away from her, back to the men who were watching us with amused, curious eyes.

"Bella, stop this right now!"

My muscles locked into place, froze me where I stood. Because it wasn't Jessica's voice that rebuked me now. It was a furious voice, a beautiful voice- soft like velvet even though it was irate.

It was his voice- I was exceptionally careful not to think his name-

and I was surprised that the sound of it did not knock me to my

knees, did not curl me into the pavement in a torture of loss. But

there was no pain, none at all. In the instant that I heard his voice,

everything was very clear. Like my head had suddenly surfaced

out of some dark pool. I was more aware of everything- sight,

sound, the feel of the cold air blowing sharply against my face,

the smells coming from the open bar door.

I looked around myself in shock.

"Go back to Jessica," the lovely voice ordered, still angry. "You

promised- nothing stupid."

I was alone. Jessica stood a few feet from me, staring at me

with frightened eyes. Against the wall, the strangers watched,

confused, wondering what I was doing, standing there motionless

in the middle of the street.

I shook my head, trying to understand. I knew he wasn't there,

and yet, he felt improbably close, close for the first time since...

since the end. The anger in his voice was concern, the same

anger that was once very familiar- something I hadn't heard in

what felt like a lifetime.

"Keep your promise," the voice was slipping away, as if the

volume was being turned down on a radio.

I began to suspect that I was having some kind of hallucination.

Triggered, no doubt, by the memory- the deja vu, the strange

familiarity of the situation.

I ran through the possibilities quickly in my head.

Option one: I was crazy. That was the layman's term for people

who heard voices in their heads.

Possible.

Option two: My subconscious mind was giving me what it thought

I wanted. This was wish fulfillment- a momentary relief from pain

by embracing the incorrect idea that he cared whether I lived or

died. Projecting what he would have said if A) he were here, and

B) he would be in any way bothered by something bad happening

to me.

Probable.

I could see no option three, so I hoped it was the second option

and this was just my sub-conscious running amuck, rather than

something I would need to be hospitalized for.

My reaction was hardly sane though- I was grateful. The sound

of his voice was something that I'd feared I was losing, and so,

more than anything else, I felt overwhelming gratitude that my

subconscious had held onto that sound better than my conscious

one had.

-Stephanie Meyer's (2006) New Moon, pp. 109-113.

"Concentrating hard on your happy memory?"

"Oh- yeah-" said Harry, quickly forcing his thoughts back to that

first broom ride. "Expecto patrono- no patronum, -sorry- expecto

patronum, expecto patronum-" Something whooshed suddenly

out of the end of his wand; it looked like a wisp of silvery gas.

"Did you see that?" said Harry excitedly. "Something happened!"

"Very good," said Lupin, smiling, "Right then- ready to try it on a

Dementor?"

"Yes," said Harry, gripping his wand very tightly, and moving into

the middle of the deserted classroom. He tried to keep his mind

on flying, but something else kept intruding...any second now, he

might hear his mother again...but he shouldn't think that, or he

would hear her again, and he didn't want to...did he?

-J. K. Rowling's (1999) Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban,

pp. 176-177.

I wish I could say that I loved God with the kind of passion Bella

had for Edward. One so deep, so entwined in my nature that

when God is distanced I feel like I have a hole ripped in my chest

and I'm compelled to try to hold myself together, even though I

know I'm fine physically. God is a much more worthy object of

obsession than any man, no matter how good-looking and

velvety-voice endowed. Maybe my grief is not so great because

my rift was not as sudden. Mine was a slow disappearance, like

a tiny leak in my car's engine coolant compartment that adds up

to a collective loss over time, catching me by surprise one day

with an unfamiliar lighted symbol on my dash.

Nevertheless, like both Bella and Harry's characters, I understand

the craving to hear the missing Voice, even if it comes packaged

in anger or pain. The anger and pain indicate, at least, that He

still cares about what I do, about what happens to me. Because

even pissed off, it's still the most beautiful Voice in the world.

And it feels like it's been such a long time since I've heard it in

any tone at all.

My Voice yelled at me about a parking fine I had decided to

allow to go unpaid because a co-worker had advised me it

could be done with no lasting repercussions beyond angry

letters from the company I had offended. It started off with, "Pay

the fine." I was so surprised to hear that Voice tell me anything

clear, that I momentarily sat stunned in my car where I was

waiting for the light to turn green so I could start speeding past

all the slow people to get to wherever it was that I wanted to get

to that day. And then, out of habit, and anger, and longing, and

curiosity, I started arguing. "I don't want to. I don't need to. I

don't have money for that- I need to pay for medical bills,

groceries, rent, and donate to starving children in Africa and

Haiti. They don't deserve my money even if I had it- they charge

way more than what those gravel pits of space are worth."

