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?

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?