The Voice argued back with things like, "Render unto Ceasar

what is Ceasar's," "Thou shalt not steal," "Let your conscience

be clear," "Only the wicked fear punishment," "You don't know

the future- maybe they can track your accounts," "You're using

the Justification defense mechanism because you know you

should have paid for the parking in the first place before you

ended up with the tickets and all their late fees," and finally,

"Faye, if you were to die in a car crash today because of your

terrible driving, could you really look me in the face and claim

that not paying this ticket was the right, blameless, just thing to

do?" Then I was reminded of a U B David and I'll B Jonathan

diagram that illustrates how sin creates a chasm between

ourselves and God. I ground my teeth, swearing. Because

He had me caught. "Don't do that- you're wrecking your

teeth," the Voice added. Suddenly I knew how to get coverage

for the teeth guard I'd been agonizing over since my dentist

told me it was crucial in November. Weird.

I paid the [swear-word] ticket. It actually took me a few days,

because I discovered I had run out of cheques, so I had to use

a free sample one my bank had sent me for my VISA. I put it in

a nice Christmas card that said something about peace to the

world. I couldn't bring myself to write them any personal words

of graciousness or repentance, and my mother's Voice helpfully

kicked in and reminded me that If you can't say anything nice,

don't say anything at all. Besides, like the deuce there's

anything kind you can say to a collections department that won't

be taken as either sarcasm or a bribe by the workers there. That's

like sending a Thank-you card to Revenue Canada. It's a sure

way to get yourself audited. In any case, I sent my cheque in the

conveniently labelled and pre-postage paid envelope the Parking

Company had sent me along with the last threatening letter. The

envelope had gotten a little stained from laying on the floor of my

rather dirty car for so many weeks, and I confess I felt some

satisfaction imagining them grimacing as they touched it to

retrieve their payment. That was the most passive-aggressive

method I could think of for conveying a barb along with my olive

branch. I felt God frown. I hoped it was the sort of frown parents

make at their children to discourage inappropriate behaviour,

while the parent is secretly laughing. I suppose in the parable

of the Vineyard Owner's two sons, I'm the grouchy son who

initially refuses to go work when told, but eventually gets up to go

do as asked, probably kicking rocks irritably as he walks but

compelled forward by a greater desire to make his good, loving

father happy. I think I should be concerned about how much

pride I feel in that image of myself. Would I delight in a teen who

consistently whines every time I ask her to do something useful?

I doubt it. I would probably yell at her to "Grow up," then pass out

that eternally grating piece of sage wisdom, "Sometimes we have

to do things we don't want to do. That's life." By which we mean,

of course, Grown-up life. Ohhhhhh.

[Swear-word again]. Seriously, God? That's the whole point of

the riding my bike in the miserable rain for 10 days, paying the

parking ticket, taking that stupid last course at Ambrose that I

hated and nearly failed, and going roller-blading with Dan as I

promised? Because I have to be a Grown-up now? No! I

refuse. I'm going to remain a little boy who never does anything

but play games and have fun and never grows up! Where's

Wendy? I need her to tell me and the other lost boys a story about

how I defeated Hook with Tinkerbell's fairy dust so I can go to

sleep and be rested up for my pretend fight with the Natives

tomorrow.

"That's a lie. You're perfectly capable of making a decision. Stop

holding onto lies, Faye!" The Voice of my friend Lisa, interrupting

my tirade about not knowing what to do about counselling with

Jackie Stinton, Christian Registered Psychotherapist. She says it

again, to make sure I'm listening, "Faye, stop holding onto lies!"

Yes! I know this game. When a teacher repeats some thing, it

means it's going to be on the test and you have to know it. Okay,

paying attention. Shit, she said "lies". Plural. What other

delusions am I holding on to?

Scary Closet

Hey, God. It’s been over a year since I tried meeting you here. Maybe that’s just as well- I no longer have an audience I feel obligated to edit my words for. Though now that I’m here, I don’t know what to say. My thoughts used to feel so complete, tightly controlled, flowing together, cohesive when I wrote. Now all I can get out are broken fragments that don’t even make sense to me. Ironic, when contrasted with all the praise I get at work for my detailed but succinct call documentation. I can see the themes and connections in hundreds of others’ stories and distill them into a maximum three-paragraph-long call card that any reader can understand. So why does it take me ten minutes of staring at the floor, swallowing repeatedly, and conscious self-reminders to breathe to answer a standard question in counseling like, “What relationships do you have right now that can help support you through this?” ? It shouldn’t be that hard- I know the answer. It’s not even a discouraging answer; I am very blessed in my attachment network.

Dan described September with me as being “very busy”. He felt like I was constantly pulling him here, there, and to the next place to meet people, get things done, and do things. He expressed relief that I had slowed down lately. Snort. I told him I’m probably busier now that I was in September; I’ve just stopped dragging him with me to everything. Such a strange contradiction, to be so busy, so kinetic on the outside, yet feel so deathly quiet on the inside. It’s not a stillness in the sense of tranquility, balance, or peace; I just feel frozen. I’m poised with my hand on the door knob of a precariously packed closet that has far too many secret boxes. Conveniently compartmentalized and stuffed away “for later,” each box waits eagerly for the slightest crack in pressure to spring loose in an avalanche that will bury me. It’s the kind of B-grade horror movie you want to throw stale pop-corn at: “Don’t go in there, you fool! It’ll get you!!!” But the door knob has such a magnetic pull to my iron hand; the headlights of that truck are so hypnotically mesmerizing to my dilated eyes. I don’t believe in fate. I do believe in Freudian slips and subconscious desires. Sometimes I also believe in providence.

Creeeeak goes the door knob. FWOOOOP-PLOP-PLOP-PLOP-PLOP-PLOP-THUD goes the precariously packed closet stuff onto my head. Siiiiigh, goes the fool lying on the floor, “Well, now that I’m here…” I peruse the jumbled mass of once-organized items heaped nearest my buried head.

Aha. My unfinished scarf, the loose strings almost as tangled and convoluted as I’d left them back in the summer. Driving home from Lac Ste. Anne with Jen. I have just finished ten grueling days of bike-riding and “free-camping” through the most miserable rain and contrary winds I have ever subjected myself to, a week of emotionally intense interpersonal therapy training in Edmonton, and half a week of spiritually and emotionally confusing tent-city grunge living at the native Catholic pilgrimage site of Lac Ste. Anne. Jen wants to know how I feel about the whole thing. It’s a good thing Jen’s life is more confusing than mine. She takes it rather well when I give her the most honest summary I can come up with: “God, you dragged me through ten days of mud-sodden bike-riding over enormous gravel-roaded hills and “free-camping” through the most miserable rain and contrary winds I have ever experienced, dragged up all my old insecurities about having what it takes for counseling for another week after that, and then gave me half a week of forlorn tent-city wanderings and unanswered hopes in physical healing from diabetes so you can show me that I need to ask for help from other people more often?! I already knew that at home! Screw you, I’m never going on another pilgrimage again!” Some of the loose strings have gotten tangled around something else. I trace the knot with my finger, looking for a way to set the captive object free.

Shiny. The captive is a broken necklace. So many beautiful elements, but the chain links are weak and prone to separating when I pull too hard on the smooth stones that I find so comforting to rub with my thumb. I don’t have the tools or the patience to keep putting it back together. It needs to be made into something new. But that is another daunting task- one I haven’t built enough motivation or creativity to launch, so it too was put aside in the closet. Polished natural stone has always been my preference over the ostentatious glamour of cut gems. There’s more mystery in the depth of natural stone’s weight and swirling patterns of compression, an enigma only ever partially revealed by carving cross-sections. One of the beads is more of an oblong orb. Unwieldy and heavy, I actually don’t like it very much in its present shape. I’m tempted to smash it, to see new, sharper shapes and discover more hidden cross-sections. But I also worry about destroying it in my haste. Light gleams on some of the beads, and I gaze again at each one: so many memories strung together by the common theme of a relationship. Laying on a quilt in the summer, asking God why the hell he would finally reveal a man capable of being my match…when that man is an animist and therefore off limits for me. God told me to go forward anyway- the man’s faith wasn’t exactly what it appeared, and I could invite him “further up and deeper in”. Staring out the window at white winter, watching with horror a vision of myself, Dan, and God dancing together. Dan doesn’t see God; Dan keeps turning his back on God, trying to dance with me alone. I feel so awkward excluding God when God has greater claim on my affections and adventures, but I don’t know how to pull Dan back and make him see the Friendly Giant in the room who is so obvious to me. I give in and offer both hands to Dan alone, feeling God’s hurt the moment I do so. Walking through Nose Hill Park in the spring, hand in hand with Dan. I tentatively ask if he feels anything has changed in his spiritual life over the last year. Relief floods my heart when he responds that he now sees God as more personal, rather than just a great other. Walking through Nose Hill Park in the fall, hand in hand with Dan again. He reveals his fears about marriage in light of his parents’ unexpected divorce, and also his concerns about my condescending attitude towards his faith. Dan also wants me to explain why it upsets me that Dan is amused by his room-mate’s poster of two scantily-clan lesbians locked in an intimate embrace. Driving alone in my car on the Deerfoot, which is slick with ice and half-melted snow. Dan is in BC, visiting friends for a week. The time apart made two things very clear to me: first, I feel like a moon without a planet to orbit when he’s gone. Second, even when Dan’s around, I still feel like a dead, useless rock. Where is the sun that both earth and its moon should be orbiting? I’m driving too fast again, driving while crying again, and I mentally reprimand myself for always leaving these sorts of reflections for solitary car rides on the highway. I picture myself allowing my car to swerve just a touch too close to the snow piled along the curve of the road preceding a very solid-looking concrete overpass. Nope. Considered that last winter too, and I still can’t do it. I can’t hurt my family that way. Dang. Too much force on the knot- the necklace snaps in two and I swivel my head around to see where the second piece has fallen.

There it is. And there’s the thing that went THUD when it hit my head. It’s a bottle of LIFE juice. I grasp the partially empty bottle with mingled irritation and admiration. It is a tall, slender bottle with a trendy, simple label; reminiscent of all the elegance of red wine, without the glass material for the bottle or the disappointing dry, bitter taste that so inappropriately accompanies a liquid so richly coloured. Marketed as a wonder drink for healing, LIFE juice contains nearly all the most anti-carcinogenic ingredients touted by the research Nolan has delved into. Once you get past the mild sea-weed taste, the juice has a fairly enjoyable mixed berries flavour. The only draw-back is that the bottle is too tall to fit vertically, or even diagonally, into any refrigerator I’ve ever encountered. And it’s not helping the one person we most wanted it to. It’s such a dark red, I note idly, still holding the bottle. Red like blood, like pretty packaging used for parcels at Christmas, like grape juice served in little plastic shot glasses at Evangelical church Communion services, like my sleep-deprived eyes, like the powerful chemo drug they’re injecting into my mother’s veins to slow the cancer down. Slow, but not stop, the doctors said. Lieomyosarcoma. A rapidly reproducing cancer that spreads through muscles not controlled by conscious thought- i.e. lungs, the digestive tract, the abdomen, kidneys, etc. Rare, it affects less than 1% of all cancer patients. There are no documented cases of survival. Christian friends from church and beyond keep telling us she is going to live anyway, Jesus will heal her, keep praying, they’re praying. My conscious prayers mainly consist of simple things: “Please God, let her keep down a ½ cup of fruit smoothie today. I put the LIFE juice in it! She hasn’t had anything but a few sips of ginger-ale stay down for three days…” These prayers are answered with “yes” and “no” about equally as often. Well, maybe 50% is pretty good. I mean, maybe people who don’t have this much prayer are only successful keeping telescopic quantities of food down 20% of the time. Seriously, God, what the hell is this? I know you’re capable of better than random chance. Why are you willing to fix the stupid, unnecessary odometer on my car for me even when I don’t speak to you for weeks, but you won’t heal my warm, kind, faithful, loving mother when everyone we know is praying for her?! Priorities!!! Death isn’t the end. She’d be happy in heaven. She could see the Tree of Life where Jono made tick marks for his height and Jesus’ so he could finally find out for sure which is shorter. If mom dies, the last shreds of Chasey’s faith in a just or good God will be annihilated. Nolan’s probably right- this is totally going to be an Elijah + God versus the 450 Baal prophets + 400 Asherah prophets. When mom gets better miraculously, Chasey, maybe Tachae and Jeana, and who knows all else will see the glory and love of God and be changed. How long can I continue working full-time in the helping services while also trying to provide relief care for my mother every other evening and successfully focus on my on-line counseling course starting in the new year before my empathy pool dries up into a puddle? I wonder if anyone ever goes swimming in the River of Life the way the native people go swimming in the blessed holy waters of Lac Ste. Anne. I hope so. I don’t enjoy skating much and if there are any rivers of life left in my soul, they’ve frozen solid like the ones on Mars. I push the bottle aside.

Another shiny glint. Ah, a lighter for camping. Probably one of the ones drowned on my pilgrimage. I wonder if it still lights. Click. Ouch. Damn it, why does anyone ever use those things? Well, now I know it still works... Faith is the confidence that what we hope for will actually happen; it gives us assurance about things we cannot see. Through their faith, the people in days of old earned a good reputation (Hebrews 11:1-2). I still believe you’re good, God. I see you in who my mother is, in her loving care for others despite her own suffering. But I don’t understand what you’re doing, and I’m having a hard time taking Valerie’s commission to praise you for the health our mother still has. In some ways, I feel like going to pre-bereavement counseling demonstrates despair. I know you’re capable of healing my mother if you want to. But I also know from personal experience that sometimes you choose not to heal, and sometimes people we want to believe mis-prophesy, and I need to be prepared if you’re planning to take the heart out of our family. I need to know if there's enough lighter fluid left for that potential darkness.